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OUR CHURCHES AND CHAPELS

THEIR PARSONS, PRIESTS, & CONGREGATIONS;
BEING A CRITICAL
AND HISTORICAL ACCOUNT
OF EVERY PLACE OF WORSHIP IN PRESTON.

BY “ATTICUS” (A. HEWITSON).

‘T is pleasant through the loopholes of retreat to peep at such a
world.—Cowper.

Reprinted from the Preston Chronicle.

PRINTED AT THE “CHRONICLE” OFFICE, FISHERGATE, PRESTON.
1869.

TO THE READER.

The general satisfaction given by the following sketches when originally
printed in the Preston Chronicle, combined with a desire, largely expressed,
to see them republished, in book form, is the principal excuse offered
for the appearance of this volume. Into the various descriptions of
churches, chapels, priests, parsons, congregations, &c., which it
contains, a lively spirit, which may be objectionable to the phlegmatic,
the sad-faced, and the puritanical, has been thrown. But the author,
who can see no reason why a “man whose blood is warm within”
should “sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster,” on any
occasion, has a large respect for cheerfulness, and has endeavoured
to make palatable, by a little genial humour, what would otherwise have
been a heavy enumeration of dry facts. Those who don’t care for the
gay will find in these sketches the grave; those who prefer vivacity
to seriousness will meet with what they want; those who appreciate all
will discover each. The solemn are supplied with facts; the facetious
with humour; the analytical with criticism. The work embodies a general
history of each place of worship in Preston—fuller and more reliable
than any yet published; and for reference it will be found valuable,
whilst for general reading it will be instructive. The author has done
his best to be candid and impartial. If he has failed in the attempt,
he can’t help it; if he has succeeded, he is thankful. No writer can
suit everybody; and if an angel had compiled these sketches some men
would have croaked. To the generality of the Church of England, Catholic,
and Dissenting clergymen, &c., in the town, the author tenders his
warmest thanks for the generous manner they have assisted him, and the
kindly way in which they have supplied him with information essential
to the completion of the work.

Preston, Dec. 24th, 1869.

INDEX.

OUR CHURCHES AND CHAPELS: THEIR PARSONS, PRIESTS, AND CONGREGATIONS.

It is important that something should be known about our churches
and chapels; it is more important that we should be acquainted with
their parsons and priests; it is most important that we should have
a correct idea of their congregations, for they show the consequences
of each, and reflect the character and influence of all. We have a wide
field before us. The domain we enter upon is unexplored. Our streets,
with their mid-day bustle and midnight sin; our public buildings, with
their outside elaboration and inside mysteries; our places of amusement,
with their gilded fascinations and shallow delusions; our clubs, bar
parlours, prisons, cellars, and workhouses, with their amenities, frivolities,
and severities, have all been commented upon; but the most important
of our institutions, the best, the queerest, the solemnest, the oddest—the
churches and chapels of the town—have been left out in the cold
entirely. All our public functionaries have been viewed round, examined
closely, caressed mildly, and sometimes genteely maltreated; our parochial
divinities, who preside over the fate of the poor; our municipal Gogs
and Magogs who exhibit the extreme points of reticence and garrulity
in the council chamber; our brandy drinkers, chronic carousers, lackered
swells, pushing shopkeepers, otiose policemen, and dim-looking cab-drivers
have all been photographed, framed, and hung up to dry long ago; our
workshops and manufactories, our operatives and artisans, have likewise
been duly pictured and exhibited; the Ribble has had its praises sung
in polite literary strains; the parks have had their beauties depicted
in rhyme and blank verse; nay—but this is hardly necessary—the
old railway station, that walhallah of the gods and paragon of the five
orders of architecture, has had its delightful peculiarities set forth;
all our public places and public bodies have been thrown upon the canvas,
except those of the more serious type—except places of worship
and those belonging them. These have been neglected; nobody has thought
it worth while to give them either a special blessing or a particular
anathema.

There are about 45 churches and chapels and probably 60 parsons and
priests in Preston; but unto this hour they have been treated, so far
as they are individually concerned, with complete silence. We purpose
remedying the defect, supplying the necessary criticism, and filling
up the hiatus. The whole lot must have either something or nothing in
them, must be either useful or useless; parsons must be either sharp
or stupid, sensible or foolish; priests must be either learned or illiterate,
either good, bad, or indifferent; in all, from the rector in his silken
gown to the back street psalm-singer in his fustian, there must be something
worth praising or condemning. And the churches and chapels, with their
congregations, must likewise present some points of beauty or ugliness,
some traits of grace or godlessness, some features of excellence, dignity,
piety, or sham. There must be either a good deal of gilded gingerbread
or a great let of the genuine article, at our places of worship. But
whether there is or there is not, we have decided to say something about
the church and the chapel, the parson and the priest, of each district
in the town. This is a mere prologue, and we shall but hint at the general
theme “on this occasion.”

Churches and chapels are great institutions in the land. Nobody knows
the exact time when the first was thought of; and it has not yet transpired
when the last will be run up. But this is certain, we are not improving
much in the make of them. The Sunday sanctums and Sabbath conventicles
of today may be mere ornate, may be more flashy, and show more symptoms
of polished bedizenment in their construction; but three-fourths of
them sink into dwarflings and mediocrities when compared with the rare
old buildings of the past. In strength and beauty, in vastness of design
and skill of workmanship, in nobility of outline and richness of detail,
the religious fabrics of these times fall into insignificance beside
their grand old predecessors; and the manner in which they are cut up
into patrician and plebeian quarters, into fashionable coteries for
the perfumed portion of humanity, and into half-starved benches with
the brand of poverty upon them for the poor, is nothing to the credit
of anybody.

All the churches and chapels of the land may profess Christianity;
but the game of the bulk has a powerful reference to money. Those who
have got the most of the current coin of the realm receive the blandest
smile from the parson, the politest nod from the beadle, the promptest
attention from that strange mixture of piety and pay called “the
chapel-keeper;” those who have not got it must take what they
can get, and accept it with Christian resignation, as St. Paul tells
them. This may be all right; we have not said yet that it is wrong;
but it looks suspicious, doesn’t it?—shows that in the arena of
conventional Christianity, as in the seething maelstrom of ordinary
life, money is the winner. Our parsons and priests, like our ecclesiastical
architecture and general church management, do not seem to have improved
upon their ancestors. Priests are not as jolly as they once were. In
olden days “holy fathers” could wear horse-hair shirts and
scarify their epidermis with a finer cruelty than their modern successors,
and they could, after all that, make the blithest songs, sing the merriest
melodies, and quaff the oldest port with an air of jocund conscientiousness,
making one slyly like them, however much inclined to dispute the correctness
of their theology. And the parsons of the past were also a blithesome
set of individuals. They were perhaps rougher than those mild and refined
gentlemen who preach now-a-days; but they were straightforward, thorough,
absolutely English, well educated, and stronger in the brain than many
of them. In each Episcopalian, Catholic, and Dissenting community there
are new some most erudite, most useful men; but if we take the great
multitude of them, and compare their circumstances—their facilities
for education, the varied channels of usefulness they have—with
those of their predecessors, it will be found that the latter were the
cleverer, often the wiser, and always the merrier men. Plainness, erudition,
blithesomeness, were their characteristics. Aye, look at our modern
men given up largely to threnody-chiming and to polishing off tea and
muffin with elderly females, and compare them, say, for instance, with—

The poet Praed’s immortal Vicar,
Who wisely wore the cleric
gown,
Sound in theology and liquor;
Quite human, though a
true divine,
His fellow-men he would not libel;
He gave his
friends good honest wine,
And drew his doctrine from the Bible.

Institute a comparison, and then you will say that whilst modern
men may be very aesthetic and neatly dressed, the ancient apostolic
successors, though less refined, had much more metal in them, were more
kindly, genial; and told their followers to live well, to eat well,
and to mind none of the hair-splitting neological folly which is now
cracking up Christendom. In old times the Lord did not “call”
so many parsons from one church to another as it is said He does now;
in the days which have passed the bulk of subordinate parsons did not
feel a sort of conscientious hankering every three years for an “enlarged
sphere of usefulness,” where the salary was proportionately increased.
We have known multitudes of parsons, in our time, who have been “called”
to places where their salaries were increased; we know of but few who
have gravitated to a church where the salary was less than the one left.
“Business” enters largely into the conceptions of clergymen.
As a rule, no teachers of religion, except Catholic priests and Methodist
ministers, leave one place for another where less of this world’s goods
and chattels predominate; and they are compelled to do
so, else the result might be different. When a priest gets his mittimus
he has to budge; it is not a question of “he said or she said,”
but of—go; and when a Wesleyan is triennially told to either look
after the interests of a fresh circuit or retire into space, he has
to do so. It would be wrong to say that lucre is at the bottom of every
parsonic change; but it is at the foundation of the great majority—eh?
If it isn’t, just make an inquiry, as we have done. This may sound like
a deviation from our text—perhaps it is; but the question it refers
to is so closely associated with the subject of parsons and priests,
that we should have scarcely been doing justice to the matter if we
had not had a quiet “fling” at the money part of it. In
the letters which will follow this, we shall deal disinterestedly with
all—shall give Churchmen, Catholics, Quakers, Independents, Baptists,
Wesleyans, Ranters, and Calathumpians, fair play. Our object will be
to present a picture of things as they are, and to avoid all meddling
with creeds. People may believe what they like, so far as we are concerned,
if they behave themselves, and pay their debts. It is utterly impossible
to get all to be of the same opinion; creeds, like faces, must differ,
have differed, always will differ; and the best plan is to let people
have their own way so long as it is consistent with the general welfare
of social and civil life. It being understood that “the milk of
human kindness is within the pale of the Church,” we shall
begin there. The Parish Church of Preston will constitute our first
theme.

No. I.

PRESTON PARISH CHURCH.

It doesn’t particularly matter when the building we call our Parish
Church was first erected; and, if it did, the world would have to die
of literary inanition before it got the exact date. None of the larger
sort of antiquaries agree absolutely upon the subject, and the smaller
fry go in for all sorts of figures, varying as to time from about two
years to one hundred and fifty. This may be taken as a homoeopathic
dose in respect to its history:- built about 900 years since by Catholics,
and dedicated to St. Wilfrid; handed over to Protestants by somebody,
who was perhaps acting on the very generous principle of giving other
folk’s property, in the 16th century; rebuilt in 1581, and dedicated
to St. John; rebuilt in 1770; enlarged, elaborated, and rejuvenised
in 1853; plagued with dry rot for a considerable time afterwards; in
a pretty good state of architectural health now; and likely to last
out both this generation and the next. It looks rather genteel and stately
outside; it has a good steeple, kept duly alive by a congregation of
traditional jackdaws; it has a capital set of bells which have put in
a good deal of overtime during the past five months, through a pressure
of election business; and in its entirety, as Baines once remarked,
the building looks like “a good ordinary Parish Church.”
There is nothing either snobbish or sublime about it; and, speaking
after Josh Billings, “it’s a fair even-going critter,” capable
of being either pulled down or made bigger. That is about the length
and breadth of the matter, and if we had to appeal to the commonwealth
as to the correctness of our position it would be found that the “ayes
have it.” We don’t believe in the Parish Church; but a good deal
of people do, and why shouldn’t they have their way in a small fight
as well as the rest of folk? All, except Mormons and Fenians, who honestly
believe in anything, are entitled to respect.

Our Parish Church has a good contour, and many of its exterior architectural
details are well conceived and arranged; but, like other buildings of
the same order, it has got a multiplicity of strange hobgoblin figure-heads
about it which serve no purpose either earthly or heavenly, and which
are understood by hardly one out of five million. We could never yet
make it out why those grotesque pieces of masonry—gargoyles, we
believe, they are called—were fixed to any place of worship. Around
our Parish Church and half-way up the steeple, there are, at almost
every angle and prominence, rudely carved monstrosities, conspicuous
for nothing but their ineffable and heathenish ugliness. Huge eyes,
great mouths, immense tooth, savage faces and distorted bodies are their
prime characteristics. The man who invented this species of ecclesiastical
decoration must have been either mad or in “the horrors.”
An evenly balanced mind could never have thought of them, and why they
should he specially tacked to churches is a mystery in accordance with
neither King Solomon nor Cocker. The graveyard of our Parish Church
is, we dare say, something which very few people think of. We have seen
many such places in our time; but that in connection with our Parish
Church is about the grimmest specimen in the lot. It has a barren, cold,
dingy, unconsecrated look with it; and why it should have we can’t tell.
Either ruffianism or neglect must at some time have done a good stroke
of business in it; for many of the gravestones are cracked in two; some
are nearly broken to pieces; and a considerable number of those in the
principal parts of the yard are being gradually worn out. We see no
fun, for instance, in “paving” the entrances to the church
with gravestones. Somebody must, at some time, have paid a considerable
amount of money in getting the gravestones of their relatives smoothed
and lettered; and it could never have been intended that they should
be flattened down, close as tile work, for a promiscuous multitude of
people to walk over and efface. The back of the churchyard is in a very
weary, delapidated and melancholy state. Why can’t a few shrubs and
flowers be planted in it? Why is not the ground trimmed up and made
decent? From the time when the Egyptians worshipped cats and onions
down to the present hour, religious folk have paid some special attention
to their grave spaces, and we want to see the custom kept up. Our Parish
Church yard has a sad, forsaken appearance; if it had run to seed and
ended in nothing, or had been neglected and closed up by an army of
hypochondriacs, it could not have been more gloomy, barren, or disheartening.
The ground should be looked after, and the stones preserved as much
as possible. It is a question of shoes v. gravestones at present, and,
if there is not some change of position, the shoes will in the end win.

About the interior of our Parish Church there is nothing particularly
wonderful; it has a respectable, substantial, reverential appearance,
and that is quite as much as any church should have. There is no emblematic
ritualistic moonshine in any part of it; we hope there never may be;
we are sure there never will be so long as the men now at the helm are
in office. But let us start at the beginning. The principal entrance
is through a massive and somewhat dimly-lighted porch, which, in its
time, has necessarily, like all church porches, been the scene of much
pious gossip, superstition, and sanctimonious scandal. It is rather
a snug place to halt in. If you stand on one side of the large octagonal
font, which is placed in the centre of the inner perch, and patronised
by about 20 of the rising race every Sunday afternoon, you will be able
to see everybody, whilst nobody can distinctly see you. As a rule, many
people are too fired, or too ill, or too idle, to go to a place of worship
on a Sunday morning, and at our Parish Church one may plainly notice
this. A certain number always put in a regular appearance. If they did
not attend the Parish Church twice a day they would become apprehensive
as to both their temporal respectability awl spiritual welfare. They
are descendants of the old long-horned stock, and have a mighty notion
of the importance of church-going. Probably they don’t care very profoundly
for the sermons; but they have got into a safe-sided, orthodox groove,
and some of them have an idea that they will be saved as much by church-going
as by faith. The members of this class have a large notion of the respectability
of their individual pews and seats. If they belonged to a family of
five hundred each, and if every one of them had to go to Church every
Sunday, they would want their respective seats, Prayer Books, footstools,
and all that sort of thing. They don’t like to see strangers rambling
about, in search of a resting place; they are particularly solemn-looking,
and give symptoms of being on the border of some catastrophe, if an
unknown being shows any disposition to enter their pews. And some of
them would see a person a good deal beyond the ether side of Jordan
before they would think of handing him a Prayer Book. We don’t suppose
any of them are so precise as the old gentleman who once, when a stranger
entered his pew, doubled up the cushion, sat upon it in a two-fold state,
and intimated that ordinary beards were good enough for interlopers;
but after all there is much of the “number one” principle
in the devotion of these goodly followers of the saints, and they have
been so long at the game that a cure is impossible.

Taking the congregation of our Parish Church in the agregate it is
a fair sample of every class of human life. You have the old maid in
her unspotted, demurely-coloured moire antique, carrying a Prayer Book
belonging to a past generation; you have the ancient bachelor with plenty
of money and possessing a thorough knowledge as to the safest way of
keeping it, his great idea being that the best way of getting to heaven
is to stick to his coins, attend church every Sunday, and take the sacrament
regularly; you have the magistrate, whose manner, if not his beard,
is of formal cut; the retired tradesman, with his domestic looking wife,
and smartly-dressed daughters, ten times finer than ever their mother
was; the manufacturer absorbed in cotton and wondering when he will
be able to do a good stroke of business on ’change again; the
lawyer, who has carried on a decent business amongst fees during the
week, and has perhaps turned up to join in the general confession; the
doctor, ready to give emphasis to that part of it which says:- “And
there is no health in us;” the pushing tradesman, who has to live
by going to church, as well as by counter work; the speculating shopkeeper,
who has a connection to make; the young finely-feathered lady, got up
in silk and velvet and carrying a chignon sufficient to pull her cerebellum
out of joint; the dandy buttoned up to show his figure, and heavily
dosed with scent; the less developed young swell, who is always “talking
about his pa and his ma,” and has only just begun to have his
hair parted down the middle; the broken down middle-aged man who was
once in a good position, but who years since went all in a piece to
pot; the snuff-loving old woman who curtsies before fine folk, who has
always a long tale to tell about her sorrows, and who is periodically
consoled by a “trifle;” the working man who is rather a
scarce article, except upon special occasions; and the representative
of the poorest class, living somewhere in that venal slum of slime and
misery behind the church. A considerable number of those floating beings
called “strags” attend the Parish Church. They go to no
place regularly; they gravitate at intervals to the church, mainly on
the ground that their fathers and mothers used to go there, and because
they were christened there; but they belong a cunning race; they can
scent the battle from afar, and they generally keep about three-quarters
of a mile from the Parish Church when a collection has to be made. To
the ordinary attendants, collections do not operate as deterrents; but
to the “strags” they are frighteners. “What’s the
reason there are so few people here?” we said one day to the beadle,
and that most potent, grave, and reverend seignior replied, with a Rogersonian
sparkle in his rolling eye, “There’s a collection and the ‘strags’
won’t take the bait.” It is the same more or less at every place
of worship; and to tell the truth, there’s a sort of instinctive dislike
of collections in everybody’s composition.

The congregation of our Parish Church is tolerably numerous, and
embraces many fine human specimens. Money and fashion are well represented
at it; and as Zadkiel and the author of Pogmoor Almanac say those powers
have to rule for a long time, we may take it for granted that the Parish
Church will yet outlive many of the minor raving academies in which
they are absent. There is touch more generalisation than there used
to be as to the sittings in our Parish Church; but “birds of a
feather flock together” still. The rich know their quarters; exquisite
gentlemen and smart young ladies with morrocco-bound gilt-edged Prayer
Books still cluster in special sections; and although it is said that
the poor have the best part of the church allotted to them, the conspicuousness
of its position gives a brand to it neither healthy nor pleasant. They
are seated down the centre aisle; but the place is too demonstrative
of their poverty. If half the seats were empty, situated excellently
though they may be, you wouldn’t catch any respectable weasle asleep
on them. If some doctor, or magistrate, or private bib-and-tucker lady
had to anchor here, supposing there were any spare place in any other
part of the house, there would be a good deal of quizzing and wonderment
afloat. If you don’t believe it put on a highly refined dress and try
the experiment; and if you are not very specially spotted we wild give
a fifty dollar greenback on behalf of the society for converting missionary
eaters in Chillingowullabadorie. We shall say nothing with regard to
the ordinary service of the Parish Church, except this, that it would
look better of three fourths of the congregation if they would not leave
the responses to a paid choir. “Lor, bless yer,” as Betsy
Jane Ward would say, a choir will sing, anything put before them if
it is set to music; and they think no more of getting through all that
sad business about personal sinfulness, agonising repentance, and a
general craving for forgiveness, than the odd woman did when she used
to kiss her cow and say it was delicious. There was once a period when
all Parish Church goers made open confession joined audibly in the prayers,
and said “Amen” as if they meant it; although we are doubtful
about even that. Now, the choir does all the work, and the congregation
are left behind the distance post to think about the matter. But if
it suits the people it’s quite right.

There are three parsons at our Parish Church—Canon Parr, who
is the seventeenth vicar in a regular line of succession since the Reformation
and two curates. As to the curates we shall say nothing beyond this,
that one has got a better situation and is going to it, and that the
other would like one if he could get it—not that the present is
at all bad, only that there are others better. We don’t know how many
curates there have been at the Parish Church since the Reformation;
but it, may be safely said that in their turn they have, as a rule,
accepted with calm and Christian resignation better paid places when
they had a fair opportunity of getting them. We are not going to say
very much about Cannon Parr, and let nobody suppose that we shall make
an effort to tear a passion to tatters regarding any of his peculiarities.
Canon Parr is an easy-going, genial, educated man kindly disposed towards
good living, not blessed with over much money, fond of wearing a billycock,
and strongly in love with a cloak. He has seen much of the world, is
shrewd, has a long head, has both studied and travelled for his learning,
and is the smartest man Preston Protestants could have to defend their
cause. But he has a certain amount of narrowness in his mental vision,
and, like the bulk of parsons, can see his own way best. He has a strong
temper within him, and he can redden up beautifully all over when his
equanimity is disturbed. If you tread upon his ecclesiastical bunions
he will give you either a dark mooner or an eye opener—we use
these classical terms in a figurative sense. He will keep quiet so long
as you do; but if you make an antagonistic move be will punish you if
possible. He can wield a clever pen; his style is cogent, scholarly,
and, unless overburdened with temper, dignified. He can fling the shafts
of satire or distil the balm of pathos; can be bitter, saucy, and aggravating;
can say a hard thing in a cutting style; and if he does not go to the
bone it’s no fault of his. He can also tone down his language to a point
of elegance and tenderness; can express a good thing excellently, and
utter a fine sentiment well. His speaking is modelled after a good style;
but it is inferior to his writing. In the pulpit he expresses himself
easily, often fervently, never rantingly. The pulpit of the Parish Church
will stand for ever before he upsets it, and he will never approach
that altitude of polemical phrenitis which will induce him to smash
any part of it. His pulpit language is invariably well chosen; some
of his subjects may be rather commonplace or inappropriate, but the
words thrown into their exposition are up to the mark. He seldom falters;
he has never above one, “and now, finally, brethren,” in
his concluding remarks; he invariably gives over when he has done—a
plan which John Wesley once said many parsons neglected to observe;
and his congregation, whether they have been awake or fast asleep, generally
go away satisfied. Canon Parr has been at our Parish Church nine and
twenty years, and although we don’t subscribe to his ecclesiastical
creed, we believe he has done good in his time. He is largely respected;
he would have been more respected if he had been less exacting towards
Dissenters, and less violent in his hatred of Catholics. Neither his
Church-rate nor Easter Due escapade improved his position; and some
of his fierce anti-Popery denunciations did not increase his circle
of friends. But these things have gone by, and let them be forgotten.
In private life Canon Parr is essentially social: he can tell a good
tale, is full of humour; he knows a few things as well as the rest of
men, and is charitably disposed—indeed he is too sympathetic and
this causes hint to be pestered with rubbishy tales from all sorts of
individuals, and sometimes to act upon them as if they were true. As
a Protestant vicar—and, remembering that no angels have yet been
born in this country, that everybody is somewhat imperfect, and that
folk will differ—we look upon Canon Parr as above the average.
He has said extravagant and unreasonable things in his time; but he
has rare properties, qualities of sense and erudition, which are strangers
to many pretentious men in his line of business; and, on the whole,
he may be legitimately set down, in the language of the “gods,”
as “O.K.”

No. II.

ST. WILFRID’S CATHOLIC CHURCH.

It was at one time of the day a rather dangerous sort of thing for
a man, or a woman, or a medium-sized infant, living in this highly-favoured
land of ours, to show any special liking for Roman Catholicism. But
the days of religious bruising have perished; and Catholics are now,
in the main, considered to be human as well as other people, and to
have a right to live, and put their Sunday clothes on, and go to their
own places of worship like the rest of mortals. No doubt there are a
few distempered adherents of the “immortal William” school
who would like to see Catholics driven into a corner, banished, or squeezed
into nothing; probably there are some of the highly sublimated “no
surrender” gentlemen who would be considerably pleased if they
could galvanise the old penal code and put a barrel able to play the
air of “Boyne Water” into every street organ; but the great
mass of men have learned to be tolerant, and have come to the conclusion
that Catholics, civilly and religiously, are entitled to all the liberty
which a free and enlightened constitution can confer—to all the
privileges which fair-play and even-handed justice call give; and if
these are not fully granted now, the day is coming when they will be
possessed. Lancashire seems to be the great centre of Catholicism in
England, and Preston appears to be its centre in Lancashire. This benign
town of Preston, with its fervent galaxy of lecturing curates, and its
noble army of high falutin’ incumbents, is the very fulcrum and lever
of northern Romanism. If Catholics are wrong and on the way to perdition
and blisters there are 33,000 of them here moving in that very awkward
direction at the present. A number so large, whether right or wrong
cannot he despised; a body so great, whether good or evil, will, by
its sheer inherent force, persist in living, moving, and having, a fair
share of being. You can’t evaporate 33,000 of anything in a hurry; and
you could no more put a nightcap upon the Catholics of Preston than
you could blacken up the eye of the sun. That stout old Vatican gentleman
who storms this fast world of ours periodically with his encyclicals,
and who is known by the name of Pius IX., must, if he knows anything
of England, know something of Preston; and if he knows anything of it
he will have long since learned that wherever the faith over which he
presides may be going down the hill, it is at least in Preston “as
well as can be expected,” and likely, for a period longer than
be will live, to bloom and flourish.

Our text is—St. Wilfrid’s Catholic Church, Preston. This place
of worship is situated in a somewhat sanctified place—Chapel-street;
but as about half of that locality is taken up with lawyers’ offices,
and the centre of it by a police station, we fancy that this world,
rather than the next, will occupy the bulk of its attention. It is to
be hoped that St. Wilfrid’s, which stands on the opposite side, will
act as a healthy counterpoise—will, at any rate, maintain its
own against such formidable odds. The building in Chapel-street, dedicated
to the old Angle-Saxon bishop—St. Wilfrid—who was a combative
sort of soul, fond of argumentatively knocking down obstreperous kings
and ecclesiastics and breaking up the strongholds of paganism—was
opened seventy-six years ago. It signifies little how it looked then.
Today it has a large appearance. There is nothing worth either laughing
or crying about so far as its exterior goes. It doesn’t look like a
church; it resembles not a chapel; and it seems too big for a house.
There is no effort at architectural elaboration in its outer arrangements.
It is plain, strong, large; and like big feet or leathern shirts has
evidently been made more for use than ornament. But this style of phraseology
only refers to the extrinsic part. Inside, the church has a vast, ornate,
and magnificent appearance. No place of worship in Preston is so finely
decorated, so skilfully painted, so artistically got up. In the world
of business there is nothing like leather; in the arena of religion
there seems to be nothing like paint. Every church in the country makes
an effort to get deeply into the region of paint; they will have it
upon either windows, walls, or ceilings. It is true that Dissenters
do not dive profoundly into the coloured abyss; but weakness of funds
combined with defective aesthetic cultivation may have something to
do with their deficiency in this respect. Those who have had the management
and support of St. Wilfrid’s in their hands, have studied the theory
of colour to perfection, and whilst we may not theologically agree with
some of its uses, one cannot but admire its general effect. Saints,
angels, rings, squares, floriations, spiralizations, and everything
which the brain or the brush of the most devoted painter could fairly
devise are depicted in this church, and there is such an array of them
that one wonders how anybody could ever have had the time or patience
to finish the work.

The high altar which occupies the southern end is, in its way, something
very fine. A magnificent picture of the crucifixion occupies the back
ground; flowers and candles, in numbers sufficient to appal the stoutest
Evangelical and turn to blue ruin such men as the editor of the “Bulwark”
are elevated in front; over all, as well as collaterally, there are
inscriptions in Latin; designs in gold and azure and vermilion fill
up the details; and on each side there is a confessional wherein all
members, whether large or diminutive, whether dressed in corduroy or
smoothest, blackest broad cloth, in silk or Surat cotton, must unravel
the sins they have committed. This confession must be a hard sort of
job, we know, for some people; but we are not going to enter upon a
discussion of its merits or demerits. Only this may be said, that if
there was full confession at every place of worship in Preston the parsons
would never get through their work. Every day, from an early hour in
the morning until a late period of the evening, St. Wilfrid’s is open
to worshippers; and you may see them, some with smiling faces, and some
with very elongated ones, going to or coming from it constantly. Like
Tennyson’s stream, they evince symptoms of constant movement and the
only conclusion we can fairly come to is that the mass of them are singularly
in earnest. There are not many Protestants—neither Church people,
nor Dissenters, neither quiescent Quakers nor Revivalist dervishes—who
would be inclined to go to their religious exercises before breakfast,
and if they did, some of them, like the old woman who partook of Sacrament
in Minnesota, would want to know what they were going to “get”
for it. On Sundays, as on week days, the same business—laborious
as it looks to outsiders—goes on. There are several services,
and they are arranged for every class—for those who must attend
early, for those who can’t, for those who won’t, and for those who stir
when the afflatus is upon them. There are many, however, who are regular
attendants, soon and late, and if precision and continuity will assist
them in getting to heaven, they possess those auxiliaries in abundance.

The congregation attending on a Sunday is a mixed one—rags
and satins, moleskins and patent kids, are all duly represented; and
it is quite a study to see their wearers put in an appearance. Directly
after entrance reverential genuflections and holy-water dipping are
indulged in. Some of the congregation do the business gracefully; others
get through it like the very grandfather of awkwardness. The Irish,
who often come first and sit last, are solemnly whimsical in their movements.
The women dip fast and curtsy briskly; the men turn their hands in and
out as if prehensile mysticism was a saving thing, and bow less rapidly
but more angularly than the females; then you have the slender young
lady who knows what deportment and reverence mean; who dips quietly,
and makes a partial descent gracefully; the servant girl who goes through
the preliminary somewhat roughly but very earnestly; the smart young
fellow, who dips with his gloves on—a “rather lazy kind
of thing,” as the cobbler remarked when he said his prayers in
bed—and gives a sort of half and half nod, as if the whole bend
were below his dignity; the business man, who goes into the water and
the bowing in a matter-of-fact style, who gets through the ceremony
soon but well, and moves on for the next comer; the youth, who touches
the water in a come-and-go style, and makes a bow on a similar principle;
the aged worshipper, who takes kindly but slowly to the hallowed liquid,
and goes nearly upon his knees in the fulness of his reverence; and
towards the last you have about six Sisters of Mercy, belonging St.
Wilfrid’s convent, who pass through the formality in a calm, easy, finished
manner, and then hurry along, some with veils down and others with veils
up, to a side sitting they have. There is no religious shoddy amongst
these persons. They may look solemn, yet some of them have finely moulded
features; they may dress strangely and gloomily, yet, if you converse
with them, they will always give indications of serener spirits. Whether
their profession be right or wrong, this is certain: they keep one of
the best schools in the town, and they teach children manners—a
thing which many parents can’t manage. They also make themselves useful
in visiting; they have a certain respect for faith, but more for good
works; and if other folk in Christendom held similar views on this point
the good done would in the end be greater. All these Sisters of Mercy
are accomplished—they are clever in the head, know how to play
music, to paint, and to sew; can cook well if they like; and it’s a
pity they are not married. But they are doing more good single than
lots of women are accomplishing in the married state, and we had better
let them alone. Its dangerous to either command or advise the gentler
sex, and as everything finds its own level by having its own way they
will, we suppose, in the end.

One of the most noticeable features in connection with the services
at St. Wilfrid’s is the music. It is proverbial that Catholics have
good music. You won’t find any of the drawling, face-pulling, rubbishy
melodies worked up to a point of agony in some places of worship countenanced
in the Catholic Church. All is classical—all from the best masters.
There is an enchantment in the music which binds you—makes you
like it whether you will or not. At St. Wilfrid’s there is a choir which
can’t be excelled by any provincial body of singers in the kingdom.
The learned individual who blows the organ may say that the comparative
perfection attained in the orchestra is through the very consummate
manner in which he “raises the wind”; the gentleman who
manipulates upon its keys may think he is the primum mobile in
the matter; the soprano may fancy she is the life of the whole concern;
the heavy bass or the chief tenor may respectively lay claim to the
honour; but the fact is, its amongst the lot, so that there may be a
general rubbing on the question of service, and a reciprocal scratching
on the point of ability.

There are several priests at St. Wilfrid’s; they are all Jesuits
to the marrow; and the chief of them is the Rev. Father Cobb. Each of
them is clever—far cleverer than many of the half-feathered curates
and full-fledged incumbents who are constantly bringing railing accusations
against them; and they work harder—get up sooner, go to bed later—than
the whole of them. They jump at midnight if their services are required
by either a wild Irishman in Canal-street or a gentleman of the first
water in any of our mansions. It is not a question of cloth but of souls
with them. They are afraid of neither plague, pestilence, nor famine;
they administer spiritual consolation under silken hangings, as well
as upon straw lairs; in the fever stricken garret as well as in the
gilded chamber. Neither the nature of a man’s position nor the character
of his disease enters into their considerations. Duty is the star of
their programme; action the object of their lives. They receive no salaries;
their simple necessaries are alone provided for. Some of them perhaps
get half-a-crown a month as pocket money; but that will neither kill
nor cure a man. Sevenpence halfpenny per week is a big sum—isn’t
it?—big enough for a Jesuit priest, but calculated to disturb
the Christian balance of any other class of clergymen. If it isn’t,
try them.

In reference to the priests of St. Wilfrid’s, we shall only specially
mention, and that briefly, the Rev. Father Cobb. No man in Preston cares
less for fine clothes than he does. We once did see him with a new suit
on; but neither before nor since that ever-memorable day, have we noticed
him in anything more ethereal than a plain well-worn coat, waistcoat,
and pair of trousers. He might have a finer exterior; but he cares not
for this kind of bauble. He knows that trappings make neither the man
nor the Christian, and that elaborate suits are often the synonym of
elaborate foolery. He takes a pleasure in work; is happy inaction; and
hates both clerical and secular indifference. Priests, he thinks, ought
to do their duty, and men of the world ought to discharge theirs. In
education, Father Cobb is far above the ordinary run of men. He has
a great natural capacity, which has been well regulated by study; he
is shrewd; has a strong intuitive sense; can’t be got over; won’t be
beaten out of the field if you once get him into it; and is sure to
either win or make you believe that he has. Like all strong Catholics
he has much veneration—that “organ,” speaking in the
vernacular of phrenology, is at the top of the head, and you never yet
saw a thorough Catholic who did not manifest a good development of it;
he is strong in ideality; has also a fine, vein of humour in him; can
laugh, say jolly as well as serious things; and is a positively earnest
and practical preacher. He speaks right out to his hearers; hits them
hard in reference to both this world and the next; tells them “what
to eat, drink, and avoid;” says that if they get drunk they must
drop it off, that if they stuff and gormandise they will be a long while
before reaching the kingdom of heaven; that they must avoid dishonesty,
falsehood, impurity, and other delinquencies; and, furthermore, intimates
that they won’t get to any of the saints they have a particular liking
for by a round of simple religious formality—that they must be
good, do good, and behave themselves decently, individually and collectively.
We have never heard a more practical preacher: he will tell young women
what sort of husbands to get, young men what kind of wives to choose,
married folk how to conduct themselves, and old maids and bachelors
how to reconcile themselves virtuously to their fate. There is no half-and-half
ring in the metal he moulds: it comes out clear, sounds well, and goes
right home. In delivery he is eloquent; in action rather brisk; and
he weighs—one may as well come down from the sublime to the ridiculous—about
thirteen stones. He is a jolly, hearty, earnest, devoted priest; is
cogent in argument; homely in illustration; tireless in work; determined
to do his duty; and, if we were a Catholic, we should be inclined to
fight for him if any one stepped upon his toes, or said a foul word
about him. Here endeth our “epistle to the Romans.”

No. III.

CANNON-STREET INDEPENDENT CHAPEL.

Forty-four years ago the Ebenezer of a few believers in the “Bird-of-Freedom”
school, with a spice of breezy religious courage in their composition,
was raised at the bottom of Cannon-street, in Preston; and to this day
it abideth there. Why it was elevated at that particular period of the
world’s history we cannot say. Neither does it signify. It may have
been that the spirit of an irrepressible Brown, older than the Harper’s
Ferry gentleman, was “marching on” at an extra speed just
then; for let it be known to all and singular that it was one of the
universal Brown family who founded the general sect. Or it may have
been that certain Prestonians, with a lingering touch of the “Scot’s
wha ha’e” material in their blood, gave a solemn twist to the
line in Burns’s epistle, and decided to go in

—for the glorious privilege
Of being Independent.

Be that as it may, it is clear that in 1825 the Independents planted
a chapel in Cannon-street. Places of worship like everything else, good
or evil, grow in these latter days, and so has Cannon-street chapel.
In 1852 its supporters set at naught the laws of Banting, and made the
place bigger. It was approaching a state of solemn tightness, and for
the consolation of the saints, the ease of the fidgety, and the general
blissfulness of the neighbourhood it was expanded. Cannon-street Chapel
has neither a bell, nor a steeple, nor an outside clock, and it has
never yet said that it was any worse off for their absence. But it may
do, for chapels like churches are getting proud things now-a-days, and
they believe in both lacker and gilt. There is something substantial
and respectable about the building. It is neither gaudy nor paltry;
neither too good nor too bad looking. Nobody will ever die in a state
of architectural ecstacy through gazing upon it; and not one out of
a battalion of cynics will say that it is too ornamental. It is one
of those well-finished, middle-class looking establishments, about which
you can’t say much any way; and if you could, nobody would be either
madder or wiser for the exposition. Usually the only noticeable feature
about the front of it—and that is generally the place where one
looks for the virtues or vices of a thing—is a series of caged-up
boards, announcing homilies, and tea parties, and collections all over
the north Lancashire portion of Congregational Christendom. It is to
be hoped that the sermons are not too dry, that the tea saturnalias
are neither too hot nor too wet, and that the collections have more
sixpenny than threepenny pieces in them.

The interior of Cannon-street Chapel has a spacious and somewhat
genteel appearance. A practical business air pervades it. There is no
“storied window,” scarcely any “dim religious light,”
and not a morsel of extra colouring in the whole establishment. At this
place, the worshippers have an idea that they are going to get to heaven
in a plain way, and if they succeed, all the better—we were going
to say that they would be so much the more into pocket by it. Freedom
of thought, sincerity of heart, and going as straight to the point as
possible, is what they aim at. There are many seats in Cannon-street
Chapel, and, as it is said that hardly any of them are to let, the reverend
gentleman who makes a stipulated descent upon the pew rents ought to
be happy. It is but seldom the pews are well filled: they are not even
crammed on collection Sundays; but they are paid for, and if a congenial
wrinkle does not lurk in that fact—for the minister—he will
find neither the balm of Gilead nor a doctor anywhere. The clerical
notion is, that pew rents, as well as texts; must be stuck to; and if
those who pay and listen quietly acquiesce, then it becomes a simple
question of “so mote it be” for outsiders.

The congregation at Cannon-street Chapel is made up of tolerably
respectable materials. It is no common Dissenting rendezvous for ill-clad
screamers and roaring enthusiasts. Neither fanatics nor ejaculators
find an abiding place in it. Not many poor people join the charmed circle.
A middle-class, shopkeeping halo largely environs the assemblage. There
is a good deal of pride, vanity, scent, and silk-rustling astir in it
every Sunday, just as there is in every sacred throng; and the oriental,
theory of caste is not altogether ignored. The ordinary elements of
every Christian congregation are necessarily visible here—backsliders
and newly-caught communicants; ancient women duly converted and moderately
fond of tea, snuff, and charity; people who cough continually, and will
do so in their graves if not closely watched; parties, with the Fates
against them, who fly off periodically into fainting fits; contented
individuals, whose gastric juice flows evenly, who can sleep through
the most impassioned sermon with the utmost serenity; weather-beaten
orthodox souls who have been recipients of ever so much daily grace
for half a life time, and fancy they are particularly near paradise;
lofty and isolated beings who have a fixed notion that they are quite
as respectable if not as pious as other people; easy-going well-dressed
creatures “whose life glides away in a mild and amiable conflict
between the claims of piety and good breeding.”

But the bulk are of a substantial, medium-going description—practical,
sharp, respectable, and naturally inclined towards a free, well got
up, reasonable theology. There is nothing inflamed in them—nothing
indicative of either a very thick or very thin skin. Any of them will
lend you a hymn book, and whilst none of them may be inclined to pay
your regular pew rent, the bulk will have no objection to find you an
occasional seat, and take care of you if there would be any swooning
in your programme. Clear-headed and full of business, they believe with
Binney in making the best of both worlds. They will never give up this
for the next, nor the next for this. Into their curriculum there enters,
as the American preacher hath it, a sensible regard for piety and pickles,
flour and affection, the means of grace and good profits, crackers and
faith, sincerity and onions, benevolence, cheese, integrity, potatoes,
and wisdom—all remarkably good in their way, and calculated, when
well shaken up and applied, to Christianise anybody. The genteel portion
of the congregation principally locate themselves in the side seats
running from one end of the chapel to the other; the every day mortals
find a resting place in the centre and the galleries; the poorer portion
are pushed frontwards below, where they have an excellent opportunity
of inspecting the pulpit, of singing like nightingales, of listening
to every articulation of the preacher, and of falling into a state of
coma if they are that way disposed.

The music at this place of worship has been considerably improved
during recent times; but it is nothing very amazing yet. There is a
curtain amount of cadence, along with a fair share of power, in the
orchestral outbursts; the pieces the choir have off go well; those they
are new at rather hang fire; but we shall not parry with either the
conductor or the members on this point. They all manifest a fairly-defined
devotional feeling in their melody; turn their visual faculties in harmony
with the words: expand and contract their pulmonary processes with precision
and if they mean what they sing, they deserve better salaries than they
usually get. They are aided by an organ which is played well, and, we
hope, paid for.

The minister of Cannon-street chapel is the Rev. H. J. Martyn, who
has had a good stay with “the brethren,” considering that
their fighting weight is pretty heavy, and that some of them were made
to “have their way.” Frequently Independents are in hot
water concerning their pastors. In Preston they are very exemplary in
this respect. The Grimshaw street folk have had a storm in a tea pot
with one of their ministers; so have the Lancaster-road Christians;
and so have the Cannon-street believers; and the beauty of it is, they
generally win. Born to have their own way in sacred matters, they can
turn off a parson, if they can’t defeat him in argument. And that is
a great thing. They hold the purse strings; and no parson can live unless
he has a “call” to some other “vineyard,” if
they are closed against him. On the whole, the present minister of Cannon-street
Chapel has got on pretty evenly with his flock. He has had odd skirmishes
in his spiritual fold; and will have if he stays in it for ever; but
the sheep have a very fair respect for the shepherd, and can “paint
the lily” gracefully. A while since they gave him leave of absence—paying
his salary, of course, whilst away—and on his return some of them
got up a tea party on his behalf and made him a presentation. There
might be party spirit or there might be absolute generosity in such
a move; but the parson was no loser—he enjoyed the out, and accepted
with Christian fortitude the gift. The Rev. H. J. Martyn is a small
gentleman—considerably below the average of parsons in physical
proportion; but he consoles himself with the thought that he is all
right in quality, if not in quantity. Diminutive men have generally
very fair notions of themselves; small men as a rule are smarter than
those of the bulky and adipose school; and, harmonising with this regulation,
Mr. Martyn is both sharp and kindly disposed towards himself. He is
not of opinion, like one of his predecessors, that he assisted at the
creation of the world, and that the endurance of Christianity depends
upon his clerical pivot; but he believes that he has a “mission,”
and that on the whole he is quite as good as the majority of Congregational
divines. There is nothing pretentious in his appearance; nothing ecclesiastical
in his general framework; and in the street he looks almost as much
like anybody else as like a parson. The education of Mr. Martyn is equal
to that of the average of Dissenting ministers, and better than that
of several. He is, however, more of a reader than a thinker, and more
of a speaker than either. On the platform he can make as big a stir
as men twice his size. His delivery is moderately even; his words clear;
and he can throw a good dash of imagination into his language. In the
pulpit, to the foot of which place he is led every Sunday, by certain
sacred diaconal lamas, who previously “rub him down” and
saddle him for action, in a contiguous apartment—in the pulpit,
we say, he operates in a superior style, and he looks better there—more
like a parson—than anywhere else. He is here above the ordinary
level of his hearers; if it were not for the galleries, minute as may
be his physiology, he would be the loftiest being present; and if he
wishes to “keep up appearances,” we would advise him to
remain in the pulpit and have his meals there. Casting joking overboard—out
of the pulpit if you like—it may be said that Mr. Martyn as a
preacher has many fair qualities. It is true he has defects; but who
has not?—unless it be a deacon;—still there is something
in his style which indicates earnestness, something in his language,
demonstrative of culture and eloquence. His main pulpit fault is that
he “goes off” too soon and too frequently. In the course
of a sermon he will give you three or four perorations, and sometimes
wind up without treating you to one. There is nothing very metaphysical
in his subjects; sometimes he wanders slightly into space; occasionally
he exhausts himself in fighting out the mysteries of faith, and grace,
and justification; but in the ordinary run of his talk you can get good
pictures of practical matters. He is a lover of nature, is fond of talking
about the sublime and the beautiful, conjointly with other things freely
named in Burke’s essay, can pile up the agony with a good deal of ability,
and split the ears of the groundlings as the occasion requires. He can
get into a white heat quickly, or blow his solemn anger gradually—wind
it up by degrees, and make it burst at a given point of feeling. He
is a better declaimer than reasoner—has a stronger flow of imagination
than logic. There is nothing bitter or mocking in his tone. He seldom
flings the shafts of ridicule or irony. He constructs calmly, and then
sends up the rocket: he draws you slowly to a certain point, and then
tells you to look out for “it’s coming.” His apparatus is
well fixed; he can give you any kind of dissolving view. His ecstacies
are rapid and, therefore, soon over. The level places in his sermons
are rather heavy, and, at times, uninteresting. It is only when the
thermometer is rising that you enjoy him, and only when he reaches the
climax and explodes, that you fall back and ask for water and a fan.
Taking him in the aggregate we are of opinion that he is a good preacher;
that he goes through his ordinary duties easily and complacently. He
gets well paid for what be does—last year his salary exceeded
£340; and our advice to him is—keep on good terms with the
bulk of “the brethren,” hammer as much piety into them as
possible, tickle the deacons into a genial humour, and look regularly
after the pew-rents.

No. IV.

LUNE-STREET WESLEYAN METHODIST CHAPEL.

Wesleyan Methodism first breathed and opened its eyes in or about
the year 1729. It was nursed in its infancy at Oxford by two rare brothers
and a few students; was christened at the same place by a keenly-observing,
slightly-satirical collegian; developed itself gradually through the
country; took charge of the neglected masses and gave them a new life;
and today it is one of the great religious forces of the world. The
first Wesleyan chapel in Preston was built in the year 1787, and its
situation was in that consecrated and highly aromatic region of the
town called Back-lane. There was nothing very prepossessing or polished,
nothing particularly fashionable or attractive about the profession
of Methodism in those days. It was rather an indication of honest fanaticism
than of deliberate reasoning—rather a sign of being solemnly “on
the rampage” than of giving way to careful conviction—and
more symptomatic of a sharp virtuous rant, got up in a crack and to
be played out in five minutes, than of a judicious move in the direction
of permanent good. The orthodox looked down with a genteel contempt
upon the preachers whose religion had converted Kingswood colliers,
and turned Cornwall wreckers into honest men; and the formally pious
spoke of the worshippers at this new shrine of faith with a serene sneer,
and classed them as a parcel of fiercely ejaculating, hymn-singing nonentities.
But there was vitality at the core of their creed, and its fuller triumphs
were but a question of time. In 1817, Methodism became dissatisfied
with its Back-lane quarters, and migrated into a lighter, healthier,
and cleaner portion of the town—Lune-street—where a building
was erected for its special convenience and edification. It was not
a very elegant structure: it was, in fact, a plain, phlegmatic aggregation
of brick and mortar, calculated to charm no body externally, and evidently
patronised for absolute internal rapture.

In 1861 the chapel was rebuilt—enlarged, beautified, and made
fine, so as to harmonise with the laws of modern fashion, and afford
easy sitting room for the large and increasing congregation attending
it. The frontispiece is of a costly character; but it has really been
“born to blush unseen.” It is so tightly wedged in between
other buildings, is so evenly crammed into companionship with the ordinary
masonry of the street, that the general effect of the tall arch and
spacious porch is lost. Nothing can be distinctly seen at even a moderate
distance. You have to get to the place before you become clearly aware
of its existence; and if you wish to know anything of its appearance,
you have either to turn the head violently off its regular axis, or
cross the street and ask somebody for a step ladder. The facade of the
building is not very prepossessing; the large arch, which has given
way at some of the joints considerably, and has been doing its best
to fall for about six years, does not look well—it is too high
and too big for the place; the stonework within is also hid; and the
whitewashed ceiling above ought to be either cleaned or made properly
black. At present it is neither light nor dark, and is rather awkwardly
relieved at intervals with cobwebs. There is something humorous and
incongruous in the physical associations of this chapel. It is flanked
with a doctor’s shop and a money-lending establishment; with a savings
bank and a solicitor’s office. The bank nestles very complacently under
its lower wing, and in the ratio of its size is a much better looking
building. The text regarding the deposit of treasure in that place where
neither moth nor rust operate may be well worked in the chapel; but
it is rather at a discount in the immediate neighbourhood.

A great work in the business of spreading Wesleyan Methodism has
been done by the people and parsons of Lune-street chapel. We know of
no place in the town whose religious influence has been more actively
radiated. Its power, a few years ago, spread into the northern part
of the town, and the result was a new chapel with excellent schools
there; it then moved eastward, and the consequence was a school chapel
in St. Mary-street. In Croft-street, Canal-street, and on the Marsh,
it has also outposts, whose officers are fighting the good fight with
lung, and head, and heart, in a sprightly and vigorous fashion. Originally,
what is termed the “circuit” of Lune-street embraced places
18 or 20 miles from Preston; but the area of the sacred circumbendibus
was subsequently reduced; and its servants now find that they have as
much on hand as they can fairly get through by looking after half of
the town and a few of the contiguous villages. There are none of those
solemn milkmen called deacons in connection with Wesleyanism; still,
there are plenty of medicine men, up; up the ears in grace and business,
belonging it. At Lune-street Chapel, as at all similar places, there
are class-leaders, circuit stewards, chapel stewards, and smaller divinities,
who find a niche in the general pantheon of duty. The cynosure of the
inner circle is personal piety, combined with a “penny a week
and a shilling a quarter.” All members who can pay this have to
do so.

Beneath the chapel there is a Sunday school, which operates as a
feeder. When the scholars—there are 500 or 600 of them altogether—show
certain symptoms of inherent rectitude and facial exactness, when they
answer particular questions correctly and pass through the crucial stages
of probation consistently, they are drafted into “the church,”
and presented with licences of perennial happiness if they choose to
exercise them. The school is well supervised, and if some of the teachers
are as useful and consoling at home as they are in their classes their
general relatives will be blissful.

The congregation of Lune-street Chapel is moderately numerous; but
it has been materially thinned at intervals by the establishment of
other Wesleyan chapels. In its circuit there are now between 800 and
900 persons known as members, who are going on their way rejoicing;
at the chapel itself there are between 300 and 400 individuals similarly
situated. Viewed in the aggregate, the congregation is of a middle class
character both in regard to the colour of the hair and the clothes worn.
There are some exceedingly poor people at the place, but the mass appear
to be individuals not particularly hampered in making provision for
their general meals. Lune-street chapel is the fashionable Wesleyan
tabernacle of Preston; the better end of those whose minds have been
touched, through either tradition or actual conviction, with the beauties
of Methodism, frequent it. There is more silk than winsey, more cloth
than hodden grey, and a good deal more false hair and artificial teeth
in the building on a Sunday than can be found by fair searching at any
other Wesleyan chapel in the town. A sincere desire to “flee from
the wrath to come and be saved from their sins”—the only
condition which John Wesley insisted upon for admission into his societies—does
not prevent some of the members from attending determinedly to the bedizenments,
conceits, and spangles of this very wicked speck in the planetary system.

In the congregation there are many most excellent, hardworking, thoroughly
sincere men and women, who would be both useful and ornamental to any
body of Christians under the sun; but there are in addition, as there
are in every building set apart for the purposes of piety, several who
have “more frill than shirt,” and much “more cry than
wool” about them—rectified, beautifully self-righteous,
children who would “sugar over” a very ugly personage ten
hours out of the twelve every day, and then at night thank the Lord
for all his mercies. In Lune-street Chapel faction used to run high
and wilfulness was a gem which many of the members wore very near their
hearts; but much of the old feudal spirit of party fighting has died
out, and there are signs of pious resignation and loving kindness in
the flock, which would at one time have been rare jewels. A somewhat
lofty isolation is still manifested here and there; a few regular attenders
appear heavily oppressed with the idea that they are not only as good
as anybody else but much better. Still this is only human nature and
no process of convertibility to the most celestial of substances can
in this world entirely subdue it. The bruising deacon who said that
grace was a good thing, but that that knocking down an impertinent member
was a better didn’t miss the bull’s eye of natural philosophy very far.
The observation was not redolent of much Christian spirit; but it evinced
that which many of the saints are troubled with—human nature.

Lune-street chapel contains standing, sitting, and sleeping room,
for about 1,400 people. The bulk who attend it take fair advantage of
the accomodation afforded for the first and second positions; a moderate
number avail themselves of the privileges held out for the whole three
postures. The chapel is not often crowded; it is moderately filled as
a rule; and there is no particular numeric difference in the attendance
at either morning or evening service on a Sunday. The singing is neither
loftily classic nor contemptibly common-place. It is good, medium, well
modulated melody, heartily got up; and thoroughly congregational. In
some places of worship it is considered somewhat vulgar for members
of the congregation to give specimens of their vocalisation; and you
can only find in out-of-the-way side and back pews odd persons warbling
a mild falsetto, or piping an eccentric tenor, or doing a heavy bass
on their own responsibility; but at Lune-street Chapel the general members
of the congregation go into the work with a distinct determination to
either sing or make a righteous noise worthy of the occasion. They are
neither afraid nor ashamed of the job; and we hope they draw consolation
from it. The more genteel worshippers take up their quarters mainly
on the ground floor—at the back of the central seats and at the
sides. The poor have resting places found for them immediately in front
of the pulpit and at the rear of the galleries. Very little of that
unctuous spasmodic shouting, which used to characterise Wesleyanism,
is heard in Lune-street Chapel. It has become unfashionable to bellow;
it is not considered “the thing” to ride the high horse
of vehement approval and burst into luminous showers of “Amens”
and “Halleleujahs.” Now and then a few worshippers of the
ancient type drop in from some country place, and explode at intervals
during the course of some impulsive prayer, or gleeful hymn, or highly
enamelled sermon. You may occasionally at such a time, hear two or three
in distant pews having a delightful time of it. At first they only stir
gently, as if some on were mildly pinching or tickling them. Gradually
they become more audible, and as the fire of their zeal warms up, and
the eloquence of the minister enflames, they get keener, fiercer, more
rapturous; the intervals of repose are shorter, the moments of ecstacy
are more rapid and fervent; and this goes on with gathering desperation,
until the speaker reaches his—climax, and stops to either breathe
or use his handkerchief. But hardy a scintilla of this is perceived
on ordinary occasions; indeed it has become so unpopular that an exhibition
of it seems to quietly amuse—to evoke mild smiles and dubious
glances—rather than meet with reciprocity of approval. It must
be some great man in the region of Wesleyanism; some grand, tearing,
pathetic, eloquent preacher who can stir to a point of moderate audibility
the voices of the multitude of worshippers. In Lune-street Chapel, the
Ten Commandments occupy a prominent position, and that is a good thing.
It would be well if they were fastened up in every place of worship,
and better still if the parsons referred to them more frequently.

Respecting the ministers of the chapel in question, we way say that
there are three. None of them can stay less than one, nor more than
three, years. It is a question of “Hey, presto—quick change,”
every third year. The names of the triumvirate at Lune-street are, the
Rev. W. Mearns, M.A., who is the superintendent; the Rev. W. H. Tindall,
second in command; and the Rev. F. B. Swift, the general clerical servant
of all work. Mr. Mearns is a calm, rather bilious-looking, elderly man.
There is nothing bewitching in his appearance; he looks like what he
is—a quietly-disposed, evenly-tempered, Methodist minister. He
is neither fussy, nor conceited, nor fond of brandishing the sword of
superiority. He goes about his work steadily, and is as patient in harness
as out of it. He has northern blood in his veins which checks impulsiveness
and everything approaching that solemn ferocity sometimes displayed
in Methodist pulpits. There is nothing oratorical in his style of delivery;
it is calm, slow, and has a rather soporific influence upon his hearers.
There is more practical than argumentative matter in his sermons; but,
in the aggregate, they are hard and dry—lack lustre and passion;
and this, combined with his stoical manner of delivery, has a chilling,
rather than an attractive, influence. He always speaks in harmony with
the rules of grammar. His sentences, although uttered extemporaneously,
are invariably well finished and scholarly. His words are well chosen;
they are fit in with cultivated exactitude and polished precision. They
will stand reading; nay, they will read excellently—infinitely
better than the burning rhapsody of more phrensied and eloquent men;
but they fall with a long-drawn dulness upon the ear when first uttered,
and don’t, as Sam Slick would say, “get up one’s steam anyhow.”
Mr. Mearns has a clear head and a good heart, but his spoken words want
power and immediate brightness, and his style is deadened for the want
of a little enthusiasm.

The Rev. Mr. Tindall comes up in a more polished, energetic, and
fashionable garb. He is eloquent, argumentative, polemical. His literary
capacity is good, and it has been well trained. He has read much and
studied keenly. His sermons are well thought out; he has copious notes
of them; and when he enters the pulpit they are made complete for action—are
fully equipped in their Sunday clothes and ready for duty. His delivery
is good; but physical weakness deprives it of potency; and his contempt
of the clock before him renders people now and then uneasy. His manner
is refined; his matter is select; but there is something in both at
times which you don’t altogether believe in digesting. A rather haughty,
dictatorial ring is sometimes noticed in them.  A large notion
of the importance of the preacher occasionally peeps up. He has a perfect
right to venerate Mr. Tindall, and if he is a little fashionable, what
of that?—isn’t it fashionable to be fashionable? Only this may
be carried a little too far, even in men for whom pulpits are made and
circuits formed, and it is not always safe to let organ “15”
in phrenological charts get the upper hand. After all we admire Mr.
Tindall’s erudition and eloquence. He is free from vulgarity, and in
general style miles ahead of many preachers in the same body, whose
great mission is to maltreat pulpits and turn religion into a rhapsody
of words.

The well-meaning and plodding Mr. Smith succeeds. He is a hard worker;
but there does not appear to be over much in him at present. More thinking,
and a greater experience of life, may cause him to germinate agreeably
in a few years. His style is stereotyped and copied; there is a lack
of original force in him; when he talks you know what’s coming next—you
can tell five minutes off what he is going to say, and that rather spoils
the sensation of newness and surprise which one likes to experience
when parsons are either pleasing or terrifying sinners. But Mr. Swift
does his best, and, according to Ebenezer Elliot, he does well who does
that. It would be wrong to deal harshly with a new beginner, and therefore
we have decided to check our criticism—to be brief—with
Mr. Swift and express a hope that in time he will be president of the
Conference.

No. V.

FISHERGATE BAPTIST CHAPEL.

The “right thing” in regard to baptism is a recondite
point; but we are not going to enter into any controversy about it.
We shall say nothing as to the defects or merits of aspersion or sprinkling,
immersion or dipping, affusion or pouring. Opinions vary respecting
each system; and one may fairly say that the words uttered in explanation
of the general theme come literally to us in the “voice of many
waters.”, Jacob the patriarch was the first Baptist; the Jews
kept up the rite moderately, but had more faith in its abstergent than
spiritual influence; John turned it into an institution of Christianity;
the Primitive Church carried on the business slowly, Turtullian kicking
against and Cyprian lauding it; in the fifth century baptism became
fully established amongst all Christian communities; then the Eastern
and Western Churches quarrelled as to whether sprinkling or immersion
constituted the proper ceremony; other small disputes concerning the
modus operandi followed; and from that time to this the adherents
of each scheme have spilled a great deal of water in piously working
out their notions. There was once a time when nobody could undergo the
ordinary process of baptism except at Easter or Whitsuntide; but children
and upgrown people can now be put through the ceremony whenever it is
considered necessary. In Preston, as elsewhere, the majority of people
think well of water when it is required by children for engulphing or
baptismal purposes; but they care little for its use when the teens
have been trotted through. It may be right enough for the physical and
religious comfort of babes and sucklings; but its virtues recede in
the ratio of development. There are, however, some sections of men and
women in the town who, symbolically at least, have a high regard for
water at any time after the years of sense and reason have been reached.

These are the Baptists. There are four or five chapels set apart
for their improvement in Preston, and the smartest of these is in Fishergate.
In Leeming-street it was in the chrysalis state; in Fishergate the butterfly
epoch has been reached. A dull, forlorn looking edifice, afterwards
taken advantage of by the Episcopalian party, and now cleared off to
make way for St. Saviour’s church, once formed the sacred asylum
of a portion of the Baptists; but a desire for better accomodation,
combined with a wish for more fashionable quarters, induced a change.
The dove was repeatedly sent out, and dry land was finally found for
the Baptists in Fishergate. In 1858 a chapel was erected upon the spot,
and thus far it has steadfastly maintained its position. It is a handsome
building, creditable to both the architect and the congregation, and
if its tower were less top heavy, it would, in its way, be quite superb.
We never look at that solemn tower head without being reminded of some
immense quadrangular pepper castor, fit for a place in the kitchen of
the Titans. In every other respect the building is arranged smartly;
if anything it is too ornamental, and in making a general survey one
is nearly afraid of meeting with Panathenaic frieze work. On the principle
that you can’t have the services of a good piper without paying proportionately
dear for them, so you can’t obtain a handsome chapel except by confronting
a long bill. The elysium of antipedobaptism in Fishergate cost the modest
sum of £5,000, and of that amount about £800 remains to
be paid. Considering the greatness of the original sum, the debt is
not very large; but if it were less the congregation would be none the
worse; and if it didn’t exist at all they would be somewhat nearer bliss
in this general vale of tears. Fishergate Baptist Chapel is the only
Dissenting place of worship in the town possessing an exterior clock;
and it is one of the most orderly articles in the town, for it never
strikes and has not for many months shown itself after dark. It used
to exhibit signs of activity after sunset; but it was, considered a
“burning shame” by some economists to light it up with gas
when the Town Hall clock was got into working order, and ever since
then it has been nightly kept in the dark.

Fishergate Baptist Chapel has an excellent interior, and it will
accommodate about twice as many people as patronise it. Long stately
side lights, neatly embellised with stained glass and opaque filigree
work, give it a mild solemnity which is relieved by fine circular windows
occupying the gables. The seats are arranged in the usual three-row
style, and there is a touch of neat gentility about them indicative
of good construction, whatever the parties they have been made for are
like. Fashionably-conceived gas-stands shoot up and spread their branches
at intervals down the chapel; and at the extreme end there is a broad
gallery, set apart for the singers, who need be in no fear of breaking
it down through either the weight of their melodious metal or the specific
gravity of their physique. A new organ is much wanted, and if a few
new singers were secured, or the old ones polished up slightly, the
proceedings would be more lively and agreeable. Nearly three of the
members of the choir are really good singers; the remainder are what
may be termed only moderate. What Lune-street is to the Wesleyans, so
Fishergate seems to be to the Baptists—the centre of gravity of
the more refined and fashionable worshippers. Very few poor people visit
it, and it is thought that if they don’t come of their own accord they
will never he seriously pressed on the subject. The free sittings are
just within the door, on the left hand side, and we should fancy that
not more than 25 really poor people use them. The higher order of Christians
occupy the lower portion of the same range of seats, the central pews,
and those on the right side thereof.

The congregation consists almost entirely of middle-class persons—people
who have either saved money in business or who are making a determined
effort to do so. Good clothes, quiet demeanour, and numerical smallness
are the striking characteristics. Nothing approaching fervour ever takes
possession of the general body. Religion with them is not a termagant,
revered for her sauciness and loved for her violent evolutions. It is
a reticent, even spirited, calmly orthodox affair, whose forerunner
fed on locusts and wild honey, and whose principles are to be digested
quietly. There may be a few very boisterous sheep in the fold, who get
on fire periodically in the warmth of speaking and praying; who will
express their willingness, when the pressure is up, to do any mortal
thing for the good of “the cause;” but who will have to
be caught there and then if anything substantial has to follow. Like
buckwheat cakes and rum gruel they are best whilst hot. At a night meeting
they may be generously disposed and full of universal sympathy; but
they can sleep out their burning thoughts in a few hours, and waken
up next morning like larks, with no recollection of their gushing promises.

There is accomodation in the chapel for about 400 persons, but the
average attendance is not more than 200; and there are only about 90
“members.” Not much difference between the morning and evening
attendance is noticed. The baptismal Thermophylae is generally guarded
by the sacred 90, and looked at by the fuller 200. The pew rents are
very high; but this evil is compensated for by the comparative absence
of those solemn gad flies which come in the shape of collections. At
some places of worship contribution boxes and bags are seen floating
about rapidly nearly every other Sunday, for either home expenses or
perishing Indians; but at Fishergate Baptist Chapel incidental requirements
are blended with the pew rents; and for other purposes about two collections
annually suffice. That is all, and that ought to make attendance at
such a place rather agreeable.

The primal government of the chapel is in the hands of four deacons;
but they are not very officious like some pillars of the church: one
of them is mild and obliging, the second is wise-looking and crotchety,
the third is disposed to pious rampagiousness in his lucid intervals,
and the fourth is a kindly sort of being, with a moderate respect for
converted dancers and hallaleujah men. Some theological writers say
that there are “evangelists” as well as deacons in connection
with Baptist government. There may be some of this class at the Fishergate
Chapel; but we have not yet seen their sacred personages. The place
is highly favoured with clocks. Not only is there a specimen of horology
outside, but there is one within, and it may be called a worldly-wise
creature, for it never gets beyond No. I in its striking. Tradition
hath it that once when there was no clock in the chapel, the preacher
used to overshoot most uncomfortably the ordinary limits of time; that
the congregation, whilst fond of sermons, did not like them stretched
too violently; and that they resolved unanimously to purchase a clock.
Probably this story is groundless; but it is a fact nevertheless that
the clock is so situated as to be only fully and easily seen by the
preacher. More than three-fourths of the people sit with their backs
directly to it. And it is furthermore a fact that, whilst when there
was no clock the usual time of deliverance was passed, the congregation
are now released with scrupulous exactitude. They got into the open
air one Sunday evening when we were there about 16 seconds before eight,
and the preacher had abandoned the pulpit by the time the Town Hall
clock gave its opinion on the question.

In winter there is a Sunday morning prayer meeting at the place;
but in summer the members can’t stand such a gathering, either because
too much light is thrown upon the subject, or because the attendance
is too small, or because early prayers are not required at that season
of the year. A prayer meeting is, however, held all the year round,
on a Wednesday night, and it is favoured, on an average, with about
20 earnest individuals, who sometimes create what might, if not properly
explained, be considered a rather solemn disturbance. These parties
meet in the Sunday school, which is beneath the chapel. The average
attendance of scholars at this school is not very large. When buns and
coffee are astir it may be computed at 200; when ordinary religious
instruction is simply placed before the juvenile mind the attendance
may be set down at about 100.

In the chapel and immediately before the pulpit, there is a square
hole, usually covered, which in denominational phraseology goes by the
name of the “baptistery.” In the first ages of Christianity
such places were made outside the church, and were either hexagonal
or octagonal, then they became polygonal, then circular, and now they
have got quadrangular. Two of the finest baptisteries in the world are
at Florence and Pisa; that at the former, place being 100 feet in diameter,
made of black and white marble, and surrounded with a gallery on granite
columns; that at the latter being 116 feet wide, and beautifully ornamented.
The biggest baptistery ever made is supposed to have been that at St.
Sophia, in Constantinople, which, we are told, was so spacious as to
have once served for the residence of the Emperor Basilicus. But there
is no marble about the baptistery in Fishergate Chapel, and no one would
ever think of transmuting it into a residence. It is used two or three
times a year, and if outsiders happen to get a whisper of an intended
dipping, curiosity leads them to the chapel, and they look upon the
ceremony as a piece of sacred fun, right enough to look at, but far
too wet for anything else. This dipping is, indeed, a quaint, cold piece
of business. None except adults or youths who have, it is thought, come
to sense and reason, are permitted to pass through the ordeal, and it
is recognised by them as symbolic of their entrance into “the
Church.” Sometimes as many as six or seven are immersed. They
put on old or special garments suitable for the occasion, and the work
of baptism is then carried on by the minister, who stands in the figurative
Jordan. He quietly ducks them overhead; they submit to the process without
a murmur; they neither bubble, nor scream, nor squirm; and the elders
look on solemnly, though impressed with thoughts that, excellent as
the ceremony may be, it is a rather shivering sort of business after
all. After being baptised, the new members retire into an adjoining
room, strip their saturated cloths, rub themselves briskly with towels,
or get the deacons to do the work for them, then re-dress, comb their
hair, and receive liberty to rejoice with the general Israel of the
flock. Such baptism as that we have described seems a rather curious
kind of rite; but it is honestly believed in, and as those who submit
to it have to undergo the greatest punishment in the case—have
to be put right overhead in cold Longridge water—other persons
may keep tolerably cool on the subject. People have a right to use water
any way so long as they don’t throw it unfairly upon others or drown
themselves; and if three-fourths of the people who now laugh at adult
baptism would undergo a dipping next Sunday, and then stick to water
for the remainder of their lives, they would be better citizens, whatever
might become of their theology.

The Rev. J. O’Dell is the pastor of Fishergate Baptist Chapel, and
he is an exemplary man in his way, for be only receives a small salary
and yet contrives to keep out of debt—a thing which a good deal
of parsons, and which many of the ordinary children of grace, can’t
accomplish. He is well liked by his congregation, and we have heard
of no fighting over either his virtues or defects. He has quite a clerical
look, and, if he hadn’t, his voice would give the cue to his profession.
There is an earnest unctuous modulation about it, which, as a rule,
is acquired after men have flung overboard the common idioms of secular
life. The salary of Mr. O’Dell is about £160 a year, and although
he would like more, he can make himself and Mrs. O’Dell, and the younger
branches of the house of O’Dell, comfortable on that sum. Some pastors
gnash their teeth if their purse strings are opened for less than £300
a year; Mr. O’Dell would purchase a pair of wings, and sing “’Tis
like a little heaven below,” if his stipend was raised to that
figure. There is nothing very extraordinary in the preaching style of
Mr. O’Dell. It lacks the cunning of that rare old Baptist bird, who
once went by the name of Birney, and it is devoid of that learned and
masterly eloquence so finely worked by the last minister of the chapel,
who used to read some of his sermons over to the deacons, before trying
them upon the other sinners in the chapel; still it is sincere, straight-forward,
and theologically sound. It never reaches a point of raving, is never
loudly pretentious, or ferocious in tone. Mr. O’Dell will never be a
brilliant man; but he is now what is often much better—a good
working minister. He will never occupy the position of a commander,
will never even be a lieutenant, but he will always be a good soldier
in the ranks. He has neither a lofty imaginative capacity nor a dashing
ratiocinative faculty, but he has a clear sense of the importance of
his pastoral duties, he goes easily and earnestly to work, makes neither
much fuss nor smoke, and if he does now and then seem to pull queer
faces in his sermons—give odd twists to some of his muscles—that
does not debar him from preaching fair even-sounding sermons, soothing
to his general hearers and pleasing to those who have to pay him. There
are a few people whom Mr. O’Dell’s sermons fail to keep awake; but as
such parties are probably better asleep than in a full state of consciousness,
no great harm is done. He has all sorts of folk to deal with—men
who are pious, and smooth creatures quietly given to humbug; people
who practice what they are taught, and a few so wonderfully good that
if they called a meeting of their creditors they would begin the business
by saying, “Let us pray;” individuals who follow their duties
calmly, and make no show about their work; and respectable specimens
of indifference, who go to chapel because it is fashionable to do so.
But they seem all complacent, and the “happy family” element
predominates. Mr. O’Dell suits them; they suit Mr. O’Dell; and if he
had only a fuller chapel—a better salary, too, wouldn’t be despised
by him—he could send up his orisons with more courage, and preach
to the sinners around him with the steam hammer force of a Gadsby.

No. VI.

ST. GEORGE’S CHURCH.

“My respecks to St. George and the Dragoon,” wrote the
gay and festive showman, at the conclusion of an epistle—penned
under the very shadow of “moral wax statters”—to the
Prince of Wales. And there was no evil in such a benevolent expression
of feeling. George, the particular party referred to, occupies a prominent
position in our national escutcheonry, ant the “Dragoon”
is a unique creature always in his company, which it would be wrong
to entirely forget. The name of the saint sounds essentially English,
and it has been woven into the country’s history. The nation is fond
of its Georges. We had four kings—not all of a saintly disposition—who
rejoiced in that name; we sometimes swear by the name of George; and
it plays as good a part as any other cognomen in our universal system
of christening. Nobody can really tell who St. George was, and nobody
will ever be able to do so. Gibbon fancies he was at one time an unscrupulous
bacon dealer, and that he finally did considerable business in religious
gammon. Butler, the Romish historian, thinks he was martyred by Diocletian
for telling that amiable being a little of his mind; ancient fabulists
make it out that be killed a dragon, saved a fair virgin’s life, and
then did something better than either—married her; medieval men,
with a knightly turn of mind, transmuted him into the patron of chivalry;
Edward III made him the patron of the Order of the Garter; the Eastern
and Western churches venerate him yet; Britains have turned him into
their country’s tutelary saint; and many places of worship have been
dedicated to this curiously mythologic individual. We have a church
in Preston in this category; and it is of such church—St. George’s—we
shall speak now.

In 1723 it was erected. Up to that time the Parish Church was the
only place of worship we had in connection with what is termed “the
Establishment;” St. George’s was brought into existence as a “chapel
of ease” for it; and it is still one of the easiest, quietest,
best behaved places in the town. It was a plain brick edifice at the
beginning, but in 1843-4 the face of the church was hardened—it
was turned into stone, and it continues to have a substantial petrified
appearance. In 1848 a new chancel was built; and afterwards a dash of
Christian patriotism resulted in a new pulpit and reading desk. The
general building, which is of cruciform shape, has a subdued, solemn,
half-genteel, half-quaint look. There is neither architectural maze
nor ornamental flash in its construction. It is plain all round, and
is characterised by a simplicity of style which could not be well reduced
unless a severe plainness were adopted. Its position is not in a very
imposing locality, and the roads to it are bad and irregular. Baines,
the historian, says that St. George’s Church is situated between Fishergate
and Friargate—rather a wide definition applicable to about 500
other places ranging from billiard rooms to foundries, from brewing
yards to bedstead warehouses in the same region. That brightest of all
our historical blades, “P. Whittle, F.A.S.,” states that
it is located on the south-west side of Friargate—a better, but
still very mystical, exposition to all not actually acquainted with
the place; whilst Hardwicke comes up to the rescue in the panoply of
modern exactness, and tells us that it is on the south side of Fishergate.
These historians must have missed their way in trying to find the place,
and in their despair guessed at its real situation. There are many ways
to St. George’s—you can get to it from Fishergate, Lune-street,
Friargate, or the Market place; but if each of those ways was thrown
into one complete whole, the road would still be fifteenth rate. Tortuousness
and dimness mark them, and a strong backyard spirit of adventure must
operate largely in the minds of some who manage to reach the building.

The churchyard of St. George’s has nothing interesting to the common
mind about it. The great bulk of the grave stones are put flat upon
the ground—arranged so that people can walk over them with ease
and comfort, whatever may become of the letters; and if it were not
for a few saplings which shoot out their bright foliage periodically,
and one very ancient little tree which has become quite tired of that
business, the yard would look very grave and monotonous. The principal
entrance can be reached by way of Lune-street or Chapel-walks; but when
you have got to it, there is nothing very peculiar to be seen. It is
plain, rather gloomy, and in no way interesting.

The interior of the church wears a somewhat similar complexion; but
it improves by observation, and in the end you like it for its thorough
simplicity. No place of worship can in its internal arrangements be
much plainer than St. George’s. If it were not for three stained windows
in the chancel, which you can but faintly make out at a distance, nothing
which could by any possibility be termed ornamental would at first sight
strike you. On reaching the centre of the place you get a moderately
clear view of the pulpit which somewhat edifies the mind; and, on turning
right round, you see a magnificent organ which compensates for multitudes
of defects, and below it—in front of the orchestra—a rather
powerful representation of the royal arms, a massive lion and unicorn,
“fighting for the crown” as usual, and got up in polished
wood work. We see no reason why there should not be something put up
contiguously, emblematic of St. George and the dragon. It is very unfair
to the saint and unjust to the dragon to ignore them altogether—The
Ten Commandments are put on one side in this church—not done away
with, but erected in a lateral position, very near a corner and somewhat
out of the way. One of the historians previously quoted says that St.
George’s used to be “heated by what is commonly called a cockle”—some
sort of a warmth radiating apparatus, which he describes minutely and
with apparent pleasure. We have not inquired specially as to the fate
of this cockle. It may still have an existence in the sacred edifice,
or it may have given way, as all cockles must do in the end, whether
in churches or private houses, to hot-water arrangements. The pews in
St. George’s are of the old, fashioned, patriarchal character. They
are of all sizes an irregularity quite refreshing peculiarises them;
there are hardly two alike in the building; and a study of the laws
of variety must have been made by those who had the management of their
construction. Private interests and family requirements have probably
regulated the size of them. Some of the pews are narrow and hard to
get into—a struggle has to be made before you can fairly take
possession; others are broader and easier to enter: a few are very capacious
and might be legitimately licensed to carry a dozen inside with safety;
nearly all or them are lined with green baize, much of which is now
getting into the sere and yellow leaf period of life; many of them are
well-cushioned—green being the favourite colour; and in about
the same number Brussels carpets may be found. There is a quiet, secluded
coziness about the pews; the sides are high; the fronts come up well;
nobody can see much of you if care is taken; and a position favourable
to either recumbent ease or horizontal sleep may be assumed in several
of them with safety. The general windows, excepting those in the chancel,
are very plain; and if it were not for a rim of amber-coloured glass
here and there and a fair average accumulation of dust on several of
the squares, there would be nothing at all to relieve their native simplicity.
The pillars supporting the nave are equally plain; the walls and ceiling
are almost entirely devoid of ornament: and primitive white-wash forms
the most prominent colouring material. The gas stands, often very elaborate
in places of worship, have been made solely for use here. Simple upright
pipes, surmounted by ordinary burners constitute their sum and substance.
The pulpit lights are simpler. Gas has not yet reached the place where
the law and the prophets are expounded. The orthodox mould candle reigns
paramount on each side of the pulpit; and its light appears to give
satisfaction.

There is no Sunday school in connection with St. George’s. In some
respects this may be a disadvantage to the neighbourhood; but it is
a source of comfort to the congregation, for all the noise which irrepressible
children create during service hours at every place where they are penned
up, is obviated. Neither children nor babes are seen at St. George’s.
It is considered they are best at home, and that they ought to stay
there until the second teeth have been fairly cut. The congregation
of St. George’s is specifically fashionable. A few poor people may be
seen on low seats in the centre aisle; but the great majority of worshippers
either represent, or are connected with, what are termed “good
families.” Young ladies wearing on just one hair the latest of
bonnets, and elaborated with costly silks and ribbons; tender gentlemen
of the silver-headed cane school and the “my deah fellah”
region; quiet substantial looking men of advanced years, who believe
in good breeding and properly brushed clothes; elderly matrons, “awfully
spiff” as Lady Wortley Montague would say; and a few well-disposed
tradespeople who judiciously mingle piety with business, and never make
startling noises during their devotional moments—these make up
the congregational elements of St. George’s. They may be described in
three words—few, serene, select. And this seems to have always
been the case. Years since, the historian of Lancashire said that St.
George’s “has at all times had a respectable, though not a very
numerous, congregation.” The definition is as correct now as it
was then. The worshippers move in high spheres; the bulk of them toil
not, neither do they spin; and if they can afford it they are quite
justified in making life genteel and easy, and giving instructions for
other people to wait upon them. We dare say that if their piety is not
as rampant, it is quite as good, as that of other people. Vehemence
is not an indication of excellence, and people may be good without either
giving way to solemn war-whoops or damaging the hearing faculties of
their neighbours. Considering the situation of St. George’s Church—its
proximity to Friargate and the unhallowed passages running therefrom—there
ought to be a better congregation. Churches like beefsteaks are intended
to benefit those around them. It is not healthy for a church to have
a congregation too select and too fashionable. Souls are of more value
than either purses or clothes. More of the people living in the immediate
neighbourhood of St. George’s ought to regularly visit it; very few
of them ever go near the place; but the fault may be their own, and
neither the parson’s, nor the beadle’s.

The choir of St. George’s is a wonderfully good one, and whether
the members sing for love or money, or both, they deserve praise. Their
melody is fine; their precision good; their expression excellent. They
can give you a solemn piece with true abbandonatamente; they can observe
an accelerando with becoming taste; they can get into a vigorosamente
humour potently and on the shortest notice. They will never be able
to knock down masonry with their musical force like the Jericho trumpeters,
nor build up walls with their harmony like Amphion; but they will always
possess ability to sing psalms, hymns, spiritual songs, and whatever
may be contained in popular music books, with taste and commendable
exactitude. We recommend them to the favourable consideration of the
public. In St. George’s Church there is an organ which may be placed
in the “h c” category. It is a splendid instrument—can’t
be equalled in this part of the country for either finery or music—and
is played by a gentleman whose name ranks in St. George’s anthem book,
with those of Beethoven, Handel, and Mozart. We have heard excellent
music sung and played at St. George’s; but matters would be improved
if the efforts of the choir were seconded. At present the singers have
some time been what we must term, for want of a better phrase, musical
performers. They are tremendously ahead of the congregation. Much of
what they sing cannot be joined in by the people. Many a time the congregation
have to look on and listen—ecstacised with what is being sung,
wondering what is coming next, and delightfully bewildered as to the
whole affair.

The minister at St. George’s is the Rev. C. H. Wood—a quiet,
homely, well-built man, who is neither too finely dressed nor too well
paid. His salary is considerably under £200 a year. Mr. Wood is
frank and unostentatious in manner; candid and calm in language; and
of a temperament so even that he gets into hot water with nobody. You
will never catch him with his virtuous blood up, theologically or politically.
He has a cool head and a quiet tongue—two excellent articles for
general wear which three-fourths of the parsons in this country have
not yet heard of. He is well liked by the male portion of his congregation,
and is on excellent terms with the fair sex. He is a batchelor, but
that is his own fault. He could be married any day, but prefers being
his own master. He may have an ideal like Dante, or a love phantom like
Tasso, or an Imogene like the brave Alonzo; but he has published neither
poetry nor prose on the subject yet, and has made no allusion to the
matter in any of his sermons. No minister in Preston, with similar means,
is more charitably disposed than Mr. Wood. He behaves well to poor people,
and the virtue of that is worth more than the lugubriousness or eloquence
of many homilies. Charity in purse as well as in speech is one of his
characteristics; and if that doth not cover a multitude of ordinary
defects nothing will. In the reading desk Mr Wood gets through his work
quickly and with a good voice. There is no effort at elocution in his
expression: he goes right on with the business, and if people miss the
force of it they will have to be responsible for the consequences. In
the pulpit he drives forward in the same earnest, matter-of-fact style.
There is no hand flinging, hair-wringing, or dramatic raging in his
style. The matter of his sermons is orthodox and homely—systematically
arranged, innocently illustrated at intervals, and offensive to nobody.
His manner is calculated to genially persuade rather than fiercely arouse;
and it will sooner rock you to sleep than lash you to tears. There is
a slight touch of sanctity at the end of his sentences—a mild
elevation of voice indicative of pious oiliness; but, altogether, we
like his quiet, straightforward, simple, English style. People fond
of Church of England ideas could not have a more genial place of worship
than St. George’s: the seats are easy and well lined, the sermons short
and placid, and the company good.

ST. AUGUSTINE’S CATHOLIC CHURCH.

St. Augustine’s Catholic Church, Preston, is of a retiring disposition;
it occupies a very southern position; is neither in the town nor out
of it; and unlike many sacred edifices is more than 50 yards from either
a public-house or a beershop. Clean-looking dwellings immediately confront
it; green fields take up the background; an air of quietude, half pastoral,
half genteel, pervades it; but this ecclesiastical rose has its thorn.
Only in its proximate surroundings is the place semi-rural and select.
As the circle widens—townwards at any rate—you soon get
into a region of murky houses, ragged children, running beer jugs, poverty;
and as you move onwards, in certain directions, the plot thickens, until
you get into the very lairs of ignorance, depravity, and misery. St.
Augustine’s “district” is a very large one; it embraces
8,000 or 9,000 persons, and their characters, like their faces, are
of every colour and size. Much honest industry, much straight-forwardness
and every day kindness, much that smells of gin, and rascality, and
heathenism may be seen in the district. There is plenty of room for
all kinds of reformers in the locality; and if any man can do any good
in it, whatever may be his creed or theory, let him do it. The priests
in connection with St. Augustine’s Catholic Church are doing their share
in this matter, and it is about them, their church, and their congregation
that we have now a few words to say. The church we name is not a very
old one. It was formally projected in 1836; the first stone of it was
laid on the 13th of November, 1838; and it was opened on the 30th of
July, 1840, by Dr. Briggs, afterwards first bishop of the Catholic diocese
of Beverley. It has a plain yet rather stately exterior. Nothing fanciful,
nor tinselled, nor masonically smart characterises it. Four large stone
pillars, flanked with walls of the same material surmounted with brick,
a flight of steps, a portico, a broad gable with massive coping, and
a central ornament at the angle, are all which the facade presents.
The doors are lateral, and are left open from morning till night three
hundred and sixty-five days every year.

The interior of the church is spacious, wonderfully clean, and decorated
at the high altar end in most tasteful style. We have not inquired whether
charity begins at home or not in this place; perhaps it does not; but
it is certain that painting does; for all the fine colouring, with its
many formed classical devices, at the sanctuary was executed by one
of the members of the congregation. The principal altar is a very fine
one, and a fair amount of pious pleasure may be derived from looking
at a tremendous pastoral candlestick which stands on one side. It is,
when charged with a full-sized candle, perhaps five feet ten high, and
it has a very patriarchal and decorous appearance—looks grave
and authoritative, and seems to think itself a very important affair.
And it has a perfect right to its opinion. We should like to see it
in a procession, with Zaccheus, the sacristian, carrying it. Three fine
paintings, which however seem to have lost their colour somewhat, are
placed in the particular part of the church we are now at. The central
one represents the “Adoration of the Magi,” and was painted
and given by Mr. H. Taylor Bulmer, who formerly resided in Preston.
The second picture to the left is a representation of “Christ’s
agony in the Garden;” and the third on the opposite side is “Christ
carrying the Cross.” In front of the altar there is the usual
lamp with a crimson spirit flame, burning day and night, and reminding
one of the old vestal light, watched by Roman virgins, who were whipped
in the dark by a wrathful pontifex if they ever let it go out. At the
northern end of the church there is a large gallery, with one of the
neatest artistic designs in front of it we ever saw. The side walls
are surmounted with a chaste frieze, and running towards the base are
“stations” and statues of saints. A small altar within a
screen, surmounted with statuary, is placed on each side of the sanctuary,
and not far from one of them there is a bright painting which looks
well at a distance, but nothing extra two yards off. It represents Christ
preaching out of a boat to some Galileans, amongst whom may be seen
the Rev. Canon Walker. If the painting is correct, the worthy canon
has deteriorated none by age, for he seems to look just as like himself
now as he did eighteen hundred years since, and to be not a morsel fonder
of spectacles and good snuff now than he was then. His insertion, however,
into this picture, was a whim of the artist, whose cosmopolitan theory
led him to believe that one man is, as a rule, quite as good as another,
and that paintings are always appreciated best when they refer to people
whom you know.

There are three of those very terrible places called confessionals
at St. Augustine’s, and one day not so long since we visited all of
them. It is enough for an ordinary sinner to patronise one confessional
in a week, or a month, or a quarter of a year, and then go home and
try to behave himself. But we went to three in one forenoon with a priest,
afterwards had the courage to get into the very centre of a neighbouring
building wherein were two and twenty nuns, and then reciprocated compliments
with an amiable young lady called the “Mother Superior.”
Terrible places to enter, and most unworldly people to visit, we fancy
some of our Protestant friends will say; but we saw nothing very agonising
or dreadful—not even in the confessionals. Like other folk we
had heard grim tales about, such places—about trap doors, whips,
manacles, and all sorts of cruel oddities; but in the confessionals
visited we beheld nothing of any of them. Number one is a very small
apartment, perhaps two yards square, with a seat and a couple of sacred
pictures in it. In front there is an aperture filled in with a slender
grating and backed by a curtain which can be removed at pleasure by
the priest who officiates behind. On one side of the grating there is
a small space like a letter-box slip, and through this communications
in writing, of various dimensions, are handed. Everything is plain and
simple where the penitent is located; and the apartment behind, occupied
by the priest who hears confession, is equally simple. There is no weird
paraphernalia, no mysterious contrivances, no bolts, bars, pullies,
or strings for either working miracles, or making the hair of sinners
stand on end. Number two confessional is similarly arranged and equally
plain. We examined this rather more minutely than the other, and whilst
we could find nothing dreadful in the penitents’ apartment, we fancied,
on entering the priest’s side, that, we had met with something belonging
the realm of confessional torture as depicted by the Hogans, Murphys,
and Maria Monk showmen, and which the officials had forgot to put by
in some of their secret drawers. It was hung upon a nail, had a semi-circular,
half viperish look, and was cupped at each end as if intended for some
curious business of incision or absorption. We were relieved on getting
nearer it and on being informed that it was merely an ear trumpet through
which questions have to be put to deaf penitents who now and then turn
up for general unravelment and absolution. The two confessionals described
are contiguous to a passage at the rear of the church; the third we
are now coming to is near one of the subsidiary altars, nod looks specifically
snug. It is a particularly small confessional, and a very stout penitent
would find it as difficult to get into it as to reveal all his sins
afterwards. There is nothing either harrowing or cabalistic in the place;
and you can see nothing but two forms, a screen, and a crucifix.

There are many services at St. Augustine’s. On Monday mornings at
a quarter past seven, and again at half-past eight, mass is said; on
Tuesdays and Thursdays there is benediction at half-past seven; on Fridays
and Saturdays and on the eve of holidays there is confession; on Sundays
there is mass at half-past seven, half-past eight, half-past nine, and
at 11, when regular service takes place; on Sunday afternoons, at three,
the children are instructed, and at half-past six in the evening there
are vespers, a sermon, and benediction. The church has a capacity for
about 1,000 persons, without crushing. The average number hearing mass
on a Sunday is 3,290. On four consecutive Sundays recently—from
February 14 to March 14—upwards of 13,100 heard mass within the
walls of the church.

The congregation is almost entirely made up of working people. A
few middle class and wealthy persons attend the place—some sitting
in the gallery, and others at the higher end of the church—but
the general body consists of toiling every-day folk. The poorest section,
including the Irish—who, in every Catholic Church, do a great
stroke of business on a Sunday with holy water, beads and crucifixes—are
located in the rear. It is a source of sacred pleasure to quietly watch
some of these poor yet curious beings. They are all amazingly in earnest
while the fit is on them; they bow, and kneel, and make hand motions
with a dexterity which nothing but long years of practice could ensure;
and they drive on with their prayers in a style which, whatever may
be the character of its sincerity, has certainly the merit of fastness.
How to get through the greatest number of words in the shortest possible
time may be a problem which they are trying, to solve. The great bulk
of the congregation are calm and unostentatious, evincing a quiet demeanour
in conjunction with a determined devotion. There are several very excellent
sleepers in the multitude of worshippers; but they are mainly at the
entrance end where they are least seen. We happened to be at the church
the other Sunday morning and in ten minutes after the sermon had been
commenced about 16 persons, all within a moderate space, were fast asleep.
Their number increased slowly till the conclusion. Several appeared
to be struggling very severely against the Morphean deity dining the
whole service; a few might be seen at intervals rescuing themselves
from his grasp—getting upon the very edge of a snooze, starting
suddenly with a shake and waking up, dropping down their heads to a
certain point of calmness and then retracing their steps to consciousness.

There are five men at St. Augustine’s called collectors—parties
who show strangers, &c., their seats, and look after the pennies
which attendants have to pay on taking them. Not one of these collectors
has officiated less than 11 years; three of them have been at the work
for 27; and what is still better they discharge their duties, as the
sacristan once told us, “free gracious.” That is a philanthropic
wrinkle for chapel keepers and other compounders of business and piety
which we commend to special notice. The singers at St. Augustine’s are
of more than ordinary merit. Two or three of them have most excellent
voices; and the conjoint efforts of the body are in many respects capital.
Their reading is accurate, their time good, and their melody frequently
constitutes a treat which would do a power of good to those who hear
the vocalisation of many ordinary psalm-singers whose great object through
life is to kill old tunes and inflict grevious bodily harm upon new
ones. There is a very good organ at St. Augustine’s, and it is blown
well and played well.

Usually there are three priests at the mission; but on our visit
there were only two—the Rev. Canon Walker, and the Rev. J. Hawkesworth;
and if you had to travel from the lowest point in Cornwall to the farthest
house in Caithness you wouldn’t find two more kindly men. We Protestants
talk volubly about the grim, grinding character of priests, about their
tyrannous influence, and their sinister sacerdotalism; but there is
a good deal of extra colouring matter in the picture. Whatever their
religion may be, and however much we may differ from it, this at least
we have always found amongst priests—excellent education, amazing
devotion to duty, gentlemanly behaviour, and in social life much geniality.
They have studied all subjects; they know something about everything;
their profession necessarily makes them acquainted with each phase and
feeling of life. The Rev. Canon Walker is a good type of a thoroughly
English priest and of a genuine Lancashire man. He is unassuming, obliging
in manner, careful in his duties, fonder of a good pinch of snuff than
of warring about creeds, much more in love with a quiet chat than of
platform violence, and would far sooner offer you a glass of wine, and
ask you to take another when you had done it, than fight with you about
piety. He is a man of peace, of homely, disposition, of kindly thought,
unobtrusive in style, sincere in action, with nothing bombastic in his
nature, and nothing self-righteous in his speech. His sermons are neither
profound nor simple—they are made up of fair medium material;
and are discharged rapidly. There is no effort at rhetorical flourish
in his style; a simple lifting of the right hand, with an easy swaying
motion, is all the “action” you perceive. Canon Walker speaks
with a rapidity seldom noticed. Average talkers can get through about
120 words in a minute; Canon Walker can manage 200 nicely, and show
no signs of being out of breath.

The Rev. Mr. Hawkesworth—a bright-eyed, rubicund-featured gentleman,
with a slight disposition to corporeal rotundity—is the second
priest. He is a sharp, kindly-humoured gentleman, and does not appear
to have suffered in either mind or body by a four years residence in
Rome. Mr. Hawkesworth is a practical priest, a good singer, and a hard
worker. He resides with Canon Walker in a spacious house adjoining St.
Augustine’s. No unusual sounds have ever been heard to proceed from
the residence, and it may fairly be inferred that they dwell together
to harmony. The house is substantially furnished. The library within
it is not very large, but what it lacks in bulk is made up for by variety.
Its contents range from the Clockmaker of Sam Slick to the Imitation
of Thomas a Kempis, from Little Dorrit to the Greek Lexicon. Not far
from St. Augustine’s Church there is a convent. It is the old Larkhill
mansion transmuted, and is one of the most pleasantly situated houses
in this locality. In front of it you have flowers of delicious hues,
shrubs of every kind, grassy undulations, rare old shady trees, a small
artificial lake, a fountain—shall we go on piling up the agony
of beauty until we reach a Claude Melnotte altitude? It is unnecessary;
all we need add is this—that the grounds are a lovely picture,
delightfully formed, and most snugly set. The convent is a large, clean,
airy establishment. The entrance hall is handsome; some of the apartments
are choicely furnished, the walls being decorated with pictures, &c.,
made by either the nuns or their pupils. The convent includes apartments
for the reception of visitors, a small chapel, with deeply-toned light,
and exquisitely arranged; dining rooms, sitting rooms, two or three
school rooms, lavatories, sculleries, dormitories, and a gigantic kitchen,
reminding one of olden houses wherein were vast open fire-places, massive
spits, and every apparatus for making meat palateable and life enjoyable.
The 22 nuns before referred to live at this convent. They belong to
the order of “Faithful Companions;” they lead quiet, industrious
lives—have no Saurin-Starr difficulties, and appear to be contented.

At the convent there are 33 pupils—some from a distance, others
belonging the town. They are taught every accomplishment; look very
healthy; and, when we saw them, seemed not only comfortable but merry.
Near the convent there is a commodious girls’ and infants’ school connected
with St. Augustine’s, the general average attendance being about 240.
In Vauxhall-road there is another large, excellently built school belonging
to the same Church, and set apart for boys. The attendance is not very
numerous. At both there is room for many more scholars, and if religious
bigotry did not operate in some quarters, and prevent Catholic children
going to those schools recognising the principles of their own faith,
the attendance at each would be much better than it is. Taking the district
in its entirety, it is industriously worked by the Catholics. They deserve
praise for their energy. Their object is to push on Catholicism and
improve the secular position of the inhabitants, and they do this with
a zeal most praiseworthy. This finishes our Augustinian mission.

QUAKERS’ MEETING HOUSE.

I love Quaker ways and Quaker worship. I venerate the Quaker principles.
It does me good for the rest of the day when I meet any of their people
in my path. When I am ruled or disturbed by any occurrence, the sight
or quiet voice of a Quaker acts upon me as a ventilator, lightening
the air, and taking off a load from the bosom; but I cannot like the
Quakers, as Desdemona would say, “to live with them.”—Charles
Lamb.

Sheep, leather, and religion were the principal things which George
Fox, the founder of Quakerism, looked after. In boyhood he was a shepherd,
in youth a shoemaker, in manhood an expounder of Christianity. No one
could have had a series of occupations more comprehensive or practical.
The history of the world proves that it is as important for men to look
after their mutton as to “save their bacon;” that, after
all, “there is nothing like leather;” and that there can
be nothing better than religion. 219 years since the ancestors of those
who now follow the “inner light” were termed Quakers. An
English judge—Gervaise Bennet—gave them this name at Derby,
and it is said that he did so because Fox “bid them quake at the
word of the Lord.” Theologically, Quakers are a peculiar people;
they believe in neither rites nor ceremonies, in neither prayer-books
nor hymn-books, in neither lesson reading, nor pulpit homilies, nor
sacraments. They are guided by their spiritual feelings, and have a
strong idea that a man has no right to open his mouth when he has got
nothing to say, and that he should avoid keeping it shut when he has
something worth uttering.

This is an excellent plan, and the world would be considerably benefited
if it were universally observed both in religion and every-day life.
Creation is killed and done for daily through an everlasting torrent
of meaningless talk. Compact and quiet as it may appear, Quakerism has
had its schisms and internal feuds. Early in this century, the White
Quakers, who dressed themselves in light suits when outside and didn’t
dress at all—stripped themselves after the manner of Adamites—when
within doors, created much furore in Ireland. About 30 years since,
the Hicksite Quakers, who denied the divinity of Christ and the authority
of the Bible, made their advent; afterwards the Beaconite Quakers put
in an appearance; and then came the Wilburites. Taking all sections
into account, there are at present about 130,000 Quakers in the world,
and Preston contributes just seventy genuine ones to their number. In
this locality they remain unchanged. Today they are neither smaller
nor larger, numerically, than they were thirty years age. In the early
days of local Quakerism, the country rather than the town was its favourite
situation. Newton, Freckleton, Rawcliffe, and Chipping contained respectively
at one time many more Quakers than Preston, but the old stations were
gradually broken up, and Preston eventually got the majority of their
members. A building located somewhere between Everton-gardens and Spring-gardens
was first used as a meeting-house by them. In 1784 a better place was
erected by the Friends, on a piece of land contiguous to and on the
north side of Friargate; and in 1847 it was rebuilt. Although no one
was officially engaged to map out the place, a good deal of learned
architectural gas was disengaged in its design and construction. It
was made three times larger than its congregational requirements—the
object being to accommodate those who might assemble at the periodical
district meetings. Special attention was also paid to the loftiness
of the building—to the height of its ceiling. One or two of the
amateur designers having a finger in the architectural pie had serious
notions as to the importance of air space. They had studied the influence
of oxygen and hydrogen, of nitrogen and carbonic acid gas; they had
read in scientific books that every human being requires so many feet
of breathing room; and after deciding upon the number of worshippers
which the meeting-house should accommodate, they agreed to elevate its
ceiling in the ratio of their inspiring and expiring necessities. This
was a very good, salutary, Quakerly idea, and although it may have operated
against the internal appearance of the building it has guaranteed purity
of air to those attending it.

The meeting house is a quiet, secluded, well-made place; but it has
a poor entrance, which you would fancy led to nowhere. A stranger passing
along Friargate on an ordinary day, would never find the Quakers’ meeting
house. He might notice at a certain point on the north-eastern side
of that undulating and bustling public thoroughfare a grey looking gable,
having a three-light-window towards the head, with a large door below,
and at its base two washing pots and a long butter mug, belonging to
an industrious earthenware dealer next door; but he would never fancy
that the disciples of George Fox had a front entrance there to their
meeting house. Yet after passing through a dim broad passage here, and
mounting half a dozen substantial steps, you see a square, neat-looking,
five-windowed building, and this is the Quakers’ meeting house.

Over the passage there is a pretty large room, which is used by the
Friends for Sunday school purposes. The attendance at this school on
ordinary occasions is about 60; at special periods it is considerably
more. During the cotton famine, a few years ago, when the Quakers were
manifesting their proverbial charity—giving money, food, and clothing—the
attendance averaged 160; and if it was known that they were going to
give something extra tomorrow it would reach that point again. Speaking
of the charity of Quakers, it may not be amiss to state that they keep
all their own poor—do not allow any one belonging their society
ever to solicit aid from the parish, or migrate in the dark hour of
poverty to the workhouse. Reverting to the meeting-house, we may observe
that just within its front door particular provision has been made for
umbrellas. There is a long, low stand, with a channel below it, and
this will afford ample accomodation for about 160 umbrellas. Taking
into account the average attendance at the meeting-house, we have come
to the serious conclusion that if every member carried two umbrellas
on wet Sundays, the said umbrellas could be legitimately provided for.
It is not a pleasant thing for a man to carry a couple of umbrellas,
and we believe it has been found very difficult for any one to put up
and use two at the same time; still it is satisfactory to know that
if ever the Friends of Preston decide upon such a course, there will
be plenty of provision for their umbrellas at the meeting house.

The inside of the general building is severely plain. There is no
decoration of any description about it, and if the gas pipes running
along the side walls had not a slight Hogarthian line of beauty touch
in their form, everything would look absolutely horizontal and perpendicular.
The seats are plain and strong with open backs. A few of them have got
green cushions running the whole length of the form. In some small cushions
are dotted down here and there for individual worshippers, who can at
any time easily take them up, put them under their arm, and move from
one place to another if they wish for a change of location. Over the
front entrance there is a gallery, but ordinarily it is empty. There
is no pulpit in the house, and no description of books—neither
bibles, nor hymn-books, nor prayer-books—can be seen anywhere.
At the head of the place there is an elevated strongly-fronted bench,
running from one side to the other, and below it an open form of similar
length. The more matured Quakers and Quakeresses generally gravitate
hitherwards. The males have separate places and so have the females.
It is expected that the former will always direct their steps to the
seats on the right-hand side; that the latter will occupy those on the
left; and, generally, you find them on opposite sides in strict accordance
with this idea. There is nothing to absolutely prevent an enraptured
swain from sitting at the elbow of his love, and basking in the sunlight
of her eyes, nor to stop an elderly man from nestling peacefully under
the wing of his spouse; but it is understood that they will not do this,
and will at least submit to a deed of separation during hours of worship.
In addition to the 70 actual members of the society there are about
60 persons in Preston who pay a sort of nominal homage at the shrine
of George Fox.

They have two meetings every Sunday, morning and evening, and one
every Thursday—at half-past ten in the morning during winter months,
and at seven in the evening in summer. The average attendance at each
of the Sunday meetings is about 70. The character of the services is
quite unsettled. Throughout Christendom the rule in religious edifices
is to have a preliminary service, and then a discourse; in Quaker meeting
houses there is no such defined course of action. Sometimes there is
a prayer, then another, then an “exhortation”—Quakers
have no sermons; at other times an exhortation without any prayer; now
and then a prayer without any exhortation; and occasionally they have
neither the one nor the other—they fall into a state of profound
silence, keep astonishingly quiet ever so long, with their eyes shut,
and then walk out. This is called silent meditation. If a pin drops
whilst this is going on you can hear it and tell in which part of the
house it is lying. You can feel the quietude, see the stillness; it
is “tranquil and herd-like—as in the pasture—’forty
feeding like one;’” it is sadly serene, placidly mysterous, like
the “uncommunicating muteness of fishes;” and you wonder
how it is kept up. To those who believe in solemn reticence—in
motionless communion with the “inner light,”—there
is nothing curious in this; it is, in fact, often a source of high spiritual
ecstacy; but to an unitiated spectator the business looks seriously
funny, and its continuance for any length of time causes the mind of
such a one to run in all kinds of dreadfully ludicrous grooves.

Quakers don’t believe in singing, and have no faith in sacred music
of any kind. Neither the harp, nor the sackbut, nor the psaltery, nor
the dulcimer will they have; neither organs nor bass fiddles will they
countenance; neither vocalists nor instrumentalists, nor tune forks
of any size or weight, will they patronise. They permit one another
to enter and remain in their meeting house with the hat on or off, and
with the hands either in the pockets or out of them. They have no regular
ministers, and allow either men or women to speak. None, except Quakers
and Ranters—the two most extreme sections of the religious community,
so far as quietude and noise are concerned—permit this; and it
is a good thing for the world that the system is not extended beyond
their circles. If women were allowed to speak at some places of worship
they would all be talking at once—all be growing eloquent, voluble,
and strong minded in two minutes—and an articulative mystification,
much more chaotic than that which once took place at Babel, would ensue.
At the meeting house in Friargate it is taken for granted that on Sundays
the morning service lasts for an hour and a half, and the evening one
an hour and a quarter; but practically the time is regulated by the
feelings of the worshippers—they come and go as they are “moved,”
and that is a liberal sort of measure harmonising well with human nature
and its varied requirements.

We have paid more than one visit to this meeting house. The other
Sunday evening we were there. The congregation at that time numbered
just thirty-two—fifteen men, twelve women, two boys, and three
girls. This was rather a small assemblage for a place which will hold
between 500 and 600 persons; but it might be gratifying to the shades
of its chemistry-loving, cubic-feet-of-air-admiring designers, for they
would at any rate have the lively satisfaction of knowing that none
of the famous 32 would suffer through want of breathing space. The members
of the congregation came in at various times; four were there at half-past
six; the remainder had got safely seated, in every instance, by ten
minutes to seven. All the males made their appearance with their hats
on; some pulled them off the moment they got seated; two or three seemed
to get their convictions gradually intensified on the subject, and in
about ten minutes came to the conclusion that they could do without
their hats; some who had cast aside their castors at an early period
reinstated them; whilst odd ones kept on their head coverings during
the entire meeting. For 45 minutes, not the least effort in any lingual
direction was made; no one said a word for three-quarters of an hour.
There was a good deal of stirring on the forms, and creaking sounds
were periodically heard; the whole indicating that the sitting posture
had become uneasy, and that the paint, through warmth, had got tenacious.
There was, however, neither talking nor whispering indulged in. The
elderly Quakers, with their broad-brimmed, substantial hats, and white
neckcloths, kept their eyes closed for a season, then opened them and
looked ahead pensively, then shut them serenely again,—just

As men of inward light are wont
To turn their optics to upon
’t.

The Quakeresses on the other side followed a similar programme. We
saw only three of them in the olden dress—only three with narrow-barrelled
high crowned bonnets, made of brown silk and garnished with white silk
strings. The younger branches of Quakerdom seemed more conventional
than their ancestors in general dress. There was a slight dash of antiquity
in their style; but their hats and bonnets, their coats and shawls had
evidently been made for ornament as well as use. Originally Quakers
were peculiarly stringent in respect to the plainness of their clothes;
what they wore was always good, always made out of something which could
not be beaten for its excellence of quality; but it was always simple,
always out of the line of shoddy and bespanglement. But Quakerism is
neither immaculate nor invincible; time is changing its simplicity,
its quaint old fashioned solidity of dress; “civilisation”
is quietly eating away its rigidity; and the day is coming when Quakerism
will don the same suit as the rest of the world. For the first ten minutes
we were in the chapel silence was not to us so much of a singularity;
but when the Town Hall clock struck seven, when the machinery in the
dim steeple of Trinity Church, which adjoins, gave a slow confirmation
of it, and when all the little clocks in the neighbouring houses—for
you could hear them on account of the general silence—chirped
out sharply the same thing, one began to feel dubious and mystified.
But the Quakers took all quietly, and even the children present sat
still. The chime of another hour quarter came in due order; still there
was no sign of action. Two minutes afterwards, an elderly gentleman,
whose eyes had been kept close during the greater part of the time which
had passed, suddenly leaned forward; the “congregation”
followed his example in a crack, and for ten minutes they prayed, the
elderly gentleman leading the way in a rather high-keyed voice, which
he singularly modulated. But there was not much of “the old Foxian
orgasm” manifested by him; he was serene, did not shake, was not
agonised. He finished as he began without any warning; the general assemblage
was seated in a second; and for seven minutes there was another reign
of taciturnity. When that time had elapsed the same elderly party gave
an exhortation, simple in language, kindly in tone, and free from both
bewilderment and fierceness. Mr. Jesper—the person to whom we
have been alluding—is one of the principal speakers at this meeting
house. His colleague in talking is Mrs. Abbatt, a very worthy lady,
who has often the afflatus upon her, and who can hold forth with a good
deal of earnestness and perspicuity. Although Mr. Jesper and Mrs. Abbatt
do the greatest portion of the talking and praying, others break through
the ring fence of Quakerdom’s silence periodically. One little gentleman
has often small outbursts; but he is not very exhilerating. All the
“members” attending the meeting house are very decorous,
respectable, middle-class people—substantial well-pursed folk,
who can afford to be independent, and take life easily—men and
women who dislike shoddy and cant as much as they condemn spangles and
lackered gentility.

The aggregate of the people connected with the place are calm, steady-going
beings. We have a large respect for Quakerism. Its professors are made
of strong, enduring, practical metal. They never neglect business for
religion, nor religion for business. They believe in paying their way
and in being paid; in moral rectitude and yard wands not the millionth
part of an inch too long; in yea and nay; in good trade, good purses,
good clothes, and good language; in clear-headed, cool calculations;
in cash, discounts, sobriety, and clean shirts; in calmness and close
bargain driving; in getting as much as they can, in sticking to it a
long while, and yet in behaving well to the poor. The influence of the
creed they profess has made their uprightness and humanity proverbial.
Their home influence has been powerful; their views in the outer world
are becoming more fully realised every day. Nations have smiled contemptuously
at them as they have gone forth on lonely missions of freedom and peace;
but the inner beatings of the world’s great heart today are in favour
of liberty of thought and quietness. The Quakers have been amongst life’s
pioneers in the long, hard battle for human freedom and human peace.
Quakerism may be a quaint, hat-loving, silence-revering concern in its
meeting-houses; its Uriahs, and Abimelechs, and Deborahs, and Abigails,
may look curious creatures in their collarless coats and long drawn
bonnets; but they belong to a race of men and women who have kept the
lamp of freedom burning; who have set a higher price upon conscience
than gold; who have struggled to make everything free—the body,
the religion, the bread and butter, and the trade of the nations; who
are now by their doctrines slowly lifting humanity out of the red track
of war, and teaching it how grand a triumph can be made all the world
over by absolute Peace and Honesty.

ST. PETER’S CHURCH.

Upon a high piece of enclosed land, adjoining Fylde-road, stands
St. Peter’s Church. Portions of its precincts are covered with gravestones;
the remainder has been “considerably damaged” of late, according
to the belief of one of the churchwardens, by the vicious scratching
of a number of irreverent hens, whose owners will be prosecuted if they
do not look better after them. The other Sunday, we saw a notice posted
at the front of the church relative to the great hen-scratching question.
It is said that some of these tame and reclaimed birds have penetrated
a foot or two into the ground for the purpose of lying, not laying,
therein; and on this account it is important that their proprietors
should look more (h)energetically after them. The foundation stone of
St. Peter’s Church was laid by Mr. Justice Park, one of the old recorders
of Preston, in 1822; Rickman, an able Birmingham architect, designed
the place; and the edifice (sans steeple, which was built in
1852, out of money left by the late Thomas German, Esq.), was erected
at a cost of £6,900, provided by the Commissioners for the building
of new churches. St. Peter’s has a lofty, commanding appearance. Learned
people say it is built in the florid Gothic style of architecture, and
we are not inclined to dispute their definition. It has a very churchly
look, and if the steeple were at the other end, it would be equally
orthodox. The world, as a rule, fixes its steeples westward; but St.
Peter’s, following a few others we could name, rises in the opposite
direction, and, like a good Mussulman, turns to the East. There is nothing
in its graveyard calling for special comment. Neither monuments nor
lofty tombs relieve it. All round it has a flat dull aspect, and good
arrangements have been made for walking over the tombstones and obliterating
their inscriptions. There are two ways into the church at the western
end; both are near each other; but one has advantages which the other
does not possess. Passing through the larger you immediately face the
pulpit and the congregation; entering by the other you can hang your
harp on several preliminary willows—sit just sideways and hear
what’s going on, stay behind the screen until a point arrives when a
move forward can be made without many people catching your “mould
of form,” or inquire who’s present and who isn’t, and glide out
if nothing suitable is observed.

St. Peter’s Church, internally, looks dirty. If cleanliness be next
to godliness, a good cleaning would do it good and improve its affinities.
Whitewash, paint, floorcloths, dusters, wash leathers, and sundry other
articles in the curriculum of scrubbers, renovators, and purifiers are
needed. The walls want mundifying, so does the ceiling, so do the floors;
the Ten Commandments need improving; the Apostles’ Creed isn’t plain
enough; the spirit of a time worn grimness requires ostracising from
the place. All is substantial; but there is an ancient unwashed dulness
about the general establishment, which needs transforming into cleanness
and brightness. The pews are high, and on the average they will hold
six persons each. Seven might get into them on a pinch; but if the number
were much extended beyond that point, either abraison or blue places
through violent pressure would be the consequence. Two or three pews
at the top end will hold twelve each; but that apostolic number is not
very often observed in them. The price of a single sitting in the middle
aisle is 10s. per annum; the cost of a side seat is equal to three civil
half-crowns. The long side seats are free; so are the galleries, excepting
that portion of them in front of the organ. Often the church is not
much more than half filled on a Sunday; but it is said that many sittings,
calculated to accommodate nearly a full congregation, are let. Viewed
from the copperhead standpoint this is right; but taking a higher ground
it would be more satisfactory if even fewer pews were let and more folk
attended. The church is not well arranged for people occupying side
seats. In looking ahead the pillars of the nave constantly intercept
their vision if they care about seeing who is reading or preaching.
Wherever the pulpit were put it would blush unseen, so far as many are
concerned. At present it is fixed on the south-eastern side, and only
about one-fourth of those seated under the galleries can see either
it or the preacher. Some of them at times complain considerably of sequestration;
others feel it a little occasionally; a few think it a rather snug thing
to be out of sight. A large five-light stained glass window occupies
the chancel end; but there is nothing very entrancing in its appearance.
The greater portion of it has a bright, amber-coloured, monotonous flashiness
about it, which flares the eyes if gazed at long, and makes other things,
if looked at directly afterwards, yellow-hued; and it is surmounted
with a number of minor designs, reminding one of the big oddities in
a mammoth keleidoscope. But the congregation have got used to the window,
and will neither break it nor permit others to do so. Six spaces for
tablet inscriptions occupy the base of the window. Two of them are blank;
two have a great mass of letters packed into them; and two are but moderately
filled in with words. At a distance nobody can see what is said upon
them. It is reported that they contain the Decalogue and the Apostles’
Creed; and if this be so, the incumbent, the curate, and the clerk must
have been the parties for whose delight they were put up, for they are
the nearest to, and can consequently best read, them. There are the
full compliment of sacred enclosures and resting places at the higher
end of the church—a chair for the ease of the incumbent or curate;
a desk for the prayer reader; a box for the clerk; a lectern for the
lesson reader; and a stout pulpit for the preacher.

The congregation of St. Peter’s Church, as we have said, is small.
We cannot tell whether the collections terrify folk; probably they do;
for it is estimated that there are between 30 and 40 of them annually,
and sometimes they come in an unbroken line for several Sundays together.
A plan like this is enough to make people shy in their attendance,—is
certain to make ordinarily generous beings cover what they give with
their finger ends, or slip their gifts sharply into the boxes and get
them instantly mixed up with the rest, so that nobody can tell whether
they have contributed a simple copper, a roguish little threepenny piece,
or a respectable looking shilling. There are voluntary contribution
boxes at the doors, but they never get very heavy. Those attending the
church are mainly working people. With the exception of about five,
all have to fight briskly for a living. A greater work has been done
outside than within the church. There are many schools and classes belonging,
the place. In Cold Bath-street there is a large school for girls and
infants, and it is very well attended. In Fylde-road there is a club
for working men, open every day; and on Sundays several of the “wives
and mothers of Britain” attend a class in the same building. In
Brook-street there is a regular day school. On Sunday afternoons the
members of an adult male class meet in it. The average attendance of
these members is about 160, and their ages range from 20 to 70. The
district has been well worked up; and there are many of both sexes in
it prepared to either pray or fight for St. Peter’s.

The music at the church is good. It costs about £30 a year,
and a rather strong effort is sometimes required to raise that sum.
The organist immediately preceding the present one used to play for
nothing; get one or two collections annually for the choir; and make
up out of his own pocket any financial deficiency there might be. The
gentleman who now operates upon the organ, likewise gives his services
gratuitously; he also has collections for the choir; but if those said
collections come short of the sum required, he is seriously impressed
with the idea that the deficiency ought to come out of other people’s
purses, and not his. And so it does. The organist has considerable musical
ability; he plays the instrument in his care with precision; but he
throws too much force into its effusions—believes too much in
high pressure—and the general boiler of its melody may burst some
day, kill the blower instantly, and dash the choir into space. The internal
service arrangements at St. Peter’s are worked by an incumbent, a curate,
and a clerk. The last named gentleman has been a long time at his post;
he is a dry, orthodox, careful man; never mistook a three-penny for
a fourpenny piece in his life; doesn’t like slippery sixpences; and
he gets for his general services at the church £15 a year. Nobody
hardly ever hears him; the responses of the choir materially swamp the
music of his voice; but his lips move, and that is at least a sign of
life.

The incumbent is the Rev. D. F. Chapman. He has been at the place
a few years, and receives about £400 a-year for his trouble. Mr.
Chapman is a powerfully-constructed gentleman; is somewhat inclined
to oleaginousness; has contracted a marine swing in his walk; is heavily
clerical in countenance and cloth; believes in keeping his hair broad
at the sides; has a strong will and an enormous opinion of the incumbent
of St. Peter’s; will fume if crossed; will crush if touched; can’t be
convinced; has his mind made up and rivetted down on everything; must
have his way; thinks every antagonist mistaken; is washy, windy, ponderous;
has a clear notion that each of his postulates is worth a couple of
demonstrations, that all his theories are tantamount to axioms; and,
finally, has quarelled more with his churchwardens than any other live
parson in Preston. He once fought for weeks, day and night, with a warden
as to the position of a small gas-pipe, because he couldn’t get his
way about it. He is well educated, but his erudition is not fairly utilised;
he can read with moderate precision; but there is a lack of elocutionary
finish in his tone; he can talk a long while, and now and then can say
a good thing; he preaches with considerable force, makes good use of
his arms, sometimes rants a little, at intervals has to pull back his
sentences half an inch to get hold of the right word, talks straight
out occasionally, telling the congregation what they are doing and what
they ought to do; but there is much in his sermons which neither gods
nor men will care about digesting, and there is a theological dogmatism
in them which ordinary sinners like ourselves will never swallow. We
are rather inclined to admire the gentleman who, until lately, officiated
as his curate—the Rev. E. Lee,—and who, after preaching
his last sermon, was next day made the recipient of that most fashionable
and threadbare of all things, a presentation. Originally he indulged
in odd pranks, said strange things, was laughably eccentric, and did
for a period appear to be, in an ecclesiastical sense, what the kangaroo
of Artemus Ward was in a zoological one—“the most amoozin
little cuss ever introduced to a discriminatin public.” He has
still some of the “amoozin” traits about him; but during
his curacy in St. Peters district he showed that he could work hard,
visit often, look after the poor, be generous, get up good classes,
and never tire of his duty. His salary was about £120 a year,
and he was benevolent with it. He has a stronger pair of lungs than
any parson in Preston, and he can use them longer than most men without
feeling tired. His sermons are of a practical type; he believes largely
in telling people what he thinks; and never hesitates to hit rich and
poor alike in his discourses. He has been transplanted to the Parish
Church, and he will stir up a few of the respectable otiose souls there
if he has an opportunity. There is a good deal of swagger about him;
he believes in carry a stick and turning it; in admiring himself and
letting other people know that he is of a cypher; there is much conceit
and ever so much bombast about him; he likes giving historical lectures;
thinks he is an authority on everything appertaining to Elizabeth, Mary,
the Prince of Orange, &c.; is fond of attacking Bishop Goss, and
getting into a groove of garrulous declamation concerning Papists; still
he is a determined worker, has been a laborious curate, has troubled
himself more than many people in looking after those whom parsons are
so fond of calling sinners and so indifferent about visiting. He was
well liked in St. Peter’s district, and we hope that in the new one
he has gone to he will gather friends, increase his usefulness, get
married, and give fewer polemical lectures.

NEW JERUSALEM CHURCH.

De gustibus non est applies with as much force to religious
as to secular life. People’s tastes will differ; you can no more account
for them in church-naming than in kissing or child-christening; and
that being so, let no pious piece of perfection dispute with the New
Jerusalem brethren as to their spiritual gustation. If a man were virtuously
inclined to pirate in his religious nomenclature the oddities of old
Carey, who coined that finely flowing word “aldeborontiphoscophornio,”
which is only a line ahead of that other stately polysyllable “chrononhotonthologos,”
why let him do so, for somebody with more madness or wisdom than yourself
will some day end or mend him. Let every man have his “cogibundity
of cogitation,” and let people suit themselves about the names
of their churches. Swedenborgians is the name commonly given to those
who belong to “the New Church signified by the New Jerusalem in
the Revelation.” They might have cut it shorter to be sure; and
they might have had a less mystical but certainly not a cleverer man
for their founder than the Swedish Emanuel. No modern ever knew half
so much, or knew it so oddly, as Swedenborg; and no one ever wrote so
immensely on questions so varied and intractable. He knew something
about everything, from toe nails to the differential and integral calculus,
from iron smelting to star cycles, and in reading his works you might
almost fancy, so familiar does he appear to be with spirits, that he
had a quotidian nod from Michael and a daily “How are you, old
boy?” from Gabriel. Emerson does well when he puts him down as
the representative man of mystery; and when he calls him the mastodon
and missourian of literature, he will have the concurrence of all unbiased
scholars.

There are about 70 persons in Preston who care vitally for that ideal
Church which St. John saw in Patmos—if New Jerusalemism, as delineated
by the followers of Swedenborg, is its symbol. Only about 70 are connected
as “members” with its physical temple in Avenham-road. More
may be in embryo; several maybe hanging on the skirts of conviction,
ready for a goodly plunge into reality; but that is the number of mortals
at present associated with the “New Church signified by the New
Jerusalem,” in Preston. All of them are earnest, the bulk are
conscientious, and on that account entitled to respect. About a quarter
of a century ago, a few sincere Swedenborgians met in an office down
Cannon-street, which is now used as a gilding room by a modern Revivalist.
They pushed “the cause” with a fair amount of energy, and
increased, though by slow degrees, the number of their members. During
the period of their spiritual exercises here, the late Mr. Hugh Becconsall,
a calm, benevolent-hearted man, got associated with them, and this was
the means of bringing into fuller life the principles of Swedenborg
in Preston. Mr. Becconsall’s thoughts were quickened and changed by
them; he became a devoted and sincere believer in the new Church; attended
its meetings in Cannon-street; was impressed with the idea that better
accomodation was required for them; and finally decided to build out
of his own pocket, and endow from the same source, a new church in Avenham-road.
It was estimated that the cost of the church would be £1000, which
Mr. Becconsall willingly agreed to pay; but religion has no aegis against
“extras”—they will creep in, are irrepressible; and,
in accordance with this fatal philosophy, the church in Avenham-road
cost in the end nearly £2000, which he paid without even grumbling—a
privilege all Englishmen have the right to exercise freely after they
have paid the piper well. The foundation stone was laid in 1843, very
soon after which the Rev. James Bonwell, curate of Trinity Church, Preston,
made a virulent attack upon Swedenborgianism and its followers. This
gentleman, who was subsequently unrobed for immorality, charged both
the ministers of the New Church party and all who listened to them,
with the rebellion of Korah, Dathan, and Abiram, and uttered language
implying a wish that the earth would open its mouth and swallow them
up. The Rev. Augustus Clissold, M.A., formerly collegian at Oxford,
who is the only profound scholar in England belonging to the New Church
sect, ably answered him. There are many smart polemics but very few
great scholars in the sect referred to. Twenty-five years ago New Jerusalem
Church, in Avenham-road, was opened, and the believers in it increased
for some time afterwards. Anything new is fashionable, and a new church
always gives an impetus to the number of its worshipers. Those assembling
at the church created much curiosity, and not a little cynical criticism,
at first. They even do so now. Ordinarily orthodox people look down
censoriously upon believers in “the New Jerusalem,” and
class them as a mysterious, visionary sect of religionists, given up
to dreams, pious eccentricity, and self-righteousness. But they have,
like other individuals, a reason for their belief; if it is madness
there is method in it; and they are prepared to “argue the point,”
and make a respectable disturbance if their creed is assailed.

We shall not criticise their belief—neither praise nor condemn
it—but just give its chief points for the benefit of unknowing
ones. Here they are: they believe in a trinity, not of persons but essentials—love,
wisdom, and power; they do not believe in the doctrine of faith alone,
but of faith conjoined with good works; they do not believe in a vicarious
atonement, but in a reconciliation of man to God; they don’t believe
in a resurrection of the material body, but a resuscitation of the spirit
immediately after physical death; they don’t believe in a physical destruction
of the world by fire, but think that the world as it is now created
will continue to exist—for ever; they have no faith in the Noachian
deluge, and say that the sacred record of it refers to an inundation
of evil and not of water; finally they believe that there will be marriages
in heaven,—not wedding ring unions, not kissing, courting, and
quarrelling amalgamations, but conjunctions of goodness with truth;
and they have further an idea that there will be “prolifications”
in heaven, not of crying children with passions for sucking bottles
and sugar teats, but of truth and goodness. Swedenborg, by whom they
swear, believed in three heavens and three hells; they have a similar
idea, and fancy that common place sinners, who think one heaven will
meet all their requirements, and that one hell will be too much for
their nerves, are wrong.

New Jerusalem Church, in Preston, has a Sunday school beneath it—a
place obtained partly on the celestial and partly on the Irish principle—by
heightening the roof and lowering the foundations. The school is pretty
well managed; but its scholars are not numerous; they number between
60 and 70, and there is no immediate prospect of an increase. The endowment
of the late Mr. Hugh Becconsall realises £100 a-year for the minister—the
Rev. E. D. Rendell, who has been at the church ever since its opening;
and the investment of a sum of money by the late Mr. John Becconsall,
of Ashton, who was a great believer in Swedenborgianism, brings in on
his behalf £50 more. The minister once had a “call”
to Accrington, where the doctrines of the New Church obtain a very large
number of admirers, and in consequence of that call, which necessarily
implied a better salary, as well as a wider sphere of action, five £10
notes were added to his stipend here. He was appeased by those said
notes. Mr. Rendell also lives rent free in a house adjoining and belonging
to the church. Its situation renders the house very convenient; but
a position more distant would not have been very harrowing if freedom
from rent had accompanied its tenancy.

The Church is built of stone, and has a neat appearance, but the
approach to it is not very good. You have to mount a small flight of
steps to get to it, and their gradient is so acute that if you should
fall on them you would never proceed onward, nor lie still, but wend
your way in a rolling manner to the bottom. Internally the church is
one of the prettiest in Preston. It is not large; we don’t suppose it
will accommodate more than about 250; but it is peculiarly neat and
pleasing. The walls are painted and slightly ornamented; the windows
are toned a little and bordered with elegant, well-finished designs;
the chancel is fronted with a gothic arch painted in marble pattern
and edged with gold; beyond there is a circular window, stained in bright
colours. At each end there is a gallery—one which apparently contains
nothing, whilst the other is devoted to the choir. At one side of the
chancel arch there is a reading desk, which looks piously at a pulpit,
made just like it, on the opposite side. Few churches have windows in
the roof; but this has about four—at least they are circular lights,
and, in conjunction with the side windows, make the place very bright
and cheerful. At the bass of the chancel, beneath the gallery, and behind
the communion table, there are several paintings, some, if not all,
of which were executed by the minister, who has rather vivid artistic
conceptions. In the centre there is an open Bible, and on each side
the Decalogue, or something to that effect, for the letters, although
in gold, can’t be seen very clearly at a distance. Flanking these are
sacred figures, which are too small to be attractive at a greater distance
than six yards. But in their aggregate the representations look well,
and they give a good finish to the chancel. The seats are of various
sizes; some will hold three persons, others four, and a few about six.

The church is not well attended; hardly half of it is occupied except
upon special occasions. At present it appears to be a little better
patronised than formerly; but even now the congregation is comparatively
thin, and there will be no necessity for some time to do anything in
the shape of enlarging the building. If anything is effected in this
way during the present century one of two things will certainly have
to happen—either three times as many as those now attending it
will have to solicit admission, or those actually visiting it will have
to grow three times as stout in their physiology. They are a quiet,
pious-looking class of people who frequent the church. They may, like
their great apostle, have seasons of inner rapture, and like him revel
in the mysteries of the Arcana Coelestia, but if so they keep the thing
very subdued. They never scream nor shout about anything, and would
refuse to do so if you asked them. Many of them are elderly people,
with decorous countenances; all of them, whether old or young, believe
in good suits; very few of them are wealthy; none of them seem very
poor. Calmness, with a disposition to find you a seat any time, and
provide you with books, characterises them. They have fixed services,
embracing prayers, lessons, psalms, hymns, and chants. They have an
excellent organ, which was given to the place by Mrs. Becconsall; and
their music is “ever so fair.” Their services, on Sundays,
are held in the morning and evening, and they can get to the latter
much easier and in much better time than to the former.

Once a month there is an afternoon instead of an evening service,
the minister having to officiate for a few of the followers of Swedenborg
at Blackburn, who can’t afford to pay, or won’t get, or don’t want,
a regular expounder of their views. Mr. Rendell is a rather learnedly-solemn
kind of gentleman. Originally he was a painter; but he had a greater
passion for polemics than brushes, and was eventually recommended to,
and admitted into “the Church” as a minister. He reads the
scriptures and prays in black kid cloves, but he shows the natural colour
of his hands when preaching. While conducting the preliminary service
he wears a white surplice; in the pulpit he has a black gown. He looks
very sacerdotal, coldly-clerical, singularly-sad in each place. His
voice is deep toned and has a melancholy authoritative ring in it. He
is fond of making critical allusions in his sermons; and is rather lengthy
in his talk. Some of the old Puritans used to get to a “nineteenthly
point” in their discourses, but Mr. Rendell has not reached that
numeric climax. He can occasionally get to a fifth point, and then subdivide
it, before giving that final “word of advice” which parsons
are so enamoured of; but he never branches out beyond this stage. His
style of preaching is easy; but it is very solemn.  Occasionally
he pushes a little Latin into his discourses and at intervals be graces
them with morsels of Greek. He can be practical sometimes; can say a
wise and generous thing at intervals; but he is often very mysterious,
and has a large reverence for that which very few people can get at—“the
spiritual sense.” Mr. Rendell is an author as well as a preacher;
he has dived into anti-diluvian history, and has tried to bring up mystic
treasures from the post-diluvian period. Furthermore, he has written
a prize essay on “The Last Judgment.” And in addition to
everything he is the editor of “The Juvenile Magazine;”
but the salary is only poor. Still he may console himself with the thought
that he gets as much for his annual services on behalf of modern juveniles
as Milton did for his Paradise Lost on behalf of all posterity—a
clear £5 note. He has a sharp eye in his head, and there is an
aristocratic reverentialness in his look. Learned he is in some things;
but we are afraid he is too profound and sad. He has a good analytical
faculty, and is a very fair polemical writer; but he is very solemn
in tone—very serious, too wise-looking, and phlegmatic. His style
of speaking has the ring of earnestness in it; and his delivery is accompanied
with a tolerable amount of activity. If he were a little more buoyant,
if he could put on a less learned and more cheerful look, and would
not got so very grave in his style, he would be better relished. Polemically,
he has done fair service for the denomination to which he belongs—done
it sometimes in spite of Lily, and Linacre, and their descendants; and
if he is not immaculate, he has at least the satisfaction of knowing
that nobody else is, and never will be until they reach the real New
Jerusalem.

TRINITY CHURCH.

In a part of the town pre-eminently dim, intricate, and populous
stands “The Church of the Holy Trinity.” Father Time and
the smoke of twice five hundred chimneys have darkened its fabric, and
transmuted its chiselled stone walls into a dull pile of masonry. But
it is a beautiful church for all that. If the exterior has been carbonised
and begrimed, the interior has enjoyed a charmed life, and is apparently
as young today as it was on “Friday, the eighth of December, in
the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and fifteen,”
when “George H. Chester” consecrated the building and all
thereunto belonging. The first stone of this church was laid on the
4th of June, 1814—the natal anniversary of George III—by
Sir Henry Philip Hoghton, of Hoghton, the lay rector and patron of the
parish of Preston. Under that first stone there were deposited a number
of coins, two scrolls, and one newspaper—the Preston Chronicle.
The first minister of Trinity Church was the Rev. Edward Law, a gentleman,
who, according to a local historian, “ably defended the belief
of the adorable Trinity in a series of letters, assisted by the Rev.
R. Baxter, of Stonyhurst, against a Unitarian minister, the Rev. T.
C. Holland, which appeared in the Preston Chronicle,” and were
subsequently reprinted and sold for the enlightenment and mystification
of all polemically-minded men. Trinity Church is built on a plot of
ground once called Patten Field. Moderns know little, if anything, of
that field; but Patten-street—a delicious thoroughfare proximately
fronting the church—still remains as a lingering topographical
reminder of olden days. There were few houses in the region of Patten
Field when Trinity Church was built: pastures were its colleagues, and
patches of greensward its regular companions. But things have changed
since then, and a mile of houses, stretching northward, and westward,
and eastward now fills up the ancient hiatus. Trinity Church cost £9,080
9s. 3d., and that sum was raised partly by subscriptions and donations
and partly by the sale of pews. Who gave the ultimate threepence we
cannot tell, neither are we told in what way it was expended.

The architecture of the building is Gothic. There is nothing very
striking about the exterior; indeed it looks cold, and sad, and forsaken,
and its associations don’t improve it. The church is built upon a hill,
and, therefore, can’t be hid. Its approaches may have been good at one
time; its environs may have been aristocratic and healthy in 1814, but
they are not so now. Smoky workshops, old buildings, with the windows
awfully smashed in, houses given up to “lodgings for travellers
here,” densely packed dingy cottages, and the tower of a wind
mill, which for years nobody has been willing to either mend or pull
down, are its architectural concomitants. The approaches to the church
are varied and aggravatingly awkward. You can get to the church from
any point of the compass, but access to it may mean anything—perhaps,
a wandering up courts and passages, a turning round the corners of old
narrow streets, an unsavoury acquaintance with the regions of trampery,
and an uncomfortable perambulation along corn-torturing causeways and
clumsily paved roads. Pigeon flyers, dog fanciers, gossipping vagrants,
crying children, old iron, stray hens, women with a passion for sitting
on door steps, men looking at nothing with their hands in their pockets,
ancient rags pushed into broken windows, and the mirage of perhaps one
policeman on duty constitute the sights in the neighbourhood. The church-yard,
which contains several substantial tombs and monuments, is in a decent
state of preservation. It looks grave as all such places must do; but
it is kept in order, and men of the Hervey type of mind might meditate
very beneficially amongst its tombs. Trinity may not be the longest,
but it is certainly about the widest, church in the town. It is neither
a high nor a low, but an absolutely broad church.

Internally it is excellent. On entering the place you are perfectly
surprised at its capaciousness. Nothing cramped, nothing showy, nothing
dim, grim, nor shabby-genteel enters into its proportions. It is finely
expansive, airy, light, and well made. Goodness of build without gaudiness,
sanctity without sadness, and evenness of finish without new-fangled
intricacy, pervade it. It is fit for either beggars or plutocrats. There
is not a better, not a plainer, neater, nor more respectable looking
church in the town. And there is not a cleaner. Some of our churches
have for years been cultivating a close and irreligious acquaintance
with dirt—with dust, cobwebs, mould, and other ancient kinds of
mild nastiness; but Trinity Church is a model of cleanliness. Everything
in it seems clean—the windows, pews, cushions, mats, floors, &c.,
are all clean; there is even an air of cleanliness about the sweeping
brushes and the venerable dust bin. The church has accomodation for
about 1,400 persons of ordinary proportions. The seats are constructed
on comfortable principles, and that very traditional article—green
baize—plays an important and goodly part in them. At the top and
bottom of the middle range, on the ground floor, the seats are of various
shapes—some narrow, some broad, a few oblong, and others inclining
to the orthodox square. The central ones are regular, and so are those
at the sides. In the galleries there is a slight irregularity of shape
in the seats; but they are all substantial, and the bulk easy. There
are 46 free pews or benches in the church. They run along the sides
on the ground floor, and will accommodate nearly 280 persons. All the
other seats, excepting about two, were sold to various parties at the
time the church was opened—not for any fixed price all round,
but for just as much as the trustees could get. Many were bought by
high-class local families, and the names of several of the original
and present proprietors—inscribed on small brass plates—may
now be seen on the front sides. Fifty of the pews have ground rents,
amounting respectively to £1 a year, attached to them. Several
of the pews are let, the owners caring little for them, or having removed
to other towns; many have been re-sold at intervals; and three have
been forfeited through their proprietors having neglected to pay certain
trifling rates laid upon them. The pews have deteriorated much in price.
Once upon a time, when nearly all the fashionable families of Preston
went to Trinity Church, neither Platonic love nor current coin could
secure a pew. It was a la mode in its most respectable sense, it was
Sabbatical ton in its genteelest form, to have and to hold a pew at
Holy Trinity when George the Third was king. And for a considerable
period afterwards this continued to be the case. The “exact thing”
on a Sunday in Preston, 40 nay 20 years ago, was to own a pew at Trinity
Church, to walk up to it, and to sit therein: it was superior to every
modern process, and beat “Walking in the Zoo” and all that
species of delightful work hollow. Pews were then worth something; they
are now worth little. Only the other week a pew, originally bought for
about £70, was sold by auction for £8! And it is said that
some proprietors would not be very unwilling to give a pew or two now,
if nicely asked, just to get out of the ratepaying clauses.

Trinity Church has a plain, yet pleasing, chancel. It is neat and
good, simple yet well-proportioned and elegant. The chancel window is
but sparingly stained; still it has a tasteful and rather stately appearance.
Amber is the most prominent colour in it, and loyalty the principal
virtue represented on it. There are a few small emblematic-looking characters
towards the base, which few can make out; but everybody can see and
understand the rather large English outburst of loyalty surmounting
the window. The display consists of the Royal arms, well and broadly
defined, with a crown above them, and a lion above all. This speaks
well for the lion, which ought to be satisfied. Plain Gothic-bordered
tablets, with a central monogram, occupy the wall below the window.
They have a good effect, and give a somewhat artistic richness to the
chancel. Within and at each end of the communion rails there is a fine
old oak chair. Both are beautifully carved and are valuable. The reading-desk
and the pulpit are placed opposite each other, and at the sides of the
chancel. They are very tall, but altitude rather improves than diminishes
their appearance. They are well made, are fashioned of dark oak, and
have carved Gothic canopies. We have seen nothing so tall nor so respectable-looking
in the arena of virtuous rostrumdom for a long period. On each side
of the pulpit-desk there is a small circular hole, and those said holes
have a history. “What are they used for?” said we one day,
whilst in the pulpit, to a friend near us. “For?” said the
sagacious party, “they are for nothing;” and then followed
a history which we thus summarise for the benefit of parsons in general:-
A few years ago a gentleman with a red-hot dash of Hibernian blood in
his veins was the curate here. When he came, the stands of two gas lights
were fixed in the holes named; but one Sunday, when wilder than usual,
he gave the bottom of the right-hand stand a vehement beating, smashed
his ring in the encounter, and frightened the incumbent, who, being
apprehensive as to the fate of the two stands and their globes, had
them shifted further back and more out of the curate’s reach. They were
in imminent peril every minute, and a change was really necessary.

Not many years ago—plenty of people can remember it—the
congregation of Trinity Church was both large and influential. The elements
of influence and the representatives of wealth may still be seen in
it; but few and far between are the worshippers. Pews may be owned,
seats may be taken, few sittings may be to let, but where are the worshippers?
What a pity it is, that a church of proportions so goodly, an edifice
with accomodation so capacious, a building with arrangements so substantial
and excellent should be deserted in a manner so absolute? A screw of
large dimensions is loose somewhere. The population of the district
seems great—dense; many of the people round about the church stand
singularly in need of entire acres of virtue, some of them are thorough-going
heathens, and think heathenism a rather jolly thing at times. And yet
this most excellent church is comparatively empty—desolate—reminding
one painfully of Ossian’s picture of Balclutha’s walls. The congregation
of Trinity Church is better than it was a few years ago, but it is still
lamentably, small. There is often “a beggarly account of empty
boxes”—a great deal of nothing in the church, and how to
remedy this defect is a problem. The present congregation consists of
a very moderate number of middle class people, a few elderly well-to-do
individuals, a thin scattering of poor folk, and a small body of Sunday
school scholars. The Recorder of Preston, who has been connected with
the management of the church since the time it was opened, attends regularly
when health permits: Trinity Church is, of course, in the hands of trustees,
and as people of an inquiring turn of mind sometimes wonder who they
are we will give their names. Here are the trustees: Mr. T. B. Addison,
Mr. John Cooper, Mr. Thos. Walmsley, Mr. John Swainson, Mr. John Bickerstaffe,
Mr. Thomas Houlker, and Mr. Isaac Gate. The present churchwardens are
Mr. W. Fort and Mr. W. H. Smith, and they have discharged their duties—looked
after the church, kept it clean, preserved its order—in thoroughly
commendable style. Testimonials are due for their services.

The music at Trinity Church has for a considerable period been a
troublesome, irregular, unsatisfactory thing. Years ago it was fine;
there was full cathedral service in the church then; and the orchestral
performances were attractive. But dullness and poorness are now their
characteristics. The organ is one of the best in the town; its tones
are fine and musical; it could perhaps be improved in one or two particulars;
but everything in it is good as far as it goes. The tunes, however,
which come from it are of a very ordinary character. Some of them may
be tasteful; but the bulk seem weak and wearisome—lack fine-flowing
harmony, and can neither be joined in nor appreciated by many parties.
The members of the choir are not a very lustrous class of vocalists;
but they do their best, and appear to fight through the musical fog
surrounding them very patiently. We believe the tunes are selected by
the incumbent. If so, let us hope that he will see the propriety of
recognising something a little brisker and more classical—something
rather livelier and more popularly relishable. Many clergymen simply
select the hymns and leave the music to the choir: the incumbent might
try this plan as an experiment. Squabbling about music, carping, and
fighting, and biting about it, have in the past done much harm to Trinity
Church. There is more peace now than there used to be amongst the singers;
but there will never be very much contentment, and never much harmony
of music, until they are permitted to moderately follow the custom of
other places—to swim with the tide—and have a reasonable
share of their own way. Singers can, as a rule, quarrel enough among
themselves when in the enjoyment of the fullest privileges; and interference
with their services, if they are really worth anything, only makes them
more ill-natured, angular, and combative. They are awkward people to
deal with, and have strange likings for “hot water.”

The minister of Trinity Church is the Rev. J. T. Brown, and his salary
amounts to about £300 a year. He was christened at the place;
was in after years curate of it; and is now its incumbent. About two
years ago, when he came to the church in the last-named capacity, the
congregation was wretchedly thin—awfully scarce, and just on the
borders of invisibility. It has since improved a little; but working
up a forsaken place into real activity is a difficult task, which at
times staggers the ablest of men. Mr. Brown is a scholar, and a thoroughly
upright man. He believes not in fighting down other people’s creeds;
never rails against religious antagonists; has a natural dislike to
platform bigotry and pulpit wrathfulness; is generously inclined; will
give but not lend; objects to everything in the shape of loud clerical
display; is strongly evangelical in his tastes; is exact, and calm,
and orderly, even to the cut of his whiskers; won’t be brought out and
exhibited; doesn’t care about seeing other people make exhibitions;
and thinks every minister should mind his own business, and leave other
people alone. But he is far too good for a parson. A gentle melancholy
seems to have got hold of him. He always preaches sincerely; a quiet
spirit of simple unadorned, piety pervades his remarks—but he
depresses you too much; and is rather predisposed to a calm mournful
consideration of the great sulphur question. He never gets into a lurid
passion, never horrifies, but calmly saddens you, in his discourses.
He is fond of quoting good old Richard Baxter and John Banyan, and he
might have worse authorities. But he is very serious, and his words
sometimes chill like a condensation of Young’s “Night Thoughts.”
If he had more dash and blithesomeness in him, if he could fling a little
more of this world’s logic into his sermons, if he would periodically
blow his own trumpet very audibly, and make a smart “spread”
now and then, he would gather force. The best of things will sink if
there be not some noise and show made about them. If Mr. Brown knew
the “Holloway’s Pills and Ointment” theory better than he
does, he would have a fuller congregation; but he is too honest and
too good for superficial emblazonry, and he believes in quietness.

Trinity Church has some excellent schools for boys, girls, and infants.
The attendance is only poor; but it is better than it was. The boys’
school is improving; that of the girls is also recruiting the strength
it lost last Whitsuntide but one, when a number of its attendants left
in a body because Mr. Brown objected to a display of orange and blue
ribbons which they were senselessly enamoured of; and with respect to
the infants they are regularly growing in size if not in numbers. Mrs.
Brown, wife of the incumbent, not only industriously visits the district,
like a genuine Christian lady as she is, but teaches in the girls school,
and at intervals when at church—here is an example for parsons’
wives—looks after a number of the scholars personally, whilst
her own servants are quietly occupying the family pew. We could like
to see both the church and the schools of Mr. Brown full; he has our
best wishes in this respect; and we hope he may find some talisman by
which the difficulty will be satisfactorily solved.

LANCASTER-ROAD CONGREGATIONAL CHAPEL.

Preston Congregationalism is a very good, a very respectable, and
a very quarrelsome creature. It is liberal but gingerly; has a large
regard for freedom, but will quarrel if crossed; can achieve commendable
triumphs in the regions of peace, but likes a conscientious disturbance
at intervals; believes in the power of union, but acts as if a split
were occasionally essential; will nurse its own children well when they
are quiet, but recognises the virtues of a shake if uneasiness supervenes;
respects its ministers much, but will order them to move on if they
fret its epidermis too acutely; can pray well, work well, fight well;
and from its antagonisms can distil benefits. About nine years since,
a sacred stirring of heads, a sharp moving of tongues, and a lively
up-heaving of bristles took place at Cannon-street Congregational Chapel,
in this town. The result of the dispute involved, amongst other things,
a separation—a clear marching from the place of several parties
who, whether rightly or wrongly, matters not now, felt themselves aggrieved.
They did not leave the chapel in processional order, neither did they
throw stones and then run, when they took their departure. The process
of evaporation was quiet and orderly. For 12 months the seceders worshipped
on their own account, in accordance with the principles of Congregationalism,
at the Institution, Avenham, and whilst there they gathered strength.
In the meantime they negotiated for land upon which to build a new chapel
and schools; and finally they purchased a site on the higher side of
the Orchard, contiguous to the old Vicarage—a rare piece of antique,
rubbishy ruin in these days—and very near, if not actually upon,
ground which once formed the garden of the famous Isaac Ambrose, who
was Vicar of Preston in 1650, and afterwards ejected; with many more
in the land, on account of his religious opinions. Thinking it good
to harmonise with that ancient wisdom which recommends people to carry
the calf before beginning with the cow, the new band of Congregationalists
under notice, commenced operations on the site named by erecting a large
school room in which for about a year they worshipped. In due time they
got the chapel built, and for about seven years it has been open.

Its position is prominent; but its associations, like those of the
generality of sacred edifices, has a special bearing upon the world
we live in. Above it there is a portion of the old vicarage buildings,
graced in front with various articles, the most prominent being a string
of delapidated red jackets; right facing it we have the sable Smithsonian
Institute, flanked with that gay and festive lion which is for ever
running and never stirring; below there are classic establishments for
rifle-shooting, likeness taking, and hot pea revelling; and ahead there
is the police station. The chapel stands well, occupies high and commanding
ground, and looks rather stately. Its exterior design is good; and if
the stone of its facade had been of a better quality—had contained
fewer flaws and been more closely jointed—it would have merited
one of our best architectural bows. The chapel and school, and the land
upon which they are erected, cost £7,000, and about £1,000
of that sum remains to be paid. This is not bad. Considering the brevity
of their existence and the severe times they have had to pass through,
the Lancaster-road Congregationalists must have worked hard and put
a very vigorous Christian screw into operation to reduce their debt
so rapidly.

The inside of the chapel is plain, very neat, and quite genteel.
We have seen no Congregational place of worship in this part equal to
it in ease and elegance of design. It is amphi-theatrical, is galleried
three quarters round, and derives the bulk of its beauty—not from
ornament, not from rich artistic hues, nor rare mouldings, nor exquisite
carvings, but from its quiet harmony of arrangement, its simple gracefulness
of form, its close adherence in outline and detail to the laws of symmetry
and proportion. The circular style prevails most in it, and how to make
everything round or half-round seems to have been the supreme job of
the designer. The gallery above, the seats below, the platform, the
pulpit on which it stands, the chairs behind, the orchestra and its
canopy, the window-heads, the surmountings of the entrance screen, the
gas pendants, and scores of other things, have all a strong fondness
for circularity; and the same predilection is manifested outside; the
large lamps there being quite round and fixed upon circular columns.
The pews in the chapel are very strong, have receding backs, and make
sitting in them rather a pleasing, easy, contented affair. The highest
price for a single seat is 3s. 6d. per quarter; the lowest 1s. There
are a few free sittings in the place, and although they may seem a long
way back—being at the rear of the gallery—their position
is not to be despised. They are not so far distant as to render hearing
difficult; and they obviate that unseemly publicity which is given to
poor people in some places of worship. How to give the poorest and hungriest
folk a very good seat in a very prominent place—how to herd them
together and piously pen them up in some particular place where everybody
can see them—appears to be an object in many religious edifices.
But that is a piece of benevolent shabbiness which must come to grief
some day. In the meantime, and until the period arrives when honest
poverty will be considered no crime, and when a seat next to a poor
man will be thought nothing vulgar, or contaminating, whilst worshipping
before Him who cares for souls not lucre, hearts not wealth, let the
poor be put in some place where they can hear fairly without being unduly
exhibited. The chapel we are noticing has a spacious appearance within,
and has none of that depressing dulness which makes some people very
sad long before they have been ministerially operated upon. From side
windows there comes a good light; and from the roof, which has a central
transparency, additional clearness is obtained. The light from the ceiling
would be improved if the glass it were kept a little cleaner.

The congregation is neither a very large nor a particularly small
one. It is fairly medium—might be worse, and would in no way be
hurt if it were enlarged. The “members” number about 120,
and they are just about as good as the rest of mortals, who have “made
their calling and election sure.” The congregation consists almost
entirely of middle and working class people. There is not so much of
that high, gassy pride, that fine mezzotinto, isolated hauteur and self-righteousness
in the place which may be seen in some chapels. Of course, particles
of vanity, morsels of straight-lacedness, lively little bits of cantankerousness,
and odd manifestations of first person pronoun worship periodically
crop up; but altogether the congregation has a quiet, unassuming, friendly
disposition. Nobody in it appears to be very much better or worse than
yourself; there is an evenness of tone and a sociality of feeling in
the spot; and a stranger can enter it without being violently stared
at, and can sit down without feeling that his room is nearly if not
quite as good as his company. The music is fairly congregational; individuals
in various parts of the chapel have sufficient courage to sing; and
the choir is moderately harmonious; but the melody one hears in the
place is rather flat and meagre; it lacks instrumental relief; and it
will never be really up to the mark until an organ is obtained.

The first regular minister of this chapel was the Rev. G. W. Clapham;
he was connected with it for some years; then had a “difficulty”
with certain parties—deacons amongst the rest, of course; and
afterwards left the place, uttering, in a quiet Shaksperian tone, as
he departed, “Now mark how I will undo myself:” He threw
to the winds his Congregationalism, and a few months ago joined, in
due clerical order, the Church of England. The present pastor of Lancaster-road
Congregational Chapel is the Rev. E. Bolton. The “church”
tried the merits of about 30 ministers before making a selection. The
height, depth, weight, tone of voice, matter, manner, theology, brains,
and spirit of that band of 30 were duly weighed, and finally, Mr. Bolton
was picked out. A salary of £300 was offered him. He might have
got other places, and if he had followed the clerical wisdom of his
generation he would have tried to secure one of them; for they all,
more or less, implied a better salary than that which the Preston people
offered him. But he fixed upon Preston just because he fancied more
good might be done therein than elsewhere. A trick like this—a
generosity so distinct as this—is a real oasis in the ecclesiastical
desert. Few parsons would imitate it. How to get the biggest salary,
and lug in the “will of the Lord” as an excuse for changing
to some locality where it could be snugly got, is the question which
many pious men seem desirous of solving. Mr. Bolton has different ideas,
and finds some compensation in goodness achieved as well as in money
pocketed. He has been at Lancaster-road Chapel three months, and, unlike
many new parsons, he had more sense than preach his best sermons first—than
make a grand pyrotechnic dash at the onset and settle down into a round
of prating mediocrity afterwards. When tried he gave the people a fair
average specimen of what he could do—did not say his best nor
his commonest things; began with a fire which he could keep up; and
the result is not disappointment, but an increasing relish.

Mr. Bolton is a plain, dark-complexioned, clear-headed man—rather
clerical in look; well-built; married; about 38 years of age; fond of
a billycock; teetotal, but averse to drowning other people with water;
doesn’t think it sinful to smoke just one pipe of tobacco after he has
done a day’s work; had rather visit poor than rich people; dislikes
namby-pambying and making a greater fuss over high than low class members
of his church; thinks that those in poverty need most looking after,
and that those with good homes and decent purses should try to look
a little after themselves; believes in working hard; cares precious
little for deacons—we rather like that, for deacons are queer
birds to encounter; is original in thought, fairly up in theology, and
straightforward in language. It is rather a treat to see him preach.
He does not, like the bulk of parsons, solemnly work out all his divinity
in the pulpit: preaching is not a sad, up and down, air-sawing, monotonous
thing with him; he steps out of the sacred box when his feelings begin
to warm up, moves to one side of it, then round the back of it, and
then to the other side of it; talks to you and not at you; is quite
conversational in style, and ignores everything conventional and stereotyped
in manner. He exercises his lungs with considerable force at times;
but he never tears nor disturbs the circumambient air with religious
agony. It is as pleasant to hear as to see him. Good sound sense, neatly
adjusted argument, newness of thought, and clear illustration characterise
his expressions. He is liberal and independent in tone; speaks easily,
and if he now and then wanders a little he always returns to the question
with vigour, and freshness. He has no written sermons; a few notes are
sufficient for him; he does not believe in long discourses; he has an
idea that it is better to say a little and let it be well understood
than float into immensity, let off fireworks there, and dumfounder everybody.
But he has his faults. He has quite as much confidence in himself as
is requisite for the present. He is rather too impervious and too oracular;
but then who would not be if they had the chance? We like him well on
the whole, and as he is new amongst us, it is but right that we should
deliver him with charity. Adjoining the chapel there are many class-rooms,
and a fine school. Boys, girls, and infants are accommodated in them.
The average Sunday attendance is about 200. We believe Mr. Bolton will
add numeric strength to both the chapel and schools. And if he does,
let no one make the least conceivable noise, for there is room enough
for all in Preston. The town isn’t a quarter as virtuous as it should
be; the bulk of us are scarcely half as good as we ought to be; and
if anybody can do any good in any way let it be done without a single
whimper.

SAUL-STREET PRIMITIVE METHODIST CHAPEL.

There is nothing very time-worn about Methodism; it is only 140 years
old; but during that period its admirers have contrived to split numerous
hairs, and have extended very fairly what is known as “the dissidence
of dissent.” The ring of Methodism includes many sections: it
embraces, amongst others, ordinary Wesleyans, Bryanites, New Connectionists,
Primitives, United Free Church men, and Independent Methodists. They
can’t all be right; but they think they are; and that is enough. They
have as yet requested nobody to be responsible for them; and weighing
that over well, the fairest plan is to let the creed of each alone—to
condemn none, to give all legitimate chance, and permit them to “go
on.” Antique simplicity seems to be the virtue of those whom we
have now to describe. And yet there is nothing very ancient about them.
There is more in the sound than in the name of primitive Methodists.
They are a comparatively young people with a somewhat venerable name.
It was not until 1810 that they were formed into a society. Originally
they were connected with the Wesleyan Methodists; but they disagreed
with them in the course of time, and left them eventually. The immediate
cause of separation was, we are informed, a dispute as to the propriety
of camp meetings, and the utility of female preaching. The Wesleyans
couldn’t see the wisdom of such meetings nor the fun of such preaching:
probably they thought that people could get as much good as they would
reasonably digest in regular chapel gatherings, and that it was quite
enough to hear women talk at home without extending the business to
pulpits. The Primitives believed otherwise—fancied that camp meetings
would be productive of much Christian blissfulness, and thought that
females had as much right to give pulpit as caudle lectures. With a
chivalry nearly knightly they came to the rescue, and gave woman a free
pass into the regions of language and theology. A third point of difference
had reference to the representative character of Wesleyan conferences;
but into that question we need not enter.

The first regular quarters of Preston Primitive Methodism were in
Friargate, in a yard facing Lune-street—in a small building there,
where a few men with strong lungs and earnest minds had many seasons
of rejoicing. The thermometer afterwards rose; and for some time a building
which they erected in Lawson-street, and which is now used as the Weavers’
Institute, was occupied by them. Often did they get far up the dreamy
ladder of religious joy, and many a time did they revel with a rich
and deafening delightfulness in the regions of zeal there. They were
determined to “keep the thing warm,” and to let outsiders
know that if they were not a large, they were a lively, body. Primitive
Methodism does not profess to be a fine, but an earnest, thing—not
a trimmed-up, lackadaisical arrangement, but a strong, sincere, simple,
enthusiastic species of religion. It has largely to do with the heart
and the feelings; is warm-natured, full of strong, straightforward,
devotional vigour; combines homeliness of soul with intensity of imagination;
links a great dash of honest turbulence with an infinitude of deep earnestness;
tells a man that if he is happy he may shout, that if under a shower
of grace he may fly off at a tangent and sing; makes a sinner wince
awfully when under the pang of repentance, and orders him to jump right
out of his skin for joy the moment he finds peace; gives him a fierce
cathartic during conversion, and a rapturous cataplasm in his “reconciliation.”
Primitive Methodism occupies the same place in religion as the ballad
does in poetry. It has an untamed, blithesome, healthy ring with it;
harmonises well with the common instincts and the broad, common intuitions
of common life; can’t hurt a prince, and will improve a peasant; won’t
teach a king wrong things; is sure to infuse happiness amongst men of
humbler mould. Its exuberance is necessary on account of the materials
it has to deal with; its spiritual ebullitions and esctacies are required
so that they may accord with, and set all a-blaze, the strong, vehement
spirits who bend the knee under its aegis. Primitive Methodism has reached
deeper depths than many other creeds—has touched harder, wilder,
ruder souls than nearly “all the isms” put together. It
may not have made much numeric progress, may not have grown big in figures
nor loud in facts, but it has done good—has gone down in the diving
bell of hope to the low levels of sin, and brought up to the clear rippling
surface of life and light many a pearl which would have been lost without
it. Primitive Methodism is just the religion for a certain class of
beings just the exact article for thousands who can’t see far ahead,
and who wouldn’t be able to make much out if they could. There are people
adoring it who would be stupid, reticent, and recalcitrant under any
other banner, who would “wonder what it all meant” if they
were in a calmer, clearer atmosphere—who would be muddy-mottled
and careless in a more classical and ambrosial arena. After this learned
morsel of theorising, we shall return to the subject.

In 1836 the Primitive Methodists left their Lawson-street seminary
and pitched their tent eastwards—on a piece of land facing Saul-street
and flanking Lamb-street. Its situation is pretty good, and as it stands
right opposite, only about eight yards from, the Baths and Washhouses,
we would suggest to the Saul-street brethren the propriety of putting
up some sign, or getting some inscription made in front of their chapel,
to the effect that “cleanliness is next to godliness,” and
that both can be obtained on easy terms. The chapel is a very ordinary
looking building, having a plain brick front, with sides of similar
material, and a roof of Welsh slate, which would look monotonous if
it were not relieved on the western side by 19 bricks and two stones,
and on the eastern by four stones, one brick, and a piece of rod-iron
tacked on to keep a contiguous chimney straight. The chapel has a somewhat
spacious interior; and has a large gallery fixed on six rather slender
iron pillars. The pews have at some time had one or more coats of light
delicate green paint—the worst colour which could be chosen for
endurance—put upon them, and many are now curiously black at the
rear, through people leaning back against them. A glance round shows
the various sombre places, and their relative darkness gives a fair
clue as to the extent of their use.

At one end there is a small gallery for the choir and the organ,
and in front of it the pulpit, a plain moderately-subtantial affair,
is located. The organ is a very poor one. It has a tolerably good appearance;
but it is a serious sinner with reference to its internal arrangements.
We quietly examined it very recently, and should have gone away with
a determination not to be comforted if an intimation had not been made
to the effect that “the organist was organising a plan for a new
organ,” and that there was some probability of a better instrument
being fit up before very long. The members of the choir are of a brisk,
warbling turn of mind, and can push through their work blithely. The
singing is thoroughly congregational—permeates the whole place,
is shot out in a quick, cheerful strain, is always strong and merry,
is periodically excellent, is often jolly and funny, has sometimes a
sort of chorus to it, and altogether is a strong, virtuously-jocund,
free and easy piece of ecstacy which the people enjoy much. It would
stagger a man fond of “linked sweetness long drawn out,”
it might superinduce a mortal ague in one too enamoured of Handel and
Mozart; but to those who regularly attend the place, who have got fairly
upon the lines of Primitive action, it is a simple process of pious
refreshment and exhileration.

The chapel will hold between 700 and 800 persons; if hydraulicised
1000 might be got into it; but such a number is rarely seen in the place;
and the average attendance may be set down at about 600. There are about
400 members in connection with the place, and they respectively contribute
1d. per week towards the expenses. We may here remark that in Preston
there are two Primitive Methodist chapels, that in Saul-street being
the principal one. The “circuit” runs mainly westward, its
utmost limit in that direction being Fleetwood. Formerly three ministers
were stationed at Saul-street chapel; but two are now considered sufficient;
and they are, as a rule, married men, the circuit being considered sufficiently
large to keep parties in the “olive branch” category. In
the whole circuit there are between 700 and 800 “members.”
The congregation of Saul-street chapel is almost entirely of a working-class
character. In the front and on each side of the body of the building
there are a few free seats, which are mainly used by very poor humble-looking
people.

The ministers are the Rev. J. Judson, who is the superintendent,
and the Rev. W. Graham. They are paid on a systematic and considerate
plan. Money is given to them to accordance with the number of their
family. They get so much per head—the more numerous the family
and the larger the pay becomes. But it is not very extraordinary at
the best of times; and if even a preacher happened to have a complete
houseful of children, if his quiver were absolutely full of them, he
would not be pecuniarly rich. The bulk of Primitive Methodist preachers
are taken from the working classes, and the pay they receive is not
more than they could earn if they kept out of the ministry altogether.
They become parsons for the love of “the cause,” and not
for loaves and fishes. Reverting to Mr. Judson, it may be said that
he is a quiet, earnest, elderly, close-shaven, clerical looking gentleman—has
a well-defined, keen solemnity on his countenance, looks rather like
a Catholic priest in facial and habilimental cut, is one of the old
school of Primitive preachers, is devout but not luminous, good but
not erudite, is slow and long-drawn in his utterances, but he can effervesce
on a high key at intervals, and can occasionally “draw out”
the brethren to a hot pitch of exuberance. His general style is sincere;
he means well; but his words, like cold-drawn castor oil, don’t go down
with overmuch gusto.

The junior preacher—Mr. Graham—is more modernised in
manner and matter. He is an earnest, thoughtful, plodding man, can preach
a fair sermon tears a little sometimes, and can “bring down the
house” in tolerably good style. Both of them are hard workers,
both are doing good, and neither must be despised on account of humility
of position. Primitive, like Wesleyan, preachers are changed periodically;
superintendents can, under certain conditions, stay at one place for
three years, but no longer; junior men have to cut their straps every
two years. Since this description was first published both the ministers
named have gone; the Rev. Thomas Doody having succeeded as superintendent,
and the Rev. John Hall as junior. Mr. Doody is a middle-aged gentleman,
is a pretty good preacher, has considerable zeal in him, and fires up
more energetically than his predecessor. Mr. Hall is a young man with
a rather elderly look. His style is discursive, his lucid intervals
not as electrical as those of some Primitive parsons, but he is a good
fellow, and if he had more physical force and more mental condensation
be would “go down” better.

There are numerous collections, some fixed, and some incidental,
at Saul-street, and on special occasions they can raise sums of money
which would put to the blush the bulk of loftier and more “respectable”
congregations. Not much time is lost by the Saul-street Primitives:
every Monday evening they have preaching at the place; on Tuesday evening
three or four class meetings, in which singing, praying, and talking
are carried on; on Wednesday ditto; on Thursday evening the singers
work up their exercises; on Friday evening there is a meeting of leaders,
or committee men; on Saturday evening a band of hope meeting; and on
Sundays they are throng from morning till night. Their prayer meetings
are pious and gleeful affairs. Throughout the whole of such gatherings,
and in fact generally when prayer is being gone on with, the steam is
kept well up, and the safety valve often lifts to let off the extra
pressure. Sharp shouts, breezy “Amens,” tenderly-attenuated
groans, deep sighs, sudden “Hallelujahs,” and vivacious
cries of “Just now,” “Aye,” “Glory,”
“Yes,” “Praise the Lord,” &c.—all
well meant—characterise them. But prayer meetings are not half
so stormy as they used to be; twenty or thirty years since they were
tremendously boisterous; now, whilst a fair amount of ejaculatory talk
is done at them, they are becoming comparatively quiet, and on Sundays
only a few of the old-fashioned and more passionately devoted members
make noises. Love feasts are held occasionally at Saul-street as at
all other Primitive Methodist chapels. The “members” give
their “experience” at these gatherings—tell with a
bitter sorrow how sinful they once were, mention with a fervid minuteness
the exact moment of their conversion, allude to the temptations they
meet and overcome, the quantity of grace bestowed upon them, the sorrows
they pass through, and the bliss they participate in. We have heard
men romance most terribly at some of these love feasts; but we are not
prepared to say that anybody does so at Saul-street Chapel.

Immediately adjoining the chapel there is a large and well made building,
which has only been erected about two years. The lower portion of it
is used for class rooms; the upper part is appropriated for Sunday school
purposes. The average attendance of scholars is 350. Belonging the school
there is a good library. The building cost about £1,000 and is
entirely free from debt. Considering everything the Saul-street Primitives
are doing a praiseworthy work; they may lack the spiciness and finish
of more fashionable bodies; they may have little of that wealthiness
about them which gives power and position to many; but they are a class
of earnest, useful, humble souls, drawing to them from the lowly walks
of life men and women who would be repelled by the processes of a more
aesthetic and learned creed. We have a considerable regard for Primitive
Methodism; in some respects we admire its operations; and for the good
it does we are quite willing to tolerate all the erratic earnestness,
musical effervescence, and prayerful boisterousness it is so enamoured
of.

ST. IGNATIUS’S CATHOLIC CHURCH.

Catholicism owes much to the Jesuits; and, casuistically speaking,
the Jesuits owe their existence to a broken leg. Ignatius of Loyola
was their founder. He was at first a page, then a soldier, then got
one of his legs broken in battle, was captured and confined as an invalid,
had his immortal leg set and re-set, whiled away his time whilst it
was mending in reading romances, got through all within his reach, could
at last find nothing but the Lives of the Saints, had his latent religious
feelings stirred during their perusal, travelled to different places
afterwards, and at last established the order of Jesuits—an order
which has more learning within its circle than perhaps any other section
of men, which has sent out its missionaries to every clime, has been
subjected to every kind of vicissitude, has been suppressed by kings
and emperors, ostracised by at least one Pope, and shouted down often
by excited peoples in the heated moments of revolution; but which has
somehow managed to live through it all and progress. The men fighting
under the standard of Ignatius have a tenacity, a mysterious irrepressibleness
about them which dumfounds the orthodox and staggers the processes of
ordinary calculators. In Preston we have three churches, besides an
auxiliary chapel, wherein priests of the Jesuit order labour. By far
the largest number of Preston Catholics are in charge of those priests,
and the generality of them don’t seem to suffer anything from the “tyranny”—that
is the phrase some of us Protestants delight to honour—of their
supervision. They can breathe, and walk about, laugh, and grow fat without
any difficulty, and they are sanguine of being landed in ultimate ecstacy
if they conduct themselves fairly.

In a former article we referred to one of the Catholic churches in
this town—St Wilfrid’s—which is looked after by Jesuit priests—on
this occasion we purposely alluding to another—St. Ignatius’s.
The Catholics in the district of this church are very strong; they number
about 6,000; are mainly of a working-class complexion; and are conveniently
and compactly located for educational and religious purposes. Catholics
are so numerous in the neighbourhood—are so woven and interwoven
amongst the denizens of it—that it is a good and a safe plan never
to begin running down the Pope in any part of it. Murphyites and patent
Christians fond of immolating Rome, &c., would have a very poor
chance of success in this district. The church of St. Ignatius stands
in the square which bears its name. The first stone of the edifice was
laid on the 27th of May, 1833: to 1858 the church was enlarged, and
in the course of the re-opening services the famous Dr. Manning (now
Archbishop of Westminster) preached a sermon. The building is erected
in the “perpendicular English” style of architecture—literally,
a very general thing, the horizontal style being yet unworkable; is
railed round; and has a dim, quiet elegance about its exterior. At the
southern end there is a tower, with a spire, (surmounted by a cross)
above it; the total height being 120 feet, It may be information to
some people when we state that the first spire attached to any place
of worship in Preston, was that we now see at St. Ignatius’s. Indeed,
up to 1836, it was the only spire which could be found between the Ribble
and the Lune. Spires have since sprang up pretty numerously in Preston;
but there was a time, and not very long since either, when the line
in the well known doggrel verse “High church and low steeple”
was descriptively correct. The original cost of St. Ignatius’s church,
with the adjoining priests’ house, was about £8,000 and of that
sum upwards of £1,000 was raised by small weekly offerings from
the poor. The church has got an outside clock with three faces, and
they would sustain no injury whatever if they were either washed or
re-gilt. We don’t think the clock would “strike” against
such a thing. The enlargement of the church, which was at the chancel
end, cost about £3,000, and the money was quite ready when the
job was finished.

The building is cruciform in shape, and has a fine interior—is
lofty, capacious, and cathedral-like. The high altar is very choice
and beautiful; and the contiguous decorations are profuse and exquisite.
The painting is rich and elaborate, and the most frigid soul, if blessed
with even a morsel of artistic taste, would be inclined to admire it.
There is a large window behind the altar, and it is a very handsome
affair; but it is rather too bright—flashes and crystalises a
little too strongly; and needs a deeper tone somewhere to make it properly
effective. Not very far from the pulpit, which is massive, elegant,
and calculated to hold the stoutest priest in the country, there are
two large statues, standing on tall stone columns—opposite each
other—at the sides of the nave. One of them represents St. Joseph,
and the other, we believe, St. Ignatius. Not very far from this part
of the building there used to be a statue of St. Patrick; but it was
removed to one side, awhile since, either to make room for some other
ornament, or to edify those belonging “ould Ireland” who
may happen to sit near its present position. Towards the higher end,
and on each side of the church, there is an opening, projecting back
several yards. A gallery occupies each of these spaces, and beneath
there are seats. The roof of the nave, which is finely decorated, depends
upon parallel stone columns; but they are rather heavy—are massive
and numerous enough to support another church, if ever one should be
erected above the present edifice. The seats are of plain stained wood,
and the doors are gradually disappearing. Open seats are desiderated
and whenever the opportunity occurs, the doors are attacked. Some of
the pews have doors to them, and so long as the present occupiers hold
their sittings in them they will not, unless it is requested, be disturbed;
but as soon as they leave, the doors will be quietly taken off and either
sold, or judiciously split up, or quietly buried.

Adjoining the chancel there are four of those mystic places called
confessionals. The other evening we were in every one of them, viewed
them round from head to foot, asked a priest who was with us the meaning
of everything visible, and left without noticing in any of them anything
to particularly fret at. “Confession is good for the soul,”
we are told; and by all means let those who honestly believe in it “go
the entire figure” without molestation or insult. Every morning,
on week days, there is mass in the church at seven, half-past seven,
and eight o’clock; every Friday evening there is benediction; and on
Sundays a great business is done—at eight, nine, ten, and eleven,
in the forenoon, at three in the afternoon, and at half-past six in
the evening, there are masses, combined more or less with other ceremonies.
The “proper services” are understood to be at eleven and
half-past six. The nine and ten o’clock masses are by far the best attended;
partly because they appear to be more convenient than the others, and
partly because the work is cut comparatively short at them. Human nature,
as a rule, can’t stand a very long fire of anything, doesn’t like to
have even too much goodness pushed upon it for too long a time, believes
in a very short and very sweet thing. It may have to pay more for it,
as it has at the ten o’clock mass on a Sunday, at St. Ignatius’s—for
the price of seats at that time is just double what it is at any other;
only the work is got through sharply, and that is something to be thankful
for. School children have the best seats allotted to them at the mass
just named, and the wealthiest man in the place occupying the most convenient
seat in it has to beat a mild retreat and take his hat with him when
they appear. The more fashionable, and solemnly-balanced Catholics attend
the services at eleven and half-past six. They are made of respectable
metal which will stand a good deal of calm hammering, and absorb a considerable
quantity of virtuous moisture. At this, as at all other Catholic chapels,
the usual aqueous and genuflecting movements are made; and they are
all done very devotedly. More water, we think, is spilled at the entrance,
than is necessary; and we would recommend the observance of a quiet,
even, calm dip—not too long as if the hand were going into molasses,
nor too fleetingly as if it had got hold of a piece of hot iron by mistake.

At ten and three on Sundays the music is sung by a number of girls,
occupying one of the small galleries, wherein there is an organ which
is played by a nun. The singing is sweet, and the nun gets through her
work pleasantly. The Catholic soldiers stationed at Fulwood Barracks
make St. Ignatius’s their place of devotional resort. They attend the
nine o’clock Sunday morning mass, and muster sometimes as many as 200.
One of the finest sights in the church is that which the guilds of the
place periodically make. On the first Sunday in every month the girls’
and women’s guilds, numbering about 600 members, attend one of the morning
masses; on the third Sunday in each month the members of the boys’ and
men’s guilds, numbering between 400 and 500, do like-wise. Fine order
prevails amongst them; numerous captains are in command; special dresses
are worn by many of the members; some of the girls are in white; all
the members wear sashes, crosses, &c.; and, after entering, their
bright golden-hued banners, are planted in lines at the ends of the
seats, giving a rare and imposing beauty to the general scene. The church
will hold about 1,000 persons; and the complete attendance on a Sunday
is about 3,500. The congregation is principally made up of working-class
people, and they have got a spirit of devotion and generosity within
them which many a richer and more rose-watered assembly would do well
to cultivate.

There are four priests at St. Ignatius’s, and in addition to the
duties discharged by them in the church, they have special departments
of labour to look after outside it. Father J. Walker, the principal
priest, superintends the female guilds, and visits the soldiers at the
Barracks; Father R. Brindle attends to the male guilds; Father Boardman
hangs out an educational banner, and has the management of the various
schools; the fourth priest officiates as auxiliary. Wonders used to
be worked in this district by the Rev. Father Cooper—an indefatigable,
far-seeing, mild-moving man, in very plain clothes, who could any time
get more money for religious and educational purposes than half a score
of other priests. He was always planning something for the improvement
of the district; was always looking after the vital end—the money;
and was always bringing in substantial specimens of the current coin.
He included Protestants among his supporters; people who in nine cases
out of ten would give to nobody else—were always calmly tickled
and trotted into a generous mood by him. St. Ignatius’s district was
stirred into full and active life by Father Cooper; he extended and
elaborated the church; improved the schools greatly; touched with the
wand of progress everything belonging the mission; and the Catholics
of the neighbourhood may thank all their stars in one lot for his 15
years residence amongst them. A man like Father Cooper was bad to follow;
it was no easy matter putting his shoes on and walking in them regularly
through the district; but his successor—Father Walker, who has
seen something of the world, has done service in the West Indies, has
fought with mosquitoes, confronted black and yellow fever, preached
to dark men and soldiers, and made himself moderately acquainted with
the hues and habits of butterflies, centipedes, and snakes, if the museum
at Stonyhurst College is anything to go by, was not the priest to be
either disheartened or ignored.

Father Walker is a locomotive, wiry, fibrous man—full of energy,
wide awake,—tenacious, keenly perceptive; could pass his sharp
eye round you in a second and tell your age, weight, and habits; could
nearly look round a corner and say how many people were in the next
street; has a touch of shrewd, sudden-working humour to him; can stand
a joke but won’t be played with; has a strong sense of straightforwardness;
is tall, dark complexioned, weird-looking, wears bushy hair, which is
becoming iron grey, and uses a thin penetrating pair of spectacles.
He has been at St. Ignatius’s for two-and-a-half years; the decorations
in the church are mainly due to him; and he has earned the respect and
affection of the people. His style of preaching is clear, sonorously-sounding,
and vigorous—is not rhetorically flashy, but strong, impetuous,
and full of energy. The ardour of his nature makes his utterances rapid;
but they are always distinct, and there is nothing extravagant or tragic
in his action. He is a clear-headed, determined, sagacious man, and
would be formidable, if put to it, with either his logic or fists.

Father Brindle, who has been at the church about ten years, is a
quiet, mildly-flowing, gently-breathing man; has nothing vituperative
or declamatory in his nature; works hard and regularly; has an easy,
gentle, subdued style of preaching; but knows what common sense means,
and can infuse it into his discourses. If he had a little more force
he would be able to knock down sinners better. The oracle can’t always
be worked with tranquillity; delinquents need bruising and smashing
sometimes. Father Boardman—an active, unassuming sort of gentleman—has
been at the church for about a year. He is quick in the regions of education
and literature; knows much about old and new books; has a lively regard
for ancient classical and religions works; is perhaps better acquainted
with the 26,000 volumes in Stonyhurst College library than anybody else;
likes to preach on tuitional questions; has a mortal dislike of secular
education. He is plodding, intelligent, up to the mark in his business,
and if 50 changes were made it is quite probable no improvement would
be made upon him.

Father Baron comes next. When we visited St. Ignatius’s he had only
been there a few weeks, and since then he has gone to some place near
London. For a long time Father Baron was at Wakefield, and during his
stay there he officiated as Catholic chaplain of the gaol. He was the
first priest in the kingdom who made application, under the Prison Ministers
Act, for permission to hold regular gaol services. In Wakefield he earned
the respect of all classes; and there was general regret expressed when
it became known he had to leave. Protestants as well as Catholics liked
him, and, if he had stayed in Preston, the very same feeling would have
been created. He is just about the most fatherly and genial man we have
seen; has a venerated, rubicund, cozy look; seems like the descendant
of some festive abbot or blithesome friar; makes religion agree with
him—some people are never happy unless they are being tortured
by it; has hit upon the golden mean—is neither too ascetical nor
too jocund; is simply good and jolly; has ever so much vivacity, sprightliness,
and poetic warmth in his constitution; can preach a lively, earnest,
sermon; has a strong imitative faculty; is brisk in action; can tell
a good tale; is fine company; would’nt hurt anybody; would step over
a fly rather than kill it unkindly; and is just such a man as we should
like for a confessor if we were a believer in his Church. He has been
succeeded by Father Pope, who is no relative of the old gentleman at
Rome, but is we believe, a nephew of the celebrated Archbishop Whately.

All the priests at St. Ignatius’s avoid in their discourses that
which is now-a-days very fashionable—attacking other people’s
creeds. A person who has regularly attended the church for twenty years,
said to us the other day that he had never heard one sermon wherein
a single word against other folks creeds had been uttered. The great
object of the priests is to teach those who listen to them to mind their
own business; and that isn’t a bad thing at any time. The music at St.
Ignatius’s is of a high order. It is not nice and easy, but rich and
vigorous—fine and fierce, comes out warm, and has with it a strong
compact harmony indicative of both ability and earnestness. The conductor
is energetic and efficient, wields his baton in a lively manner, but
hits nobody with it. There is a very fair organ in the church, and it
is pleasantly played. The blowers also do their duty commendably.

Adjoining the church there is the priests’ house—a rather labrynthal,
commodious place with plain, ancient furniture. Beyond, is a very excellent
school for girls as well as infants of the gentler sex. It is supervised
by nuns, some of whom are wonderfully clever. They are “Sisters
of the Holy Child;” are most painstaking, sincere, and useful;
never dream about sweethearts; devote their whole time to religion and
education. All of them are well educated; two or three of them are smart.
The school, which has an average attendance of 550, is in a high state
of efficiency; is, in fact, one of the best to the country. The sceptical
can refer to Government reports if they wish for absolute proof. Still
further on there is another school, set apart for the instruction of
middle class boys, and in charge of three Xavierian brothers. About
90 boys attend it, and they are well disciplined. At the rear of the
school there is a fine playground for the boys—it is about the
largest in Preston; and close to it we have the old graveyard of the
church, which is in a tolerably fair state of order. Brothers of the
Xavierian type have been in charge of the school for about nine years.
The three now at it are mild, obliging, quiet-looking men. They live
in a house hard by, and do all the household work themselves, Well done,
Xavierians! you will never be aggravated with the great difficulty of
domestic life—servant-maidism; will never have to solve the solemn
question as to when it is “Susan’s Sunday out;” will never
be crossed by a ribbon-wearing Jemima, nor harrowed up in absent moments
by pictures of hungry “followers” fond of cold joints and
pastry. In addition to looking after the school, the Xavierians in question
give religious instruction at nights, and on Sundays, to the children
attending St. Ignatius’s school in Walker-street. The Sunday after we
visited the church, about fifty whom they had been training, received
their “first communion,” and in addition, got a medal and
their breakfast given,—two things which nobody despises as a rule,
whether on the borders of religious bliss or several miles therefrom.
The school in Walker-street is attended, every day, by about 400 boys
and infants, and is in an improving condition. The Sunday schools are
in a very flourishing state; the girls attending them numbering about
650, and the boys about 500. Taking all into account, a great educational
work is being carried on in the district of St. Ignatius. The importance
of secular and religious instruction is fully appreciated by the priests;
they know that such instruction moulds the character, and tells its
tale in after life; they are active and alive to the exigences of the
hour; are on the move daily and nightly for the sake of the mind and
the soul; and they, like the rest of their brethren, set many of our
Protestant parsons an example of tireless industry, which it would be
well for them to imitate, if they wish to maintain their own, and spread
the principles they believe in.

VAUXHALL-ROAD PARTICULAR BAPTIST CHAPEL.

“Don’t be so particular” is a particularly popular phrase.
It comes up constantly from the rough quarry of human nature—is
a part of life’s untamed protest against punctilliousness and mathematical
virtue. Particular people are never very popular people, just because
they are particular. The world isn’t sufficiently ripe for niceties;
it likes a lot, and pouts at eclectical squeamishness; it believes in
a big, vigorous, rough-hewn medley, is choice in some of its items,
but free and easy in the bulk; and it can’t masticate anything too severely
didactic, too purely logical, too strongly distinct, or too acutely
exact. But it does not follow, etymologically, that a man is right because
he is particular. He may be very good or very bad, and yet be only such
because he is particularly so. Singularity, eccentricity, speciality,
isolation, oddity, and hundreds of other things which might be mentioned,
all involve particularity. But we do not intend, to “grammar-out”
the question, nor to disengage and waste our gas in definitions. The
particular enters into all sorts of things, and it has even a local
habitation and a name in religion. What could be more particular than
Particular Baptism? Certain followers of a man belonging the great Smith
family constituted the first congregation of English Baptists. These
were of the General type. The Particular Baptists trace their origin
to a coterie of men and women who had an idea that their grace was of
a special type, and who met in London as far back as 1616. The doctrines
of the Particular Baptists are of the Calvinistic hue. They believe
in eternal election, free justification, ultimate glorification; they
have a firm notion that they are a special people, known before all
time; that not one of them will be lost; and they differ from the General
Baptists, so far as discipline is concerned, in this—they reject
“open communion,” will allow no membership prior to dipping;
or,—to quote the exact words of one of them, who wrote to us the
other day on the subject, and who paled our ineffectual fire very considerably
with his definition—“All who enter our pail must be baptised.”
If there is any water in the “pail” they will; if not, it
will be a simple question of dryness.

The chapel used by the Particular-Baptists, in Vauxhall-road, Preston,
has a curious history. It beats Plato’s theory of transmigration; and
is a modern edition of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. The building was erected
by Mr. George Smith (father of the late Alderman G. Smith, of this town),
and he preached to it for a short time. Afterwards it was occupied by
a section of Methodists connected with the “Round Preachers.”
Then it was purchased by a gentleman of the General Baptist persuasion,
who let it to the late Mr. Moses Holden—a pious, astronomical
person, who held forth in it for a season with characteristic force.
Subsequently it was taken possession of by the Episcopalians, the Rev.
Mr. Pearson, late of Tockholes, being the minister. He, along with some
of his flock, was in the habit of holding prayer meetings, &c.,
in different parts of the town; the Vauxhall-road building being their
central depot. But when the Rev. Carus Wilson was appointed Vicar of
Preston an end was put to both their praying and preaching. When the
Episcopalians made their exit, a section of religious people called
the Fieldingites obtained the building. They drove a moderately thriving
business at the place until permission was unwittingly given for a Mormon
preacher to occupy the pulpit just once—a circumstance which resulted
in a thorough break-up; many of the body liking neither Joe Smith nor
his polygamising followers. After the Mormon fiasco and the evaporation
of the Fieldingites, another denomination took it. The Particular Baptists—some
people call them Gadsbyites—were at this period working the virtues
of their creed in a small room towards the bottom of Cannon-street;
and on hearing that Vauxhall-road Chapel was on sale, they smiled, made
a bid at it, and bought it. Their first minister, after the removal,
was a certain Mr. Mc.Kenzie, who stimulated the elect with many good
things, and eventually died. The question as to who should be his successor
next presented itself; “supplies” were tried; various men
from various parts were invited into the pulpit, looked at, and listened
to; the object being to get “the right man in the right place.”

There was considerable difference of opinion as to that said “right
man;” one portion of “the church” wanting a smart,
well-starched, polished individual, and the other desiring a plain,
straightforward “gospel preacher”—a man of the Gadsby
kidney, capable of hitting people hard, and telling the truth without
any fear. This was in 1848, and about this time a plain, homely, broad-hearted
“Lancashire chap,” named Thomas Haworth, a block printer
by trade, and living in the neighbourhood of Accrington, who had taken
to preaching in his spare time, was “invited” to supply
the Vauxhall-road pulpit. “Tommy”—that’s his recognized
name, and he’ll not be offended at us for using it—came, saw,
and conquered. He made his appearance in a plain coat, a plain waist-coat,
and a pair of plain blue-coloured corduroy trousers; and as he went
up the steps of the pulpit, people not only wondered where he came from,
but who his tailor was. And if they had seen his hat, they would have
been solicitous as to its manufacturer. The more elaborate portion of
the “church” pulled uncongenial features at the young block-printer’s
appearance, thought him too rough, too unreclaimed, too outspoken, and
too vehement; the plain people, the humble, hard-working, unfashionable
folk liked him, and said he was “just the man” for them.
Time kept moving, Tommy was asked to officiate in the pulpit for 52
Sundays; he consented; kept up his fire well and in a good Gadsbyfied
style; and when settling day came a majority of the members decided
that he should remain with them. The “non-contents” moved
off, said that it would not do; was too much of a good thing; escaped
to Zoar; and, in the course of this retreat, somebody took—what!—not
the pulpit, nor its Bible, nor the hymn books, nor the collecting boxes,
nor the unpaid bills belonging the chapel, but—the title deeds
of the old place! and to this day they have not been returned. This
was indeed a sharp thing. How Shylock—how the old Jew with his
inexorable pound of flesh-worship, creeps up in every section of human
society! Vauxhall-road Chapel, which has passed through more denominational
agony than any twenty modern places of worship put together, is situated
in a poor locality—in a district where pure air, and less drink,
and more of “the Christ that is to be,” as Tennyson would
say, are needed than the majority of places in the town.

Architecturally the chapel is nothing; and if it were not for a few
tall front rails, painted green, a good gable end pointed up, and a
fairly cut inscription thereon, it would, ecclesiastically speaking,
seem less than nothing. It has just been re-painted internally, and
necessarily looks somewhat smart on that account; but there is no pretension
to architecture in the general building. Between 500 and 600 persons
might be accomodation in it; but the average attendance is below 200.
People are not “particular” about what church or chapel
they belong to in its locality; and some of them who belong to no place
seem most wickedly comfortable. There is a great deal of heathenish
contentment in Vauxhall-road district, and how to make the people living
there feel properly miserable until they get into a Christian groove
of thought is a mystery which we leave for the solution of parsons.
The interior of Vauxhall-road Particular Baptist Chapel is specially
plain and quiet looking, has nothing ornamental in it and at present
having been newly cleaned, it smells more of paint than of anything
else. The pews are of various dimensions—some long, some square,
all high—and, whilst grained without, they are all green within.
This is not intended as a reflection upon the occupants, but is done
as a simple matter of taste. The “members” of the chapel
at present are neither increasing nor decreasing—are stationary;
and they wilt number altogether between 50 and 60. Either the chapel
is too near the street, or the street too near the chapel, or the children
in the neighbourhood too numerous and noisy; for on Sundays, mainly
during the latter part of the day, there is an incessant, half-shouting,
half-singing din, from troops of youngsters adjoining, who play all
sorts of chorusing games, which must seriously annoy the worshippers.

The music at the chapel is strong, lively, and congregational. Sometimes
there is more cry than wool in it; but taken altogether, and considering
the place, it is creditable. There is neither an organ, nor a fiddle,
nor a musical instrument of any sort that we have been able to notice,
in the place. All is done directly and without equivocation from the
mouth. The members of the choir sit downstairs, in a square place fronting
the pulpit; the young men—in their quiet moments—looking
very pleasantly at the young women, the older members maintaining a
mild equillibrium at the same time, and all going off stiffly when singing
periods arrive. The hymn books used contain, principally, pieces selected
by the celebrated William Gadsby, and nobody in the chapel need ever
be harassed for either length or variety of spiritual verse. They have
above 1,100 hymns to choose from, and in length these hymns range from
three to twenty-three verses. Whilst inspecting one of the books recently
we came to a hymn of thirteen verses, and thought that wasn’t so bad—was
partly long enough for anybody; but we grew suddenly pale on directly
afterwards finding one nearly twice the size—one with twenty-three
mortal verses in it. It is to be hoped the choir and the congregation
will never he called upon to sing right through any hymn extending to
that disheartening and elastic length. We have heard a chapel choir
sing a hymn of twelve verses, and felt ready for a stimulant afterwards
to revive our exhausted energies; if twenty-three verses had to be fought
through at one standing, in our hearing, we should smile with a musical
ghastliness and perish.

At the back of the chapel there is a Sunday-school. It was built
in 1849. The number of scholars “on the books” is 120, and
the average attendance will be about 90. In connection with the school
there is a nice little library, and if the children read the books in
it, and legitimately digest their contents, they will be brighter than
some of their parents. There are two Sunday services at the chapel—one
in the morning, and the other in the evening. No religious meetings
are held in it during weekdays; the minister couldn’t stand them; he
is getting old and rotund; and, constitutionally, finds it quite hard
enough to preach on Sundays. “He would be killed,” said
one of the deacons to us the other day, in a very earnest and sympathetic
manner, “if he had to preach on week days—he’s so stout,
you know, and weighs so heavy.” We hardly think he would be killed
by it. Standing in a narrow pulpit for a length of time must necessarily
be fatiguing to him; but why can’t things be made easy? If a high seat—a
tall, broad, easy, elastic-bottomed chair—were procured and fixed
in the pulpit, he could sit and preach comfortably; or a swing might
be procured for him. Such a contrivance would save his feet, check his
perspiration, and console his dorsal vertebra. We suggest the propriety
of securing a chair or a swing. It would be grand preaching and swinging.

The congregation at Vauxhall-road Chapel is pre-eminently of a working-class
character. Nearly the whole of the pew holders are factory people; not
above six or seven of them find employment outside of mills. They are
a plain, honest, enthusiastic, home-spun class of folk. A few there
may be amongst the lot who are authoritative, or saucy, or ill-naturedly
solemn; but the generality are simple-dealing, quaintly-exhuberant,
oddly-straightforward, and primitively-pious people—distinctly
sincere, periodically eccentric, and fond of a good religious outburst,
a shining spiritual fandango now, and then.

As we have before intimated the minister of the Chapel is Mr. Thomas
Haworth. During the first 18 years of his ministry he received 20s.
a week for his services; for three years afterwards he got 25s.; during
the last two he has had 30s. per week; and his temporal consolation
is involved in a sovereign and a half at present. Be is 54 years of
age, has had very little education, believes in telling the truth as
far as he knows it, and cares for nobody. He has a strongly intuitive
mind; is full of human nature; is broad-faced, very fat and thoroughly
English in look: has a chin which is neither of the nutmeg nor the cucumber
order, but simply double; weighs heavier than any other parson in Preston;
couldn’t run; gets out of breath and pants when he goes up the pulpit
stairs; has his own ideas, and likes sticking to them, about everything;
has neither cunning nor deception in him; is rough but honest; is without
polish but full of common sense; would have been a good companion for
Tim Bobbin in his better moments, and for Sam Slick in his unctuous
periods; cares more for thoughts than grammar; likes to rush out in
a buster when the spell is upon him; can either shout you into fits
or whisper you to sleep—is, in a word, a virtuous and venerable
“caution.” He is the right kind of man for humble, queer-thinking;
determined, sincerely-singular Christians; is just the sort of person
you should hear when the “blues” are on you; has much pathos,
much fire, much uncurbed virtue in him; is a sort of theological Bailey’s
Dictionary—rough, ready, outspoken, unconventional, and funny;
is a second Gadsby in oddness, and force, and sincerity, but lacks Gadsby’s
learning. Unlike the bulk of parsons, Mr. Haworth does his own marketing.
You may see him almost any Saturday in the market, with a huge orthodox
basket in his hand—a basket bulky, and made not for show, but
for holding things. He has no pride in him, and thinks that a man shouldn’t
be ashamed of buying what he has to eat, and needn’t blush if he has
to carry home what he wants to digest. His sermons in both manner and
matter are essentially Haworthian. There is no gilt, no mock modesty
in his style; there is to vapid sentimentalism in the ideas he expounds.
A broad, unshaven, every-day Lancashire vigour pervades both; and what
he can’t make out he guesses at. In the pulpit he seems earnest but
uneasy—honest, but fidgetty about his eyes, and legs. Watch him:
he preaches extemporaneously, but often peers up and winks, and often
looks down at his bible and squeezes his eyes. He has a great predilection
for turning to the left—that he apparently thinks is the right
side for small appeals of a special character; and when he gets back
again, for the purpose of either looking at his book or sending out
a new idea, he makes a short oscillating waddle—a sharp, whimsical,
wavy motion, as if he either wanted to get his feet out of something
or stir forward about half an inch. He pitches his hands about with
considerable activity, and often flings himself suddenly into a white-heat,
tantrum of virtue, and the brethren like him when be does this. He is
original when stormy; is refreshing when his temper is up. His style
is natural—is a reflection of himself—is warm with life,
is odd, and at times fierce through the power of his sincerity. His
illustrations are all homely; his theories most original; his expressions
most honest and quaint. He has a fondness for the Old Testament—likes
to get into the company of Isaiah, Jeremiah, &c.; sometimes touches
the hem of Habakkuk’s garment; and nods at a distance occasionally at
Joel and the other minor prophets. We should like to see a Biblical
Commentary from his pen; it, would be immortal on account of its straightforwardnsss
and oddity. Adam Clarke and Matthew Henry must sometimes turn over in
their graves when he expounds the more mysterious passages of sacred
writ. To no one does Mr. Haworth hold the candle; he is candid to all,
and pitches into the entire confraternity of his hearers sometimes.
He said one Sunday “None of you are ower much to be trusted—none
of us are ower good, are we? A, bless ya, I sometimes think if I were
to lay my head on a deacon’s breast—one of our own lot—may
be there would be a nettle in’t or summut at sooart.” He is partial
to long “Oh’s,” and “Ah’s” and solemn breathings;
and sometimes tells you more by a look or a subdued, calmly-moulded
groan than by dozens of sentences. He spices his sermons considerably
with the Lancashire dialect; isn’t at all nice about aspirates, inflection,
or pronunciation; thinks that if you have got hold of a good thing the
best plan is to out with it, and to out with it any way, rough or smooth,
so that it is understood. He never stood at philological trifles in
his life, and never will do. Those who listen to him regularly think
nothing of his singularities of gesture and expression; but strangers
are bothered with him. Occasionally the ordinary worshippers look in
different directions and smile rather slyly when he is budding and blossoming
in his own peculiar style; but they never make much ado about the business,
and swallow all that comes very quietly and good-naturedly. Strangers
prick their ears directly, and would laugh right out sometimes if they
durst. There are not many collections at the chapel, but those which
are made are out of the ordinary run. Two were made on the Sunday we
were there, and they realised what?—not £5, nor £10,
nor £12, as is the custom at some of our fashionable places of
worship,—no, they just brought in £63 3s. 9d. At the request
of the minister, who announced the sum, the congregation set to and
sung over it for a short time. Simplicity and liberality, mingled with
much earnestness and a fair amount of self-righteousness, are the leading
traits of the “elect” at Vauxhall-road chapel; whilst their
minister is a curious compilation of eccentricity, sagacity, waddlement,
winking, straightforwardness, and thorough honesty.

CHRIST CHURCH.

About 33 years since there was a conquest somewhat Norman in Preston
and the neighbourhood; and the “William” of it was an industrious
ex-joiner. In 1836, and during the next two years, four churches—three
in Preston and one in Ashton—were erected through the exertions
of the Rev. Carus Wilson, who was vicar here at that time; each of them
was built in the Norman style; and the general of them was a plodding
man who had burst through the bonds of joinerdom and winged his way
into the purer and more lucrative atmosphere of architectural constructiveness.
One of the sacred edifices whose form passed through his alembic was
Christ Church and to this complexion of a building we have now come.
There is so much and so little to be said about Christ Church that we
neither know where to begin nor how to end. Nobody has yet said that
Christ Church, architecturally, is a very nice place; and we are not
going to say so. It is a piece of calm sanctity in-buckram, is a stout
mass of undiluted lime stone, has been made ornate with pepper castors,
looks sweetly-clean after a summer shower, is devoid of a steeple, will
never be blown over, couldn’t be lifted in one piece, and will nearly
stand forever. It is as strong as a fortress; has walls thick enough
for a castle; is severely plain but full of weft; has no sympathy with
elaboration, and is a standing protest against masonic gingerbread.
It rests on the northern side of Fishergate-hill; between Bow-lane and
Jordan-street, is surrounded with houses, has two entrances with gateposts
which might, owing to their solidity, have descended lineally from the
pillars of Hercules; is entirely out of sight on the eastern side; and
from the other points of the compass can be seen better a mile off with
a magnifying glass than 20 yards off without one. There is something
venerable and monastic, something substantial and coldly powerful about
the front; but the general building lacks beauty of outline and gracefulness
of detail. Christ Church is the only place of worship in Preston built
of limestone; and if it has not the prettiest, it has the cleanest exterior.
There is no “matter in its wrong place” (Palmerston’s definition
of dirt) about it. If you had to run your hand all round the building—climbing
the rails at the end to do so—you might get scratched, but wouldn’t
get dirtied. The foundation stone of Christ Church was laid in 1836,
and in the following year the place was opened. Adjoining the church
there is a graveyard, which is kept in excellent condition. Some burial
grounds are graced with old hats, broken pots, ancient cans, and dead
cats; but this has no such ornaments; it is clean and neat, properly
levelled, nicely green-swarded, and well-cared for. The first person
interred in the ground was the wife of the first incumbent—the
Rev. T. Clark. Outside and in front of the building there is a large
blue-featured clock with a cast-iron inside. It was fixed in 1857, and
there was considerable newspaper discussion at the time as to what it
would do. Time has proved how well it can keep time. It is looked after
by a gentleman learned in the deep mysteries of horology, who won’t
allow its fingers to get wrong one single second, who used to make his
own solar calculations in his own observatory, on the other side of
Jordan (street), who gets his time now from Greenwich, who has drilled
the clock into a groove of action the most perfect, and who would have
just cause to find fault with the sun if antagonising with its indications.
He his thoroughly master of the clock, and could almost make it stop
or go by simply shouting or putting up his finger at it. It is a good
clock, however blue it may look; it has gone well constantly; and, if
we may credit the words of one of the clock manager’s sanguine brethren,
“is likely to do so.” At the entrance doors there are two
curious pieces of wood exactly like spout heads. Some people say they
are for money; but we hardly think so, for during our visits to the
church we have seen no one go too near them with their hands.

The interior of Christ Church is plain, and rather heavy-looking.
But it is very clean and orderly. The chancel of the building is circular,
tastefully painted, with a calm subdued light, and looks rich. The ceiling
of the church is lofty, and very woody—is crossed by four or five
unpoetical-looking beams which deprive the building of that airiness
and capaciousness it would otherwise possess. Contiguous to the chancel
there is a galleried transept; a large gallery also runs along the sides
and at the front end of the general building. The seats below are substantial
and high; very small people when they sit down in them go right out
of sight—if you are sitting behind you can’t see them at all;
people less diminutive show their occiput moderately; ordinarily-sized
folk keep their heads and a portion of their shoulders just fairly in
sight. About 560 people can be accommodated below and 440 in the galleries.
There are several free sittings in front of the pulpit—good seats
for hearing, but rather too conspicuous; just within each entrance on
the ground floor there are more free sittings; and all the pews in the
galleries except the two bottom rows—let at a low figure—are,
we believe, also free. Altogether there are about 400 seats free and
tolerably easy in the building. There are many pretty stained glass
memorial windows in the church; indeed, if it were not for these the
building would have a very cold and unpleasantly Normanised look. They
tone down its severity of style, and cast gently into it a mellowed
light akin to that of the “dim religious” order. They are
narrow, circular-headed; and occupy the front, the sides, the transept,
and the chancel. All the lower windows in the building, except two or
three, are filled in with stained glass. The windows were put in by
the following parties:- Four by Mr. Edward Gorst (afterwards Lowndes),
one in memory of his wife and two children, another in memory of Mr.
Septimus Gorst, his wife and only child, and two in commemoration of
the 20 years services of the late Rev T. Clark at the church; five by
the late Mr. J. Bairstow—two of them being in memory of his sisters,
Miss Bairstow and Mrs. Levy; two in memory of the late Mr. J. Horrocks,
sen., and Mrs. Horrocks his wife, by their children; one in memory of
the late Mr. John Horrocks, jun., by his widow and two sisters; one
to the memory of Mr. Lowndes by his son; two by the late Mrs. Clark,
one, we believe, being in memory of her mother, whilst the other does
not appear to have any personal reference; one by the Rev. Raywood Firth,
the present incumbent, in memory of Miss Buck, who remembered him kindly
in her will; and one by the Rev. Mr. Firth and his wife, which was put
up when the Rev. T. Clark relinquished the incumbency, and gave way
for his son-in-law. This “in memoriam” act was done out
of affection and not because the incumbency was changing hands. The
pulpit in the Church is tall and somewhat handsome. It occupies a central
position, in front of the chancel, and is flanked by two reading desks,
one being used for prayers and the other for lessons. There is no clerk
at this church; and there were never but two connected with the place;
one being the late Mr. Stephen Wilson, of the firm of Wilson and Lawson;
and the other the late Mr. John Brewer, of the firm of Bannister and
Brewer of this town. The responses are now said by the choir; and everything
appertaining to the serious problems of surplice and gown arranging,
pulpit door opening and shutting, is solved by black rod in waiting—the
beadle.

The first incumbent of Christ Church was the Rev. T. Clark—a
kindly-exact, sincere, quiet-moving gentleman, who did much good in
his district, visited poor people regularly, wasn’t afraid of going
down on his knees in their houses, gave away much of that which parsons
and other sinners generally like to keep—money, and was greatly
respected. We shall always remember him—remember him for his quaint,
virtuous preciseness, his humble, kindly plodding ways, his love of
writing with quill pens and spelling words in the old-fashioned style,
his generosity and mild, maidenly fidgetiness, his veneration for everything
evangelical, his dislike of having e put after his name, and his courteous,
accomplished, affable manners. For 27 years—having previously
been curate at the Parish Church in this town—Mr. Clark was incumbent
of Christ Church.

He was succeeded by his son-in-law, the Rev. Raywood Firth, who has
worked through Longfellow’s excelsior gamut rapidly and successfully.
The father of Mr. Firth was a Wesleyan Methedist minister, and, singular
to say, was at one time—in some Yorkshire circuit we believe—the
superintendent of a gentlemen who is now, and has been for some years,
the incumbent of a Preston church. A few years ago Mr. Firth visited
Preston as secretary of a society in connection with the Church of England;
then got married to the daughter of the Rev. T. Clark; subsequently
became curate of that gentlemen’s church; and in 1864 was made its incumbent.
Well done! The ascent is good. We like the transition. Mr. Firth is
a minute, russet-featured gentleman; is precise in dress, neat in taste;
gets over the ground quietly and quickly; has a full, clear, dark eye;
has a youthful clerical countenance; has given way a little to facial
sadness; is sharp and serious; has a healthy biliary duct, and has carried
dark hair on his head ever since we knew him; is clear-sighted, shy
unless spoken to, and cautious; is free and generous in expression if
trotted out a little; is no bigot; dislikes fierce judgments and creed-reviling;
likes visiting folk who are well off; wouldn’t object to tea, crumpet,
and conversation with the better end of his flock any day; visits fairly
in his district, and says many a good word to folk in poverty, but would
look at a floor before going down upon it like his predecessor; thinks
that flags and boards should be either very clean or carpeted before
good trousers touch them; minds his own business; is moderately benevolent,
but doesn’t phlebotomise himself too painfully; never sets his district
on fire with either phrensied lectures or polemical tomahawking; takes
things easily and respectably; believes in his own views rather strongly
at times; loves putting the sacred kibosh upon things occasionally;
is well educated, can think out his own divinity; need never buy sermons;
has a clear, quiet-working, fairly-developed brain; is inclined to thoughtfulness
and taciturnity; might advantageously mix up with the poor of his district
a little more; needn’t care over much for the nods of rich folk, or
the green tea and toast of antique Spinsters; might be a little heartier,
and less reserved; is a sincere man; believes in what he teaches; and
is thoroughly evangelical; is more enlightened than three-fourths of
our Preston Church of England parsons, and doesn’t brag over his ability.
His salary is about £400 a year, and that is a sum which the generality
of people would not object to. He is a good reader, is clear and energetic,
but shakes his head a little too much. In the pulpit he never gets either
fast asleep or hysterical. He can preach good original sermons—carefully
worked out, well-balanced, neatly arranged; and he can give birth to
some which are rather dull and mediocre. His action is easy, yet earnest—his
style quiet yet dignified; his matter often scholarly, and never stolen.
He is not a, “gatherer and disposer of other men’s stuff,”
like some clerical greengrocers: what he says is his own, and he sticks
to it.

There are two full services, morning and evening, and prayers in
an afternoon, on Sundays, at the church; and on a Tuesday evening there
is another service,—attended only slenderly, and patronised principally,
we are afraid, by elderly females, whose sands have run down, and who
couldn’t do much harm now if they were very solicitous on the subject.
The attendance on Sundays is pretty large—particularly in a morning.
The adult congregation used to be very select and high in the instep—was
a kind of second edition of St. George’s, in three volumes. It is still
numerous, but not so choice; still proud but not so well bred; still
stiff, serene, lofty-minded, and elanish, but not so wealthy as is formerly
was. The superior members of the congregation, as a rule, gravitate
downwards, have seats on the ground floor,—it is vulgar to sit
in the galleries. They are all excellently attired; the “latest
thing” may be seen in hair, and bonnets, and dresses; the best
of coats and the cleanest of waistcoats are also observable. A cold
tone of gentle-blooded, high-middle-class respectability prevails. Much
special adhesiveness exists amongst them. Small charmed circles, little
isolated coteries, fond of exclusive devotional dealing, and “keeping
themselves to themselves,” are rather numerous. Many good and
some very inquisitive and gossipy people attend—individuals who
know all your concerns, can tell how many glasses you had last week
and where you had them at, and like to make quiet hints on the subject
to others. The congregation is substantial in look, and possesses many
excellent qualities; but there is a great amount of what Dr. Johnson
would call “immiscibility” in it. Nearly every part of it
has a very strong notion that it is better than any other part. As in
the grocer’s shop pictured by one of our best wits, so is it here—the
tenpenny nail looks upon the tin tack and calmly snubs it; the long
sixes eye the farthing dips and say they are poor lights; the bigger
articles seem cross and potent in the face of the smaller; the little
look big in the face of the less; and the infinitessimal clap their
wings when they make a comparison with nothing. The congregation at
Christ Church won’t mix itself up; is fond of “distance”;
says, in a genteely pious tone, “keep off”; can’t be approached
beyond a certain point; isn’t sociable; won’t stand any hand-shaking
except is its own peculiar circles. We know a person who has gone for
above 20 years to one of our Methodist chapels, and yet nobody has ever
said, on either entering or leaving the place, “How are you?”
The very same thing would have happened if that same person had gone
to Christ Church, unless there had been some connection with a special
circle. In all our churches and chapels there is sadly too much of this
rigid isolation, this frigid “Don’t know you” business.
Clanishness and cleanliness occupy front ranks at Christ Church, and
if the Scotch tartans were worn in it, the theory of distinction would
be consummated. We would advise Mr. Firth to write northward—beyond
the Firth of Forth (oh!)—for samples of plaids. The congregation
on the whole is pretty liberal; can subscribe fair sums of money; but
the collections are not now what they once were; the main reason being
that there is not the same wealth in the place as there used to be.

The music at Christ Church was, until lately, very good; it now seems
to be degenerating a little. There is a splendid organ in the building.
It cost about £1,000, and, with the exception of that at St. George’s,
is about the best in the town. The late Mr. J. Horrocks, jun., contributed
handsomely towards the organ; played it gratuitously; gave liberally
towards the choir expenses; and Christ Church is under a lasting debt
of gratitude to him for his excellent services. The organ is blown by
two small engines, driven by water; so that its music literally resolves
itself into a question of wind and water. The tones of the instrument
are good, and they are very fairly brought out by the present organist.
The services are well got through, and whilst Puritanism is on the one
hand avoided in them, Ritualism is on the other distinctly discarded.
A medium course, which is the best, is observed in the church, and so
long as Mr. Firth remains at the place there will be nothing bedizened
or foolish in its ceremonies. A small memorial place of worship, which
will operate as a “chapel of ease” for Christ Church, has
been built in Bird-street. Belonging to Christ Church there are some
good day and Sunday schools. They are numerously attended, and well
supervised. Adults have a room to themselves on a Sunday, and they go
through the processes of instruction patiently, benignly, and without
thrashing. At one time there was a school connected with the church
in Wellfield-road; but when St. Mark’s was erected the building and
the scholars were transferred to its care. Viewing everything right
round, it may be said that Christ Church is a good substantial building,
but is rather too plain and weighs too much for its size; that its minister
is a mildly-toned, well-educated, devout gentleman, with no cant in
him, with a tender bias to the side of gentility, and born to be luckier
than three-fourths of the sons of Wesleyan parsons; that its congregation
is influential, rose-coloured, good-looking, numerous, thinks that everybody
is not composed exactly of the same materials, believes that familiarity
is a flower which must be cautiously cultivated; that its religious
and educational operations are extensive; and that if all who are influenced
by them would only carry out what they are taught—none of us do
this over well—they would be models from which plaster casts might
be taken either for artistic purposes or the edification of heathens
generally.

WESLEY AND MOOR PARK METHODIST CHAPELS.

These two places of worship must constitute one dose. They are in
the same circuit, are looked after by the same ministers, and if we
gave a separate description of each we should only be guilty of that
unpleasant “iteration” which Shakspere names so forcibly
in one of his plays. Wesley Chapel is the older of the two, and, therefore,
must be first mentioned. It is situated in North-road, at the corner
of Upper Walker-street, and we dare say that those who christened it
thought they were doing a very hand-some thing—charming the building
with a name, and graciously currying favour with the Wesley family.
People have a particular liking for whoever or whatever may be called
after them, and good old John may sometimes look down approvingly upon
the place and tell Charles that he likes it. The chapel, which was built
in 1838, enjoys the usual society of all pious buildings: it has two
public houses and a beershop within thirty yards of its entrance, and
they often seem to be doing a brisker business than it can drive, except
during portions of the Sunday when they are shut up, and, consequently,
have not a fair chance of competing with it. The chapel is square in
form, has more brick than stone in its composition, and has a pretty
respectable front, approached by steps, and duly guarded by iron railings.
Neither inside nor outside the building is there anything architecturally
fine. A decent mediocrity generally pervades it. The entrances are narrow,
and there is often a good deal of pushing and patient squeezing at the
neck of them. But nobody is ever hurt, and not much bad temper is manifested
when even the collateral pew doors mix themselves up with the crowd,
and prevent people from getting in or out too suddenly. The chapel,
although simple in style, is clean, lofty, and light. A gallery of the
horse shoe pattern runs round the greater portion of it. Thin iron pillars
support the gallery and the “chancel” end, which is arched
and recessed for orchestral accomodation, is flanked by fluted imitation
columns.

There is accomodation in the place for between 800 and 900 persons;
but it is not often that all the seats are filled. The average attendance
will be about 800; and nearly every one making up that number belongs
to the working-class section of life. Amongst the body are many genial
good-hearted folk-people who believe is doing right without telling
everybody about it, in obliging you without pulling a face over it;
and there are also individuals in the rank and file of worshippers who
are very Pecksniffian and dismal, cranky, windy, authoritative, who
would look sour if eating sugar, would call a “church meeting”
if you wore a lively suit of clothes, and would tell you that they were
entitled to more grace than anybody else, and had got more. The better
washed and more respectably dressed portion of the congregation sit
at the back of the central range of seats on the ground floor, also
along portions of the sides, and in front of the gallery. Towards the
front of the central seats there is a confraternity of humble earnest-looking
beings, including several aged persons, who are true types in form,
manner, and dress, of unsophisticated Methodists. Here, as elsewhere,
there are very few people in the chapel ten minutes “before the
train starts.” Those present at that time are mainly middle-aged,
unpretentious, and very seriously inclined; others of a higher type
follow; and then comes the rush, which lasts for about five minutes.
Worship is conducted in the chapel with considerable quietness. You
may hear the long-drawn gelatinous sigh, the subdued, quiet, unctuous
“amen,” and if the thing gets hot a few lively half-innate
exclamations are thrown into the proceedings. But there is nothing in
any of them of a turbulent or riotous character. The parsons can draw
out none of the worshippers into a very ungovernable frame of mind;
and we believe none of the people have for some time been very violent
in either their verbal expressions or physical contortions. They are
beginning to take things quietly, and to work inwardly during periods
of bliss. There are about 400 “members” in connection with
Wesley Chapel, and we hope they are nearly half as good as such like
people usually profess to be. The rule in life is for people to be about
one-third as virtuous as they say they are; and if they can be got a
trifle beyond that point by any legitimate process, it is something
to be thankful for.

There is a very fair organ at Wesley Chapel, and the person who plays
it does the requisite manipulative business with good ordinary skill.
The choir is a sort of family compact; the members of one household
preponderate in it; but its arrangements are well worked, and the music,
taking everything into account, is pretty fair. It is far from being
classical; but it will do. The singing in the galleries and below is
full, if not very sweet; is spirited and generously expressed if not
so melodious. Quite the old style of vocalising prevails in some quarters
of the place, and it is mainly patronised by old people; they swing
backwards and forwards gently and they sing, get into all kinds of keys,
experimentally, put their hands on the pew sides or fronts, beating
time with the music as the business proceeds, and like singing hymn
ends over again. There is a school beneath the chapel. On week-days
its average attendance is about 115; and on Sundays 450.

We must now for a moment pass on to Moor Park Chapel. This is a new,
and somewhat genteel-looking building—has a rather “taking”
outside, and is inclined to be smart within. It was opened on the 26th
of June, 1862. A style of architecture closely resembling that of Lancaster-road
Congregational Chapel has been followed in its construction. There is
much circular work in its ornamental details; its general arrangements
are neat, and well finished; nothing cold or sulkily Puritanical presents
itself; a degree of even taste and polish has been observed in its make.
This is a more “respectable” chapel than its companion at
the top of Walker-street; its patrons are supposed to be a somewhat
richer class. It will accommodate about 900 people; but, as at Wesley
Chapel, so here—there are more sittings than sitters. “It
has been known to hold 1,300, on an excursion,” said a quiet-minded
young man to us when we were at the chapel; but we didn’t understand
the young man, couldn’t fathom his “excursion” sentiments,
and afterwards threw ourselves into the arms of one of the ministers
for numeric protection. There is a good gallery in the building, and
the pillars which support it prop up a sort of arched canopy, like an
oblong umbrella, which is too low, too near the head, and must consequently
both confine the air, and develope sweating when the place is filled.
There is a neat pulpit in the chapel, and it is ornamented with what
seem to be panels of opaque glass. We were rather distressed on first
seeing them, being apprehensive that one of the preachers might, some
very fine Sunday, when in a mood more rapturous than usual, send the
points of his shoes right through them; but our mind was eased when
an explanation was made to the effect: that the “glass”
was ornamental zinc, and that the feet of the preachers couldn’t get
near it. Behind the pulpit there is a circular niche for the members
of the choir, who, aided and abetted in musical matters by a pretty
good harmonium, acquit themselves respectably.

The congregation, as hinted, is more “fashionable” than
that at Wesley Chapel: it is more select, has more pride in it, sighs
more gently, moans less audibly, turns up its eyes more delicately,
hardly ever gets into a “religious spree,” and is inclined
to think that piety should be genteel as well as vital. The members
here number 280. Immediately adjoining the chapel there is good school
accomodation; and the attendance appears to be very creditable. On week
days the average is two hundred; and on Sundays it reaches about four
hundred. At both Wesley and Moor Park Chapels there are week-night services
and class meetings. The former are rather dull and badly attended; and
a special effort on the part of both those who talk and those who listen
is required to get up the proceedings into a state of pleasant activity;
the latter are fairly managed, and are somewhat like “experiences
meetings;” talking, singing, and praying are done at them; there
is a constant fluctuation, whilst they are going on, between bliss and
contrition; and you are sometimes puzzled to find out—taking the
sounds made as a criterion—whether the attendants are preparing
to fight, or fling themselves into a fit of crying, or hug and pet each
other.

The circuit embraces the two chapels named, also Kirkham, Freckleton,
Bamber Bridge, Longridge, Moon’s Mill, Wrea Green, and Ashton; it has
now about 795 members; and all of them, with the exception of 115, as
figures previously given show, are in Preston. The circuit, so far as
members go, is slightly decreasing in power; but it may recruit its
forces by and bye; There has been a species of duality in it during
the past three years; its energies have been a little divided; faction
has reigned in it; there have been too many Raynerites and Adamites
and sadly too few Christians in it; pious snarling and godly backbiting
have been too industriously exercised; and one consequence has been
weakened power and a declension of progress. But the brethren are getting
more cheerful, much old spleen has subsided, and, we hope, they will
all kiss and get kind again soon.

When this sketch was first printed the Rev. T. A. Rayner was the
superintendent minister; the Rev. J. Adams being second in command;
and they worked the different sections alternately. Mr. Rayner is an
elderly gentleman, with a strong osseous frame, which is well covered
with muscle and adipose matter; he has been about 34 years in the ministry,
and should, therefore, be either very smart or very dull by this time;
he has a portly, grave, reverential look; carries with him both spectacles
and an eye-glass; is slow and coldly-keen in his mental processes; thinks
that he can speak with authority; and that all minor dogs must cease
barking when he mounts the oracular tripod; he is sincere; works well,
for his years, and in his own way does his best; he is a man of much
experience, and has fair intellectual powers; but his temperament is
very icy and flatulent; his humours heavy and watery, and a phlegmagog
purge would do him good. He is a rigid methodical man; believes in original
rules and ancient prerogatives; is a Wesleyan of the antique type, but
is devoid of force and enthusiasm; he never sets you on fire with declamation,
nor melts you with pathos; he had rather freeze than burn sinners; he
thinks the harrier principle of catching a hare is the surest, and that
travelling on a theological canal is the safest plan in the long run.
He is more cut out for a country rectory, where the main duties are
nodding at the squire and stunning the bucolic mind with platitudes,
than for a large circuit of active Methodists; he would be more at home
at a rural deanery, surrounded by rookeries and placid fish ponds, than
in a town mission environed by smoke and made up of screaming children
and thin-skinned Christians. Mr. Rayner has many good properties; but
short sermon preaching is not one of them. Some of the descendants of
that man who, according to “Drunken Barnaby,” slaughtered
his cat on a Monday, because it killed a mouse on the Sunday, were in
the bait of preaching for three hours at one stretch. Mr. Rayner never
yet preached that length of time, and we hope he never will do; but
he can, like the east wind, blow a long while in one direction. One
Sunday evening; when we heard him, be preached just one hour, and at
the conclusion intimated that he had been requested to give a short
sermon, but had drifted into a rather prolix one. We should like to
know what length he would have run out his rhetoric if be had been requested
to give a long discourse. By the powers! it would have “tickled
the catastrophe” of each listener finely—doctors would have
had to be called in, a vast amount of physic would have been required,
and it would never have got paid for in these hard times so that bad
debts would have been added to the general calamity. We could never
see any good in long sermons and nobody else ever could except those
giving them. Neither could we ever see much fun in a parson saying—“And
now lastly” more than once. In the 60 minutes discourse to which
we have alluded, the preacher got into the lastly part of the business
five times. If that other conclusive phrase—“And now, finally
brethren”—had been taken advantage of, and similarly worked,
we might never have got home till morning. Summarising Mr. Rayner, it
may be stated that he is calm, phlegmatic, earnest but too prolix, likes
to wield the rod of authority and occupy one of the uppermost seats
in the synagogue, is an industrious minister but adheres to a programme
antique and chilling, is a real Wesleyan in his conceptions, but behind
the times in spirit and mental brilliance, is in a word good, grim,
imperial, cold as ice, steady, and soundly orthodox.

Mr. Adams, the junior minister, is quite of a different mould; he
is sprightly, gamey, wide awake, full of courage, with a smack of Yankee
audacity in his manner, and a fair share of conceit in his general make
up. There is much determination in him, much of the lively bantam element
about him. He has a sharp round face which has not been spoiled by sanctimoniousness.
He is sanguine, combative, go ahead, and would like a good fight if
he got fairly into one. He cares little for forms and ceremonies; is
a good mower; wears a billycock which has passed through much tribulation
—we believe it was once the subject of a church meeting; can play
cricket pretty well, and enjoys the game; is frank, candid, and speaks
straight out; can say a good thing and knows when he has said it; has
an above-board, clear, decisive style; is not a great scholar, and would
be puzzled, like the generality of parsons, if asked how many teeth
he had in his head, or who was the grandfather of his mother’s first
uncle; knows little of Latin and less of Greek, but understands human
nature, and that, says the Clockmaker, beats scholarship; has been in
America, which accounts for the nasal ring in his talk; is active, sanguine,
free, and easy, and would enjoy either a ridotto or a fast; can utter
lively, merry things in his sermons, and does not object sometimes to
recognise the wisdom of Shakspere. Mr. Adams is a good platform speaker,
and he can give straight shots as a preacher. Sometimes his discourses
are only common-place, wordy, and featherless; but in the general run
he is much above the average of sermonisers. He has good action, can
put out considerable canvas when very warm, smacks the pulpit sides
with his hands when, particularly earnest, and occasionally makes a
direct aim at the Bible before him, and hits it. We rather like his
style; it is free, but not coarse; spirited, but not crazy; determined,
but not bigoted; and it is in no way spice with either cant or hallowed
humbug. Mr. Adams was five years in America, and he is now completing
the tenth year of his career as a regular Wesleyan minister. He has
a large veneration for his own powers and thinks there are few sons
of Adam like him in the Methodist world; still he is a hard-working,
shrewd, clear-headed little man, a good preacher, with a deal of every
day fun and sunshine in his heart, and calculated to take a considerably
higher post than that which he now occupies.

PRESBYTERIAN AND FREE GOSPEL CHAPELS.

“Who are the Presbyterians?” we can imagine many curious,
quietly-inquisitive people asking; and we can further imagine numbers
of the same class coming to various solemn and inaccurate conclusions
as to what the belief of the Presbyterians is. Shortly and sweetly,
we may say that they believe in Calvinism, and profess to be the last
sound link in the chain of olden Puritanism. They do not believe in
knocking down May poles, nor in breaking off the finger and nose ends
of sacred statues, nor in condemning as wicked the eating of mince pies,
nor in having their hair cropped so that no man can get hold of it,
like the ancient members of the Roundhead family; but in spiritual matters
they have a distinct regard for the plain, unceremonious tenets of ancient
Puritanism—for the simplicity, definitiveness, and absolutism
of Calvinism. Some persons fond of spiritual christenings and mystic
gossip have supposed that the Presbyterians who, during the past few
years, have endeavoured to obtain a local habitation and a name in Preston,
were connected with the Unitarians; others have classed them as a species
of Independents; and many have come to the conclusion that their creed
has much Scotch blood in it—has some affinity to the U.P. style
of theology, and has a moderate amount of the “Holy Fair”
business to it. The most ignorant are generally the most critically
audacious; and men knowing no more about the peculiarities of creeds
than of the capillary action of woolly horses are often the first to
run the gauntlet of opinionism concerning them. The fact of the matter
is, the Preston Presbyterians are no more and no less, in doctrine,
than Calvinists. In discipline and doctrine they are on a par with the
members of the Free Church of Scotland; but they are not connected with
that church, and don’t want to be, unless they can get something worth
looking at and taking home.

Historically, the Presbyterians worshipping in Preston don’t pretend
to date as far back as some religious sects, but they do start ancestrally
from the first epoch of British Presbyterianism. Their spiritual forefathers
had a stern beginning in this country; they were cradled in fierce tomes,
said their prayers often amid the smoke of cannons and the tumult of
armies; and maintained their vitality through one of the sternest and
most revolutionary periods of modern history. In the 17th century they
were, for a few moments, paramount in England; in 1648 nearly all the
parishes in the land were declared to be under their form of church
government; but the tide of fortune eventually set in against them;
at the Restoration Episcopacy superseded their faith; and since then
they have had to fight up their way through a long, a circuitous, and
an uneven track. Their creed, as before intimated, is Calvinistic, and
that is a sufficient definition of it. They believe in a sort of universal
suffrage, so far as the election of their pastors is concerned; and
if they have grievances on hand they nurse them for a short time, then
appeal to “the presbytery.” and in case they can’t get consolation
from that body they go to “the synod.” We could give the
history of this sect, but in doing so we should have to quote many “figures”
and numerous “facts”—things which, according to one
British statesman, can never be relied upon—and on that account
we shall avoid the dilemma into which we might be drifted. It will be
sufficient for our purpose to state that in 1866 a few persons in Preston
with a predilection for the ancient form of Presbyterianism held a consultation,
and decided to start a “church.” They had a sprinkling of
serious blood in their arteries—a tincture of well-balanced, modernised
Puritanism in their veins—and they honestly thought that if any
balm had to come out of Gilead, it would first have to pass through
Presbyterianism, and that if any physician had to appear he would have
to be a Calvinistic preacher.

They, at first, met privately, and then engaged the theatre of Avenham
Institution—a place which had previously been the nursery of Fishergate
Baptism and Lancaster-road Congregationalism. From the early part of
January, 1866, till September, 1867, they were regaled with “supplies”
from different parts of the kingdom. When they met on the second Sunday—it
would be unfair to criticise the first Curtian plunge they made—14
persons, including the preacher, put in an appearance; but the number
gradually extended; courage slowly accumulated, and eventually—in
September, 1867—the Rev. A. Bell, a gentleman young in years,
and fresh from the green isle, who pleased the Preston Presbyterians
considerably, was requested to stop with them and endeavour to make
them comfortable. Mr. Bell thought out the question briefly, got a knowledge
of the duties required, &c., and then consented to stay with the
brethren. And he is still with them; hoping that they may multiply and
replenish the earth, and spread Presbyterianism muchly. From the period
of their denominational birth up to now the Preston Presbyterians have
worshipped in the theatre of the Institution, Avenham—a place
which everybody knows and which we need not describe. There is nothing
ecclesiastical about it; the place is fit for the operations of either
lecturers, or preachers, or conjurors; and it will do for the inculcation
of Presbyterianism as well as for anything else. The leaders of the
Presbyterian body are looking out for a site upon which a new chapel
may be erected, but they have not yet found one. By-and-bye we hope
they will see a site which will suit their vision, will come up to their
ideal, and, in the words of Butler, be “Presbyterian true blue.”

The members of “the church” number at present about 112;
and the average congregation will be about 200. It includes Scotchmen,
Irish Presbyterians, people who have turned over from Baptism, Independency,
Catholicism, and several other creeds, and all of them seem to be theologically
satisfied. There ought to be elders at the place; but the denomination
seems too young for them; as it progresses and gets older it will get
into the elder stage. There is no pulpit in the building, and the preacher
gets on very well is the absence of one. If he has no pulpit he has
at least this consolation that he can never fall over such a contrivance,
as the South Staffordshire Methodist once did, when in a fit of fury,
and nearly killed some of the singers below. The congregation consists
principally of middle and working class people. Their demeanour is calm,
their music moderate, and in neither mind nor body do they appear to
be much agitated, like some people, during their moments of devotion.

The preacher, who has been about six years in the ministry, and gets
£250 a year for his duties here, is a dark-complexioned sharp-featured
man—slender, serious-looking, energetic, earnest, with a sanguine-bilious
temperament. He is a ready and rather eloquent preacher; is fervid,
emphatic, determined; has moderate action; never damages his coat near
the armpits by holding his arms too high; has a touch of the “ould
Ireland” brogue in his talk; never loudly blows his own trumpet,
but sometimes rings his own bell a little; means what he says; is pretty
liberal towards other creeds, but is certain that his own views are
by far the best; is a steady thinker, a sincere minister, a tolerably
good scholar, and a warm-hearted man, who wouldn’t torture an enemy
if he could avoid it, but would struggle hard if “put to it.”
Like the rest of preachers he has his admirers as well as those who
do not think him altogether immaculate; but taking him in toto—mind,
body, and clothes—he is a fervent, candid, medium-sized, respectable-looking
man, worth listening to as a speaker of the serious school, and calculated,
if regularly heard, to distinctly inoculate you with Presbyterianism.
It is as “clear as a bell” that he is advancing considerably
the cause he is connected with, and that his “church” is
making satisfactory progress. There is a Sabbath school attached to
the denomination. The scholars meet every Sunday afternoon in the Institution;
and their average attendance is about 90. As a denomination the Presbyterians
are pushing onwards vigorously, though quietly, and their prospects
are good.

To the Free Gospel people we next come. They don’t occupy very fashionable
quarters; Ashmoor-street, a long way down Adelphi-street, is the thoroughfare
wherein their spiritual refuge is situated. If they were in a better
locality, the probability is they would be denominationally stronger.
In religion, as in everything else, “respectability” is
the charm. We have heard many a laugh at the expense of these “Free
Gospel” folk, but there is more in their creed, although it may
have only Ashmoor-street for its blossoming ground, than the multitude
of people think of. They were brought into existence through a dispute
with a Primitive Methodist preacher at Saul-street chapel; although
previously, men holding opinions somewhat similar to theirs, were in
the town, and built, but through adverse circumstances had to give up,
Vauxhall-road chapel. In the early stages of their existence the Free
Gospellers were called Quaker Methodists, because they dressed somewhat
like Quakers, and had ways of thinking rather like the followers of
George Fox. In some places they are known as Christian Brethren; in
other parts they are recognised as a kind of independent Ranters.

About ten years ago, the Preston Free Gospel people got Mr. James
Toulmin to build a chapel for them in Ashmoor-street; they having worshipped
up to that time, first at a place on Snow-Hill and then in Gorst-street.
He did not give them the chapel; never said that he would; couldn’t
afford to be guilty of an act so curious; but he erected a place of
worship for their pleasure, and they have paid him something in the
shape of rent for it ever since. The chapel is a plain, small, humble-looking
building—a rather respectably developed cottage, with only one
apartment—and we should think that those who attend it must be
in earnest. The place seems to have been arranged to hold 95 persons—a
rather strange number; but upon a pinch, and by the aid of a few forms
planted near the foot of the pulpit, perhaps 120 could be accommodated
in it. There are just fourteen pews in the chapel, and they run up backwards
to the end of the building, the highest altitude obtained being perhaps
four yards. A good view can be obtained from the pulpit. Not only can
the preacher eye instantaneously every member of his congregation, but
he can get serene glimpses through the windows of eight chimney pots,
five house roofs, and portions of two backyards. In a season of doubt
and difficulty a scene like this must relieve him.

There are about 30 “members” of the chapel. The average
attendance on a Sunday, including all ranks, will be about 50. The worshippers
are humble people—artisans, operatives, small shopkeepers, &c.
A few of the hottest original partisans were the first to leave the
chapel after its opening. There is a Sunday school connected with the
body, and between 40 and 50 children and youths attend it on the average.
Voluntaryism in its most absolute form, is the predominant principle
of the denomination. The sect is, in reality, a “free community.”
Their standard is the bible; they believe in both faith and good works,
but place more reliance upon the latter than the former; they recognise
a progressive Christianity, “harmonising,” as we have been
told, “with science and common sense;” they object to the
Trinitarian dogma, as commonly accepted by the various churches, maintaining
that both the Bible and reason teach the existence of but one God; they
have no eucharistic sacrament, believing that as often as they eat and
drink they should be imbued with a spirit of Christian remembrance and
thankfulness; they argue that ministers should not be paid; they dispense
with pew-rents; repudiate all money tests of membership—class-pence,
&c.; make voluntary weekly contributions towards the general expenses,
each giving according to his means; and all have a voice in the regulation
of affairs, but direct executive work is done by a president and a committee.
The independent volition of Quakerism is one of their prime peculiarities.
If they have even a tea-party, no fixed charge for admission is made;
the price paid for demolishing the tea and currant bread, and crackers
being left to the individual ability and feelings of the participants.

Service is held in the chapel morning and evening every Sunday, and
the business of religious edification is very peacefully conducted.
There is a moderate choir in the chapel, and a small harmonium: The
singing is conducted on the tonic sol fa principle, and it seems to
suit Mr. William Toulmin, brother of the owner of the chapel, preaches
every Sunday, and has done so, more or less, from its opening. He gets
nothing for the job, contributes his share towards the church expenses
as well, and is satisfied. Others going to the place might preach if
they could, but they can’t, so the lot constantly falls upon Jonah,
who gives homely practical sermons, and is well thought of by his hearers.
He is a quaint, cold, generous man; is original, humble, honest; cares
little for appearances; wears neither white bands nor morocco shoes;
looks sad, rough and ready, and unapproachable; works regularly as a
shopkeeper on week days, and earnestly as a preacher on Sundays; passes
his life away in a mild struggle with eggs, bacon, butter, and theology;
isn’t learned, nor classical, nor rhetorical, but possesses common sense;
expresses himself so as to be understood—a thing which some regular
parsons have a difficulty in doing; and has laboured Sunday after Sunday
for years all for nothing—a thing which no regular parson ever
did or ever will do. We somewhat respect a man who can preach for years
without pocketing a single dime, and contribute regularly towards a
church which gives him no salary, and never intends doing. The homilies
of the preacher at Ashmoor-street Chapel may neither be luminous nor
eloquent, neither pythonic in utterance nor refined in diction, but
they are at least worth as much as he gets for them. Any man able to
sermonise better, or rhapsodise more cheaply, or beat the bush of divinity
more energetically, can occupy the pulpit tomorrow. It is open to all
England, and possession of it can be obtained without a struggle. Who
bids?

ST. JAMES’S CHURCH.

There is a touch of smooth piety and elegance in the name of St.
James. It sounds refined, serious, precise. Two of the quietest and
most devoted pioneers of Christianity were christened James; the most
fashionable quarters in London are St. James’s; the Spaniards have for
ages recognised St. James as their patron saint; and on the whole whether
referring to the “elder” or the “less” James,
the name has a very good and Jamesly bearing. An old English poet says
that “Saint James gives oysters” just as St. Swithin attends
to the rain; but we are afraid that in these days he doesn’t look very
minutely after the bivalve part of creation: if he does he is determined
to charge us enough for ingurgitation, and that isn’t a very saintly
thing. He may be an ichthyofagic benefactors only—we don’t see
the oysters as often as we could like. Not many churches are called
after St. James, and very few people swear by him. We have a church
in Preston dedicated to the saint; but it got the name whilst it was
a kind of chapel. St. James’s church is situated between Knowsley and
Berry-streets, and directly faces the National school in Avenham-lane.
“Who erected the building?” said we one day to a churchman,
and the curt reply, with a neatly curled lip, was, “A parcel of
Dissenters.”

Very few people seem to have a really correct knowledge of the history
of the place, and, for the satisfaction of all and the singular, we
will give an account of it, in the exact words of the gentleman who
had most to do with the building originally. Mr. James Fielding deposeth:-
St. James’s was erected by the Rev. James Fielding and his friends.
The occasion of its erection was this—Vauxhall-road Chapel, in
which Mr. Fielding had been preaching four or five years, had become
too small for the accomodation of the congregation worshipping there,
and it was thought advisable to open a subscription for a new and larger
building. The first stone of St. James’s was laid by Mr. Fielding, May
24th, 1837, and the place was opened for divine worship in January,
1838, under the denomination of “The Primitive Episcopal Church,”
[that beats the “Reformed Church,”—eh?] by the Rev.
J. R. Matthews, of Bedford, who was a clergyman of the Established Church.
The building was computed to seat about 1,300 people. The cost of the
place was about £1,500. After the opening, Mr. Fielding commenced
his ministry in the new church—the congregation removing from
Vauxhall Chapel into that place of worship. Not long afterwards Mr.
Fielding had a severe attack of illness, and was laid aside from his
work. From this, together with the urgency of the contractors for the
payment of their bills, it was thought advisable to sell the premises.
The late vicar of Preston, Rev. Carus Wilson, in conjunction with his
friends, offered £1,000 for the building. This was believed to
be considerably under its real value, being £500 below the cost
amount. However, under the circumstances it was decided to accept the
offer. The transfer of the premises took place in April, 1838. Mr. Fielding
continued his ministry in Preston in several other places for thirteen
years after the erection of St. James’s.

The late John Addison, Esq., of this town, says, in a document written
by himself, which we have before us, and which is entitled “Some
account of St. James’s Church, in the parish of Preston”—“A
body of Dissenters having erected a large building, capable of holding
1,100 persons, and having opened it for public worship under the name
of St. James’s Church, but, being unable to pay the expenses, offered
it for sale. The building being situated directly opposite the Central
National School, and in the immediate neighbourhood of the infant school
and Church Sunday schools, a few of the committee of the National school
thought it desirable that the building should be purchased and made
into a church for the accomodation of the children of the schools and
of the neighbourhood.” And the result was the purchase of the
Rev. James Fielding’s “Primitive Episcopal Church.”

The building is made mainly of brick, and looks very like a Dissenting
place of worship. It is a tame, moderately tall, quadrangular edifice,
flanked with stone buttresses, heavy enough to crush in its sides, fronted
with a plain gable, pierced with a few prosaic windows, and surmounted
with collateral turrets and a small bell fit for a school-house, and
calculated to swivel whilst being worked quite as much as any other
piece of sacred bell-metal in the Hundred of Amounderness. There is
a small graveyard in front of the church containing a few flat tombstones
and six young trees which have rather a struggling time of it in windy
weather. The ground spaces at the sides of the church are decorated
with ivy, thistles, chickweed, and a few venerable docks, The internal
architecture of the building is as dull and modest as that of the exterior.
The seats are stiff, between 30 and 40 inches high, and homely. Just
at present they have a scraped care-worn look, as if they had been getting
parish relief; but in time, when cash is more plentiful, their appearance
will be improved. A considerable sum of money was once spent upon the
cleaning and renovation of the church; but the paint which was put on
during the work never suited; it was either brushed on too thickly or
varnished too coarsely; it persisted in sticking to people rather too
keenly at times; would hardly give way if struggled with; and taking
into account its tenacity and ill-looks—it was finally decided
to rub it off, make things easy with pumice stone, and agitate for fresh
paint and varnish when the opportunity presented itself.

There is a large gallery in the church; but, like everything else,
it is plain, The only striking ornament in the building is a sixteen-spoked
circular window (at the chancel end), and until made to turn round it
will never be popularly attractive. In 1846 the chancel, which isn’t
anything very prepossessing, was added to the church. The pulpit is
high and rather elegant in design; the reading desk is a gothicised
fabric, and, with its open sides, reminds one more of a genteel open
gangway on which everything can be seen, than of a snug high box, like
those in which old-fashioned clerks used to sup gin and go to sleep
during the intervals. Until recently there were two wooden gas stands
at the sides of the reading desk. They looked like candlesticks, and
short-sighted people, with thin theological cuticles, and a horror of
Puseyism, disliked them. Eventually the wood was gilded, and, seeing
this, as well as knowing that candles were never gilded, and that, therefore,
the stands couldn’t be candles, the dissatisfied ones were appeased.
There are about 400 free sittings in the church; but few people appear
to care much for them. These seats are situated on each side of the
building, at the rear, and in the gallery; and they will be dying of
inanition by and bye if somebody doesn’t come to the rescue. People
don’t seem to care about having a thing for nothing in the region of
St. James’s church. They would probably flock in greater numbers to
the edifice if there were an abundance of those oysters which it is
said “Saint James gives;” but they appear to have a sacred
dread of free seats. Very recently we were at the church, and on the
side we noticed seventeen free pews. How many people do you think there
were in them? Just one delicious old woman, who wore a brightly-coloured
old shawl, and a finely-spreading old bonnet, which in its weight and
amplitude of trimmings seemed to frown into evanescence the sprightly
half-ounce head gearing of today. Paying for what they get and giving
a good price for it when they have a chance is evidently an axiom with
the believers in St. James’s. There is at present a demand for seats
worth from 7s. to 10s. each; but those which can be obtained for 1s.
are not much thought of, and nobody will look on one side at the pews
which are offered for nothing. That which is not charged for is never
cared for; and further, in respect to free pews, patronage of them is
an indication of poverty, and people, as a rule, don’t like to show
the white feather in that department.

The congregation is thin, but select—is constituted of substantial
burgeois people, and a few individuals who are comparatively wealthy.
There is a smart elegance about the bonnets and toilettes of some of
the females, and a studied precision in respect to the linen, vests,
and gloves of several of the males. Nothing gloomy, nor acetose, nor
piously-angular can be observed in them; nothing pre-eminently lustrous
is seen in the halo of the respective worshippers; yet there is a finish
about them which indicates that they have no connection with the canaille,
and that they are in some instances approaching, and in others directly
associated with, the “higher middle class.” There are only
two services a week—morning and evening, on a Sunday—at
St. James’s. Formerly there were more—one on a Sunday afternoon,
and another on a Thursday evening; but as the former was only attended
by about 30, and the latter by eight or ten, and as the fund for maintaining
a curate who had the management of them was withdrawn, it was decided
some time ago to drop the services. The Sunday congregation, although
it does not on many occasions half fill the church, is gradually increasing,
and it is hoped that during the next twenty-years it will swell into
pretty large proportions.

The choral performances form the main item of attraction in the services.
Without them, the business would be tame and flavourless. They give
a warmth and charm to the proceedings. The members of the choir sit
in collateral rows in the chancel; they are all surpliced; all very
virtuous and clerical in look; seldom put their hands into their pockets
whilst singing; and, whatever quantity of “linen” may be
got out by them they invariably endeavour to obviate violence of expression.
Their appearance reminds one of cathedral choristers. In precision and
harmony they are good; and, as a body, they manage all their work—responses,
psalm-singing, &c.—in a very satisfactory style. For their
services they receive nothing, except, perhaps, an annual treat in the
shape of a country trip or social supper. They wouldn’t have money if
it were offered to them. St. James’s is the only Preston church in which
surpliced choristers sing, and we believe they have tended materially
to increase the congregation. The choral system now followed at St.
James’s was inaugurated in 1865, Originally, the choir consisted of
12 boys and 10 men, but, if anything, parties who are under the painful
necessity of shaving now preponderate. In one corner at the chancel
end there is a moderately well-made organ; but it is not an A1 affair,
although it is played with ability by a gentleman who is perhaps second
to none hereabouts in his knowledge of ecclesiastical music. Like the
singers, the organist resolves his services into what may be termed
a “labour of love.” In other ways much may be fish which
cometh to his net; but he is, organically, of a philanthropic
turn of mind. The necessary expenses of the choir amount to about £25
a-year, and they are met by private subscriptions from the congregation.

The lessons are read in the church by Mr. Gardner, who comes up to
the lectern undismayed, with a calm, military cast of countenance, and
goes through his articulative duties in a clear, distinct style, saying
nothing to anybody near him which is not contained in the book before
him, and making neither incidental comment nor studied criticism upon
any of the verses be reads. The Rev. John Wilson, son-in-law of the
present vicar of Preston, is the incumbent of St. James’s. He is the
seventh minister who has been at the place since its transference from
the Primitive Episcopalians. The first of the seven was the Rev. W.
Harrison; the next was the Rev. P. W. Copeman; afterwards came the Rev.
W. Wailing, who was succeeded by the Rev. Mr. Betts, whose mantle fell
upon the Rev. J. Cousins. Then came the Rev A. T. Armstrong, and he
was followed by the present incumbent. During the reign of Mr. Cousins
there was a rupture at the place, and many combative letters were written
with reference to it. Up to and for some time after his appointment
the Sunday schools of the Parish and St. James’s Churches were amalgamated—were
considered as one lot; but through some misunderstanding a separation
ensued. Mr. Cousins, who had no locus standi as to the possession
of the schools, took with him some scholars, drilled them after his
own fashion for a time, and eventually the present day and Sunday schools
in Knowsley-street were built and opened on behalf of St. James’s. The
day school is at present in excellent condition, and has an average
attendance, boys and girls included, of 400; the Sunday school has an
average attendance of something like 200, the generality of the children
being of a respectable, well-dressed character, although no more disposed,
at times, than other juveniles, to be docile and peaceful.

The Rev. J. Wilson has been at St. James’s upwards of 15 years. He
was curate of the Parish Church from 1847 to 1850. In the latter year
he left in order to take the sole charge of a parish in Norfolk. In
1854 he gravitated to Preston again, and in the course of a year was
made incumbent of St. James’s. For some time he had much to contend
with in the district; and he has had up-hill work all along. He was
one of the original agitators for an alteration of the Parish Church,
and in one sense it may be said that the move he primarily made in the
matter eventuated in the restoration of that building. The creation
of St. Saviour’s Church is also largely due to him, and owing to the
building being in St. James’s district, which is a “Blandsford
parish,” and the only one of the kind in Preston we may remark,
he has the right of presentation to it. Mr. Wilson is a calm, middle-sized,
rather eccentric looking gentleman, tasteful in big hirsute arrangements,
and biased towards a small curl in the front of his forehead. He is
light on his feet, has a forward bend in his walk, as if trying to find
something but never able to get at it; has a passion for an umbrella,
which he carries both in fine and wet weather; likes a dark, thin, closely-buttoned
overcoat, and used to love a down-easter wide-awake hat. He is a frank,
independent, educated man; has no sham in him; is liberal is far as
his means will allow; works hard; has an odd, go-ahead way with him;
cares little about bowing and scraping to people; often passes folk
(unintentionally) without nodding; and has nothing of a polemically
virulent character in his disposition. There is something genuine, honest,
gentlemanly, and unreadable in him. He almost reminds one of Elia’s
inexplicable cousin. He has a special fondness for architecture; plans,
specifications, &c., have a charm for him; he is a sort of clerical
Inigo Jones; and ought to have been an architect. He is a rather polished
reader; but he holds his teeth too tightly together, and there is a
tremulousness in his voice which makes the utterances thereof rather
too unctuous. As a preacher he is clear, calm, and methodical. His sermons,
all written, are scholarly in style cool in tone, short, and, in the
orthodox sense, practical. In their delivery he does not make much stir,
he goes on evenly and rapidly, looking little to either the right hand
or the left, broiling none, and foaming never. Occasionally, but it
is quite an exception, he forgets his sermons—leaves them at home—and
this is somewhat awkward when the mistake is only found out just before
the preaching should be gone on with. But the company are kept serene
by a little extra singing, or something of that kind, and in the meantime
a rapid rush is made to the parsonage, and the missing manuscript is
secured, conveyed to the church either in a basket or a pocket, taken
into the pulpit, looked at rather fiercely, shook a little, and then
read through. How would it be if the manuscript could not be found?
Long official life appears to be the rule at St. James’s. Mr. Wm. Relph,
who died last year, was a churchwarden at the place for 21 years; Mr.
Bannister has been in office as churchwarden for nearly as long; the
person who was beadle up to last year had officiated in that capacity
for nearly eleven years; the organist has been at the church above 15
years; the mistress of the school belonging the church has been at her
post about as long; and the schoolmaster has been in office 13 or 14
years. If long service speaks well for a place, the facts we have given
are creditable alike to the church and the officials. Mr. Wilson, who
gets about £300 a year, is well-respected by all; he manages to
keep down unpleasant feuds; regulates the district peacefully, if slowly,
deserves a handsomer church, and would be quite willing, we believe,
to be its architect if one were ordered.

THE MORMONS.

There are about 1,100 different religious creeds in the world, and
amongst them all there is not one more energetic, more mysterious, or
more wit-shaken than Mormonism. It is a mass of earnest “abysmal
nonsense,” an olla-podrida of theological whimsicalities, a saintly
jumble of pious staff made up—if we may borrow an idea—of
Hebraism, Persian Dualism, Brahminism, Buddhistic apotheosis, heterodox
and orthodox Christianity, Mohammedanism, Drusism, Freemasonry, Methodism,
Swedenborgianism, Mesmerism, and Spirit-rapping. We might go on in our
elucidation; but what we have said will probably be sufficient for present
purposes. There are some deep-swimming fish in the “waters of
Mormon;” but the piscatorial shoal is sincere enough, though mortally
odd-brained and dreamy. On the 22nd of September, 1827, a rough-spun
American, named Joseph Smith, belonging to a family reputed to be fond
of laziness, drink, and untruthfulness, and suspected of being somewhat
disposed to sheep-stealing, had a visit from “the angel of the
Lord.” He had previously been told that his sins were forgiven;
that he was a “chosen instrument,” &c., and on the day
named Joseph found, somewhere in Ontario, a number of gold plates, eight
inches long and seven wide, nearly as thick as tin, fastened together
by three rings, and bearing inscriptions, in “Reformed Egyptian,”
relative to the history of America “from its first settlement
by a colony that came from the Tower of Babel at the confusion of tongues,
to the beginning of the 5th century of the Christian era.” These
inscriptions were originally got up by a prophet named Mormon were,
as before stated, found by Joseph Smith, were read off by him to a man
rejoicing in the name of Oliver Cowdery, and they constitute the contents
of what is now known as the Book of Mormon. Smith did not translate
the “Reformed Egyptian” openly—if he had been asked
to do so, he would have said, “not for Joe;” he got behind
a blanket in order to do the job, considering that the plates would
be defiled if seen by profane eyes; and deciphered them by two odd lapidistic
transparencies, called “Urim and Thummin,” which he found
at the same time as he met with the records. Report hath it that Joe’s
“translation” of the sacred plates is substantially a paraphrase
of a romance written by one Solomon Spalding; but the Mormons, or rather
the members of “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints,”
deny this, and say that at least eleven persons saw the original plates
after transcription. They may have seen them; but nobody else has, and
Heaven only knows where they are now.

Did you ever, gentle reader, see the “Book of Mormon?”
We have one before us, purchased from a real live Salt Lake missionary;
but it is so dreadfully dry and intricate, and seems to be such a dodged-up
paraphrase of our own Scriptures, that we are afraid it will never do
us any good. It professes to be a “record of the people of Nephi,
and also of the Lumanites their brethren, and also of the people of
Jared, who came from the tower.” The Mormons think it equal in
divine authority to, and a positive corollary of, the Old and New Testaments.
It consists of several books, and many chapters; the books being those
of Nephi, Jacob, Enos, Jarom, Mosiah, Alma, Helaman, Nephi, Mormon,
Ether, and Moroni. The language is quaint and simple in syllabic construction;
but the book altogether is a mass of dreamy, puzzling history—is
either a sacred fiction plagiarised, or a useless and senile jumble
of Christian and Red Indian tradition. Smith, the founder of Mormonism,
had only a rough time of it. His Church was first organised in 1830,
in the State of New York. Afterwards the Mormons went into Ohio, then
established themselves in Missouri, were next driven into Clay County,
subsequently look refuge in Illinois, and finally planted themselves
in the valley of the great Salt Lake, where they may now be found. Smith
came to grief in 1844, by a pistol shot, administered to him in Illinois
by a number of roughs; and Brigham Young, a man said to be “very
much married,” and who will now be the father of perhaps 150 children,
was appointed his successor. Mormonism is disliked by the bulk of people
mainly on account of its fondness for wives. The generality of civilised
folk think that one fairly matured creature, with a ring on one of her
left-hand fingers, is sufficient for a single household—quite
sufficient for all the fair purposes of existence, “lecturing”
included; but the Latter-day Saints, who were originally monogamists,
and whose “Book of Mormon” condemns polygamy, believe in
a plurality of housekeepers. They contend that since the finding of
the sacred record by Smith there has been a “divine” revelation
on the subject, and that their dignity in heaven will be “in proportion
to the number of their wives and children” in this.

Leaving the polygamic part of the business, we may observe that the
Mormons believe that God was once a man, but is now perfect; that any
man may rise into a species of deity if he is good enough; that mortals
will not be punished for what Adam did, but for what they have done
themselves; that there can be no salvation without repentance, faith,
and baptism; that the sacrament—bread and water—must be
taken every week; that ministerial action must be preceded by inspiration;
that Miraculous gifts have not ceased; that the soul of man “co-existed
equal with God;” that the word of God is recorded in all good
books; that there will be an actual gathering of Israel, including the
Red Indians, whom they regard with much interest as being the descendants
of an ancient tribe whose skins were coloured on account of disobedience
in some part of America about 2,400 years ago; that the “New Zion”
will be established in America; and that there will be a final resurrection
of the flesh and bones—without the blood—of men. Some of
their moral articles of belief are good, and if carried out, ought to
make the Salt Lake Valley a decent, peaceable place, notwithstanding
all the wives therein. In one of the said articles they express their
belief in being “honest, true, chaste, temperate, benevolent,
virtuous, and upright,” and further on they come down with a crash
upon idle and lazy persons, by saying that they can be neither Christians
nor enjoy salvation.

In 1837, certain elders of the Mormon church, including Orson Hyde
and Heber C. Kimball, were sent over to England as missionaries; the
first town they commenced operations in, after their arrival, was—Preston;
and the first shot they fired in Preston was from the pulpit of a building
in Vauxhall-road, now occupied by the Particular Baptists. Things got
hot in a few minutes here; it became speedily known that Hyde, Kimball,
and Co. were of a sect fond of a multiplicity of wives; and the “missionaries”
had to forthwith look out for fresh quarters. They secured the old Cock
Pit, drove a great business in it, and at length actually got about
500 “members.” Whilst this movement was going on in the
town, the missionaries were pushing Mormonism in some of the surrounding
country places. At Longton, nearly everybody went into raptures over
the “new doctrine;” Mormonism fairly took the place by storm;
it caught up and entranced old and young, married and single, pious
and godless; it even spread like a sacred rinderpest amongst the Wesleyans,
who at that time were very strong in Longton—captivating leaders,
members, and some of the scholars in fine style; and the chapel of this
body was so emptied by the Mormon crusade, that it was found expedient
to reduce it internally and set apart some of it for school purposes.
To this day the village has not entirely recovered the shock which Mormonism
gave it 30 years ago. During the heat of the conflict many Longtonians
went to the region of Mormondom in America, and several of them soon
wished they were back again. In Preston, too, whilst the Cock Pit fever
was raging numbers “went out.” After the work of “conversion,”
&c., had been carried on for a period in the sacred Pit mentioned,
the Mormons migrated to a building, which had been used as a joiners
shop, in Park-road; subsequently they took for their tabernacle an old
sizing house in Friargate; then they went to a building in Lawson-street
now used as the Weavers’ Institute, and originally occupied by the Ranters;
and at a later date they made another move—transferred themselves
to a room in the Temperance Hotel, Lime-street, which they continue
to occupy, and in which, every Sunday morning and evening, they ideally
drink of Mormondom’s salt-water, and clap their hands gleefully over
Joe Smith’s impending millenium.

There are only about 70 members of the Mormon Church in Preston and
the immediate neighbourhood at present; but they are all hopeful, and
fancy that beatification is in store for them. We had recently a half-solemn,
half-comic desire to see the very latest development of Preston Mormonism
in its Lune-street home; but having an idea that strangers might be
objected to whilst the “holding forth” was going on, that,
in fact, the members had resolved themselves, through diminished numbers,
into a species of secret conclave, we were rather puzzled to know how
the business of seeing and hearing could be accomplished. Nevertheless
we went to the Temperance Hotel, and after some conversation with a
person there—not a Mormon—we decided to go right into the
meeting-room, the idea being that, under any circumstances, we could
only be pitched into, and then pitched out. And with this notion we
entered the place, put our hat upon a table deliberately, took a seat
upon a form quietly, and then looked round coolly in anticipation of
a round of sauce or a trifle of fighting. But peace was preserved. There
were just six living beings in the room—three well-dressed moustached
young men, a thinly-fierce-looking woman, a very red-headed youth, and
a quiet little girl. For about 30 seconds absolute silence prevailed.
The thin woman then looked forward at the red-haired youth and in a
clear voice said “Bin round there yet—eh?” which elicited
the answer “Yea, and comed whoam.” “Things are flat
there as well as here aren’t they—eh?” And the red-haired
youth said “Yea.” “Factories arn’t doing much now,
are they?” said she next, and the rejoinder was “They arn’t;
bin round by Bowton, and its aw alike.” This slightly refreshing
prelude was supplemented by sapient remarks as to the weather &c.;
and we were beginning to wonder whether the general service was simply
going to amount to this kind of conversation or be pushed on “properly”
when in stepped a strong-built dark-complexioned man, who marched forward
with the dignity of an elder, until he got to a small table surmounted
by a desk, whence he drew a brown paper parcel, which he handed to one
of the moustached young men, who undid it cautiously and carefully,
“What is it going to be?” said we, mentally; when, lo! there
appeared a white table cloth, which was duly spread. The strong built
man then dived deeply into one of his coat pockets, and fetched out
of it a small paper parcel, flung it upon a form close by, seized a
soup plate into which he crumbled a slice of bread, then got a double-handled
pewter pot, into which he poured some water, and afterwards sat down
as generalissimo of the business. The individual who manipulated with
the table cloth afterwards made a prayer, universal in several of its
sentiments; but stiffened up tightly with Mormon notions towards the
close.

Two elderly men and a lad entered the room when the orison was finished,
and a discussion followed between the “general” and the
young man who had been praying as to some hymn they should sing. “Can’t
find the first hymn,” said the young man; and we thought that
a pretty smart thing for a beginning. “Oh, never mind—go
farther on—any—long meter,” uttered his interlocutor,
and he forthwith made a sanguine dash into the centre of the book, and
gave out a hymn. The company got into a “peculiar metre”
tune at once, and the singing was about the most comically wretched
we ever heard. The lad who came in with the elderly men tried every
range of voice in every verse, and thought that he had a right to do
just as he liked with the music; the elderly men near him hammed out
something in a weak and time-worn key; the woman got into a high strain
and flourished considerably at the line ends; the little girl said nothing;
the three young men seemed quite unable to get above a monotonous groan,
and the general looked forward, then down, and then smiled a little,
but uttered never a word, and seemed immensely relieved when the singing
was over. The bread which had been broken into the soup plate was next
handed round, and it was succeeded by the pewter pot measure of water.
This was the sacrament, and it was partaken of by all—the young
as well as the old. During the enactment of this part of the programme
a gaily-dressed young female, sporting a Paisley shawl, ear-rings, a
chignon, a small bonnet, and the other accoutrements of modern fashion,
dropped in, and also took the sacrament. Another hymn was here given
out, and the young woman with the Paisley shawl, &c., rushed straight
into the work of singing without a moment’s warning. She carried the
others with her, and enabled them to get through the verses easily.
Just when the singing was ended, a rubicund-featured and bosky female,
who had, perhaps, seen five-and-forty summers, landed in the room, took
a seat, and then took the sacrament. She was the last of the Mohicans,
and after her appearance the door was closed, and the latch dropped.

Speaking succeeded, and the talkers got upon their feet in accordance
with certain nods and memoes from the chairman. They all eulogised in
a joyous strain the glories of Mormonism, but never a syllable was expressed
about wives. A young moustached man led the way. He told the meeting
that he had long been of a religious turn of mind; that he was a Wesleyan
until 17 years of age; that afterwards he found peace in the Smithsonian
church; that the only true creed was that of Mormonism; that it didn’t
matter what people said in condemnation of such creed; and that he should
always stick to it. The thin woman, who seemed to have an awful tongue
in her head, was the second speaker. She panegyrised “the church”
in a phrensied, fierce-tempered, piping strain, talked rapidly about
the “new dispensation,” declared that she had accepted it
voluntarily, hadn’t been deceived by any one—we hope she never
will be—and that she was happy. Her conclusion was sudden, and
she appeared to break off just before reaching an agony-point. The third
talker was one of the old men, and he commenced with things from “before
the foundations of the world,” and brought them down to the present
day. His speech was earnest, florid, and rather argumentative in tone.
After stating that he had a pious spell upon him before visiting the
room, and that the afflatus was still upon him, he entered into a labyrinthal
defence of “the church.” “Mormonism,” he said,
“is more purer than any other doctrine that is,” and “this
here faith,” he continued, “has to go on and win.”
He talked mystically about things being “resurrectioned,”
contended that the Solomon Spalding theory had been exploded, and quoting
one of the elders, said that Mormonism began in a hamlet and got to
a village, from a village to a town, thence to a city, thence to a territory,
and that if it got “just another kick it would as sure as fate
be kicked into a great and mighty nation.” This “old man
eloquent” seemed over head and ears in Mormonism, and almost shook
with joy at certain points of his discourse.

The fourth, and the last, speaker was the chairman. He raised his
brawny frame slowly, held a Bible in one hand, and started in this fashion—“Well
I s’pose I’ve to say something; but I can’t tell what it’ll be.”
This declaration was followed up by a long, wandering mass of talk,
full of repetition and hypothetical theology—a mixture of Judaism,
Christianity, and Mormonism, and from the whole he endeavoured to distil
this “fact” that both Isaiah and St. John had made certain
prophetic statements as to the Book of Mormon and its transcription
by Joe Smith. It did not, however, appear from what he said that either
Isaiah or the seer of Patmos had named anything about the blanket trick
which had to be adopted by Joe is translating “the Book.”
But that was perhaps unnecessary; and we shall not throw a “wet
blanket” upon the matter by further alluding to it. When the chairman
had done his speech, the doxology was sung, and this was supplemented
by benediction, pronounced by a young man who shut his eyes, stretched
his hands a quarter of a yard out of his coat sleeves, and in a most
inspired and bishoply style, delivered the requisite blessing. Hand-shaking,
in which we found it necessary to join, supervened, and then there was
a general disappearance. The whole of the speakers at this meeting—which
may be taken as a fair sample of the gatherings—were illiterate
people, individuals with much zeal and little education; and the manner
in which they crucified sentences, and maltreated the general principles
of logic and common-sense, was really disheartening. They are very earnest
folk; we also believe they are honest; but, after all, they are “gone
coons,” beyond the reach of both physic and argument. We knew
none of the Mormons who attended the meeting described, and singular
to say the proprietor of the establishment wherein they assembled had
no knowledge of either their names or places of abode. They pay him
his rent regularly, and he deems that enough. All that we really know
of the sect is, that their chairman is either a mechanic or a blacksmith
somewhere, is plain, muscular, solemn looking, bass-voiced, and dreamy;
and that his flock are a small, earnest, and preciously-fashioned parcel
of sincere, yet deluded, enthusiasts.

ST. WALBURGE’S CATHOLIC CHURCH.

This is a church in charge of the Jesuits, and by them and it we
are reminded of what may fairly be termed the great leg question. The
order of Jesuits, as we lately remarked, was originated by a damaged
leg; and St. Walburge’s church, Preston, owes its existence to the cure
of one. Excellent, O legs! Tradition hath it that once upon a time—about
1160 years ago—a certain West Saxon King had a daughter born unto
him, whose name was Walburge; that she went into Germany with two of
her brothers, became abbess of a convent there, did marvellous things,
was a wonder in her way, couldn’t be bitten by dogs—they, used
to snatch half a yard off and then run, that she died on the 25th February,
778, that her relics were transferred, on the 12th October following,
to Eichstadt, at which place a convent was built to her memory, that
the said relics were put into a bronze shrine, which was placed upon
a table of marble, in the convent chapel; that every year since then,
between the 12th of October and the 25th of February, the marble upon
which the shrine is placed has “perspired” a liquid which
is collected below in a vase of silver; and that this liquid, which
is called “St. Walburge’s oil,” will cure, by its application,
all manner of physical ailments. This is the end of our first lesson
concerning St. Walburge and the wonderful oil. The second lesson runneth
thus:- About five and twenty years ago there lived, as housemaid at
St. Wilfrid’s presbytery, in this town, one Alice Holderness. She was
a comely woman and pious; but she fell one day on some steps leading
to the presbytery, hurt one of her legs—broke the knee cap of
it, we believe—and had to be carried straight to bed. Medical
aid was obtained; but the injured knee was obstinate, wouldn’t be mended,
and when physic and hope alike had been abandoned, so far as the leg
of Alice was concerned, the Rev. Father Norris, who, in conjunction
with the Rev. Father Weston, was at that time stationed at St. Wilfrid’s,
was struck with a somewhat bright thought as to the potency of St. Walburge’s
oil. A little of that oil was procured, and this is what a sister of
the injured woman says, in a letter which we have seen on the subject,
viz.:—That Father Norris dipped a pen into the oil and dropped
a morsel of it upon her knee, whereupon “the bones immediately
snapped together and she was perfectly cured, having no longer the slightest
weakness in the broken limb.”

This is a strange tale, which people can either believe or disbelieve
at their own pleasure. All Protestants—ourselves included—will
necessarily be dubious; and if any polemical lecturer should happen
to see the story he will go wild with delight, and consider that there
is material enough in it for at least six good declamatory and paying
discourses. Well, whether correct or false, the priests at St. Wilfrid’s
believed in the “miraculous cure,” and decided forthwith
to agitate for a church in honour of St. Walburge. That church is the
one we now see on Maudlands—a vast and magnificent pile, larger
in its proportions than any other Preston place of worship, and with
a spire which can only be equalled for altitude by two others in the
whole country. What a potent architectural charm was secreted in that
mystic oil with which Father Norris touched the knee of Alice! In the
“Walpurgis dance of globule and oblate spheroid,” there
may be something wonderful, but through this drop of oil from the Walpurgian
shrine an obstreperous knee snapped up into compact health instantly,
and then a large church, ornamental to Preston and creditable to the
entire Catholic population, arose. There used to be a hospital, dedicated
to Mary Magdalen, either actually upon or very near the site occupied
by St. Walburge’s Church; but that building disappeared long ago, and
no one can tell the exact character of it. Prior to, and until the completion
of, the erection of St. Walburge’s Church, schools intended for it,
and built mainly at the expense of the late Mr. W. Talbot, were raised
on some adjoining land. Service in accordance with the Catholic ritual
was held therein until the completion of the Church. Father Weston was
the leading spirit in the construction of St. Walburge’s, and to him—although
well assisted by Father Williams—may be attributed the main honour
of its development into reality. Father Cobb, of St. Wilfrid’s, laid
the foundation stone of St. Walburge’s Church, on Whit-Monday, 1850;
and on the 3rd of August, 1854, the building was opened, the ceremony
being of a very grand and imposing description. The spire of the church
was not completed until 1887. The entire cost of the place has been
about £15,000.

St. Walburge’s is built in the early decorated Gothic style of architecture,
and it is beyond all controversy, a splendid looking building. At the
eastern end there is a remarkably fine seven-light stained glass window.
This is flanked by a couple of two-light windows; and the general effect
is most imposing. The central window is 35 feet high. At the western
end there is a beautifully-coloured circular window, 22 feet in diameter,
which was given by Miss Roper; and beneath it there are small coloured
lights, put in by Father Weston out of money left him by Miss Green.
Nearly all the side windows in the church are coloured, and four of
them are of the “presentation” stamp. The most prominent
thing about the church is the spire, which, as well as the tower, is
built of limestone, and surmounted by a cross, the distance from its
apex to the ground being about 301 feet. We saw the weather vane fixed
upon this spire, and how the man who did the job managed to keep his
head from spinning right round, and then right off, was at the time
an exciting mystery to us which we have not yet been able to properly
solve. A little before the actual completion of the spire, we had a
chance of ascending it, but we remained below. The man in charge wanted
half-a-crown for the trip; and as we fancied that something like £5
ought to be given to us for undertaking a journey so perilous, it was
mutually decided that we should keep down. Why, it would be a sort of
agony to ascend the spire under the most favourable circumstances; and
as one might only tumble down if ascension were achieved, the safest
plan is to keep down altogether. We have often philosophised on the
question of punishment, and, locally speaking, we have come to this
conclusion, that agony would be sufficiently piled in any case of crime,
if the delinquent were just hoisted to the top of St. Walburge’s spire
and left there. From the summit of the tower, which is quite as high
as safe-sided human beings need desire to get, there is a magnificent
view: Preston lurches beneath like a hazy amphitheatre of houses and
chimneys; to the east you have Pendle, Longridge, and the dark hills
of Bowland; northwards, in the far distance, the undulating Lake hills;
westward, the fertile Fylde, flanked by the Ribble, winding its way
like a silver thread to the ocean; and southwards Rivington Pyke and
Hoghton’s wooded summit with a dim valley to the left thereof, in which
Blackburn works and dreams out its vigorous existence. The general scenery
from the tower is panoramic and charming. The view from the spire head
must be immense and exquisite, but few people of this generation, unless
a very safe plan of ascension is found out, will be able to enjoy it.
In the tower there is a large bell, weighing 31 cwt.; and it can make
a very considerable sound, drowning all the smaller ringing arrangements
in the neighbourhood. Some time, but not yet, there will probably be
a peal of twelve bells in the tower, for it has accomodation for that
number.

Internally the church is very high and spacious; is decorated artistically
in many places; and a sense of mingled solemnity and immensity comes
over you on entering it. The roof is a tremendous affair; it is open,
and supported by eleven huge Gothic-fashioned principals, each of which
cost £100, and it is panelled above with stained timber. But we
don’t care very much for the roof. No doubt it is fine; but the whole
of the wood work seems too, heavy and much too dark. There is a cimmerian
massiveness about it; and on a dull day it looks quite bewildering.
If it were stained in a lighter colour its proportions would come out
better, and much of that gigantic gloom which now shadows it would be
removed. There are canopied stands for two and twenty statues towards
the base of the principals; but the whole of them, except about five,
are empty. Saints, &c., will be looked after for these stands when
money is more abundant, and when more essential work has been executed.
What seems to be proximately wanted in the church is a good sanctuary—something
in keeping with the general design of the building and really worthy
of the place. It is intended, we believe, to have a magnificent sanctuary;
but a proper design for one can’t be exactly hit on; when it is, the
past liberality of the congregation is a sufficient guarantee that the
needful article—money—will be soon forthcoming. Notwithstanding
the greatness of the church, it will not seat as many as some smaller
places of worship. This is accounted for through its having no galleries.
There is a small elevation in the shape of a gallery at the western
end, which is seldom used; but the sides of the church are open, the
windows running along them rendering this necessary. The church will
comfortably seat about 1,000 persons; 1,700 have been seen in it; but
there had to be much crushing, and all the aisles, &c., had to be
filled with standing people to admit such a number. The seats are all
well made and all open.

On a Sunday masses are said at eight, nine, ten, and eleven, and
there is an afternoon service at three. The aggregate average attendance
on a Sunday is about 3,000. There are three confessionals in the church,
towards the south-eastern-corner; they stand out like small square boxes,
and although made for everybody seem specially adapted for thin and
Cassius-like people. Falstaff’s theory was—more flesh more frailty.
If this be so, then, there are either very few “great” sinners
at St. Walburge’s or the large ones confess somewhere else. The worshippers
at this church are, in nine cases out of ten, working people. The better
class of people sit at the higher end of the central benches; and if
one had never seen them there no difficulty would be experienced in
finding out their seats. You may always ascertain the character of worshippers
by what they sit upon. Working-class people rest upon bare boards; middle-class
individuals develop the cushion scheme to a moderate pitch; the upper
species push it towards consummation-like ease, and therefore are the
owners of good cushions. Very few cushions can be seen in St. Walburge’s;
those noticeable are at the higher end; and the logical inference, therefore,
is that not many superb people attend the place, and that those who
do go sit just in the quarter mentioned. At the doors of this church,
as at those of other Catholic places of worship in the town, you may
see men standing with boxes, asking for alms. These are brothers of
the Society of St. Vincent de Paul. The object of this society is to
visit and relieve the sick and the poor. The brothers are excellent
auxiliaries of the clergy; and, further, do the work of the mendicity
societies, like those now being established in London, by examing applications
for relief, and so disappointing impostors. The conference of St. Vincent
attached to St. Walburge’s Church numbers 16 active members, who collected
and distributed in food and clothing during last year £112. The
brothers are deserving of all praise for spending their evenings in
visiting the sick and distressed, in courts and alleys, after their
day’s work.

The singers at this church occupy a small balcony on the south side.
They are a pretty musical body—got through their business ever
so creditably; but they are rather short of that which most choirs are
deficient in—tenor power. They would be heard far better if placed
at the western end but a good deal of expense would have to be incurred
in making orchestral arrangements for them there; so that for some time,
at least, they will have to be content with their grated and curtained
musical hoist on the southern side, singing right out as hard as they
can at the pulpit, which exactly faces them, and at the preacher, if
they like, when he gets into it. The organ, which is placed above the
singers, and would crush them into irrecoverable atoms if it fell, is
a fine instrument; but it is pushed too far into the wall, into the
tower which backs it, and if there are any holes above, much of its
music must necessarily escape up the steeple. The organ is played with
taste and precision. The members of the choir sing gratuitously.

Since the opening of St. Walburge’s there have been twelve different
priests at it. Three are in charge of it now. Father Weston was the
first priest, and, as already stated, was the mainspring of the church.
He died on the 14th of November, 1867, and to his memory a stained glass
window will by and bye be fixed in the church. This window is in Preston
now; we have seen it—it is a most beautiful piece of workmanship;
and as soon as the requisite money is “resubscribed,” the
original contributions having, through unfortunate financial circumstances,
been more than half sacrificed, it will be fixed. Father Henry, late
rector of Stonyhurst College, was for some time at St. Walburge’s, and
during his stay the work begun by Father Weston, and pushed on considerably
by successive priests, was elaborated and finished. The three priests
now at St. Walburge’s are Fathers J. Johnson (principal), Payne, and
Papall. Father Johnson, who has been at the church about fourteen months,
is a spare, long-headed, warm-hearted, unostentatious man. He is between
50 and 60 years of age; has a practical, weather-beaten, shrewd look;
would be bad to “take in;” has much latent force; is a kindly,
fatherly preacher; is dry in humour till drawn out, and then can be
very genial; is a sharp man, mentally and executively; has been provincial
of the Jesuits and rector of Stonyhurst College; knows what’s what,
and knows that he knows it; is determined, but can be melted down; seems
cold and sly, but has a kind spirit and an honest tongue in his bead;
and is the right man for his position.

Father Payne has been at St. Walburge’s about four years. He has
passed 40 summers in single blessedness, and says he intends to “last
it out.” His preaching is serious and earnest in style. His eloquence
may not be so captivating as that of some men; but it comes up freely,
and involves utterances of import. Father Payne has not much action,
but he has a good voice; he lifts his arms slowly and regularly, leans
forward somewhat, occasionally seizes both his hands and shakes them
a little; but beyond this there is not much motion observable in him.
He has a keen, discreet sense of things, and, like the rest of his order,
can see a long way. In private life—that is to say when he is
out of the pulpit and off general duty—he is an affable, clear,
merry, brisk-talking little gentleman, fond of a good joke, a blithe
chat, and a hearty laugh. He is a pleasant Payne when in company, and
if you knew him you would say so. The last Daniel who cometh up to judgment
is Father Papall—the very embodiment of vivaciousness, linguistic
activity, and dignity in a nut shell. Dark-haired, sharp-eyed, spectacled;
diminutive, warm-blooded, he is about the most animated priest we know
of. He has English and Italian blood in his veins, and that vascular
mixture works him up beautifully. No man could stand such an amalgam
without being determined, volatile, practical, and at times dreamy;
and you have all these qualities developed in Father Papall. He is 40
years of age, and has seen more foreign life than many priests. He has
been in Italy, where he resided for years, in Holland, Belgium, Germany,
France, America, &c.; and he has been at St. Walburge’s in this
town, for 14 months. He is all animation when conversing with you; and
in the pulpit he talks from head to foot—stirs all over, fights
much with his sleeves, moves his arms, and hands, and fingers as if
under some hot spell of galvanism, and fairly gets his “four feet”
into the general subject, and revels with a delicious activity in it
at intervals. He is an earnest preacher, has good intellectual constructiveness,
and if he had not to battle so much with our English idioms and curious
modes of pronunciation he would be a very potent speaker, and a racy
homilist. He has a sweeping powerful voice; you could almost hear him
if you were asleep, and this fact may account for the peculiarly contented
movements of several parties we observed recently at the church whilst
Father Papall was preaching. At least 20 near us went to sleep in about
five minutes after he began talking, slept very well during the whole
sermon, and at its conclusion woke up very refreshed, made brisk crosses,
listened awhile to the succeeding music, &c., and then walked out
quite cool and cheerful.

Most excellent schools are situated near and on the northern side
of the church. The average daily attendance of boys is 200; that of
the girls 260; that of the infants, 350. The boys seem well trained;
the girls, who are in charge of nuns—called “Companions
of the Holy Child Jesus”—are likewise industriously cared
for; and the infants are a show in themselves. We saw these 350 babies,
for many of them are nothing more, the other day, and the manner in
which they conducted themselves was simply surprising. The utmost order
prevailed amongst them, and how this was brought about we could not
tell. One little pleasant-looking nun had charge of the whole confraternity,
and she could say them at a word—make them as mute as mice with
the mere lifting of her finger, and turn them into all sorts of merry
moods by a similar motion, in a second. If this little nun could by
some means convey her secret of managing children to about nineteen-twentieths
of the mothers of the kingdom, who find it a dreadful business to regulate
one or two, saying nothing of 350, babes and sucklings, she would confer
a lasting benefit upon the householders of Britain. Night and Sunday
schools—the latter being attended by about 700 boys and girls—are
held in the same buildings. There are five nuns at St. Walburge’s; they
live in a convent hard by; and like the rest of their class they work
hard every day, and sacrifice much of their own pleasure for the sake
of that of other people—a thing which the generality of us have
yet to take first lessons in.

UNITARIAN CHAPEL.

There is something so severely mental, and so theologically daring
in Unitarianism that many can’t, whilst others won’t, hold communion
with it. Unbiased thinkers, willing to give all men freedom of conscience,
admit the force of its logic in some things, the sincerity of its intentions
in all, but deem it too dry and much too intellectual for popular digestion.
The orthodox brand it as intolerably heretical and terribly unscriptural;
the multitude of human beings;—like “Oyster Nan” who
couldn’t live without “running her vulgar rig”—consider
it downright infidelity, the companion of rationalism, and the “stepping
Stone to atheism.” Still there are many good people who are Unitarians;
many magnificent scholars who recognise its principles; and if “respectability”
is any proof of correctness—this age, in the obliquity of its
vision, and in the depth of its respect for simple “appearances,”
says it is—then Unitarianism ought to be a very proper article,
for its congregations, though comparatively small, are highly seasoned
with persons who wear capital clothes, take their time from the best
of watches, and have ever so much of what lawyers call “real and
personal” property. Men termed “Monarchians” were
the first special professors of Unitarianism. They made their appearance
between the second and third centuries, and, if Tertullian tells the
truth, they consisted of “the simple and the unlearned.”
Directly after the Reformation Unitarianism spread considerably on the
continent, and Transylvania, which now contains about 56,000 of its
followers, became its great stronghold. Unitarianism got into England
about the middle of the 16th century; and many of the Presbyterian divines
who were ejected during the century which followed—in 1662—gradually
became believers in it. In England the Unitarians have now about 314
chapels and emission stations; in Scotland there are only five congregations
recognising Unitarianism; in Ireland about 40; in our colonies there
are a few; in the United States of America the body has 256 societies;
in France, Germany, Holland, &c., the principles of Unitarianism
are pretty extensively believed in. Some of our greatest thinkers and
writers have been Unitarians: Milton was one, so was John Locke, and
so was Newton. In different ages there have been different classes of
Unitarians; in these days there are at least two—the conservative
and the progressive; but in the past the following points were generally
believed, and in the present there is no diversity of opinion regarding
them, viz., that the Godhead is single and absolute, not triune; that
Christ was not God, but a perfect being inspired with divine wisdom;
that there is no efficacy in His vicarious atonement, in the sense popularly
recognised; and that original sin and eternal damnation are in accordance
with neither the Scriptures nor common sense.

The origin of Unitarianism in Preston, as elsewhere, is mixed up
with the early strivings and operations of emancipated Nonconformity.
We can find no record of Nonconformists in Preston until the early part
of the 18th century. At that period a chapel was erected at Walton-le-Dale,
mainly, if not entirely, by Sir Henry de Hoghton—fifth baronet,
and formerly member of parliament for Preston—who was one of the
principal patrons of Nonconformity in this district. Very shortly afterwards,
and under the same patronage, a Nonconformist congregation was established
to Preston—meetings having previously been held in private houses—and
the Rev. John Pilkington, great uncle of W. O. Pilkington, Esq., of
the Willows, near this town, who is a Unitarian, was the minister of
it, as well as of that in Walton. In 1718, a little building was erected
for the Nonconformists of Preston on a piece of land near the bottom
and on the north side of Church-street. This was the first Dissenting
chapel raised in Preston, and in it the old Nonconformists—Presbyterians
we ought to say—spent many a free and spiritually-happy hour.
Eventually the generality of the congregation got into a “Monarchian”
frame of mind, and from that time till this the chapel has been held
by those whom we term Unitarians. The “parsonage house”
of the Unitarian minister used to be in Church-street, near the chapel;
but it has since been transmuted into a shop. One of the ministers at
this place of worship towards the end of the last century, was a certain
Mr. Walker, but he couldn’t masticate the Unitarian theory which was
being actively developed in it, so he walked away, and for him a building
in Grimshaw-street—the predecessor of the present Independent
Chapel there—was subsequently erected.

The edifice wherein our Unitarian friends assemble every Sunday,
is an old-fashioned, homely-looking, little building—a tiny, Quakerised
piece of architecture, simple to a degree, prosaic, diminutive, snug,
dull. It is just such a place as you could imagine old primitive Non-conformists,
fonder of strong principles and inherent virtue than of external embellishment
and masonic finery, would build. It can be approached by two ways, but
it is of no use trying to take advantage of both at once. You would
never get to the place if you made such an effort. There is a road to
it from Percy-street—this is the better entrance, but not much
delight can be found in it; and there is another way to the chapel from
Church-street—up a delicious little passage, edged on the right
with a house-side, and on the left with a wall made fierce with broken
glass, which will be sure to cut the sharpest of the worshippers if
they ever attempt to get over it. What there really is behind that glass-topped
wall we are at a loss to define; but it is evidently something which
the occupier of the premises apprehends the Unitarians may have an illicit
liking for? If they want to get to it we would recommend the use of
some heavy, blunt instrument, by which they could easily break the glass,
after which they might quietly lift each other over. Recently, a small
sign has been fixed at the end of the passage, and from the letters
upon it an inference may be safely drawn that the Unitarian Chapel is
somewhere beyond it. To strangers this will be useful, for, prior to
its exhibition, none except those familiar with the place, or gifted
with an instinct for threading the mazes of mystery, could find out,
with anything like comfort, the location of the chapel. Whether the
people have or have not “sought for a sign,” one has at
any rate been given to them here. A small, and somewhat neat, graveyard
is attached to the chapel; there are several tomb-stones laid flat upon
the ground; and in the centre of it there is a rather elaborate one,
substantially railed round, and surmounting the vault of the Ainsworth
family. The remains of the late W. Ainsworth, Esq., a well-known and
respected Preston gentleman, are interred here.

At the northern side of, and directly adjoining, the chapel there
is a small Sunday school, It was erected about 15 years ago; the scholars
previous to that time having met in a little building in Lord’s-walk.
The average attendance of scholars at present is about 60. The chapel,
internally, is small, clean, plain, and ancient-looking. A central aisle
runs directly up to the pulpit, and it is flanked with a range of high
old-fashioned pews, some being plain, a few lined with a red-coloured
material, and several with faded green baize, occasionally tacked back
and elaborated with good old-fashioned brass nails. The seats vary in
size, and include both the moderately narrow and the full square for
family use. There are nine variously shaped windows in the building:
through three of them you can see sundry things, ranging from the spire
of the Parish Church to the before-mentioned wall with the broken glass
top; through some of the others faint outlines of chimneys may be traced.
The chapel is light and comfortable-looking. There seems to be nothing
in the place having the least relationship to ornament except four small
gas brackets, which are trimmed up a little, and surmounted with small
crosses of the Greek pattern. At the west end, supported by two pillars,
there is a small gallery, in which a few elderly people, the scholars,
and the choir are deposited. The body of the chapel will accommodate
about 200 persons. The average attendance, excluding the scholars, will
be perhaps 60. When we visited the place there were 50 present—45
downstairs and five in the gallery; and of these, upwards of 30 were
females.

The congregation is quite of a genteel and superior character. There
are a few rather poor people embraced in it; but nine out of ten of
the regular worshippers belong to either independent or prosperous middle
class families. The congregation, although still “highly respectable,”
is not so influential in tone as it used to be. A few years ago, six
or seven county magistrates might have been seen in the chapel on a
Sunday, and they were all actual “members” of the body;
but death and other causes have reduced the number of this class very
considerably, and now not more than two are constant worshippers. There
is neither sham, shoddy, nor rant amongst them. From one year end to
another you will never hear any of them during any of the services rush
into a florid yell or reduce their spiritual emotions to a dull groan.
They abstain from everything in the contortional and ejaculative line;
quiet contemplative intellectualism appears to reign amongst them; a
dry, tranquil thoughtfulness, pervades the body. They are eclectical,
optimic, cool; believe in taking things comfortably; never conjure up
during their devotions the olden pictures of orthodoxy; never allow
their nerves to be shattered with notions about the “devil,”
or the “burning lake” in which sinners have to be tortured
for ever and ever; never hear of such things from the pulpit, wouldn’t
tolerate them if they did; think that they can get on well enough without
them. They may be right or they may be very wrong; but, like all sections
of Christians, they believe their own denominational child the best.

There are two services every Sunday in the Unitarian chapel—morning
and evening—and both are very good in one sense because both are
very short. There have been many ministers at the chapel since its transformation
into a Unitarian place of worship; but we need not unearth musty records
and name them all. Within modern memory there have been just a trinity
of ministers at the chapel—the Rev. Joseph Ashton, an exceedingly
quiet, unassuming, well learned man, who would have taken a higher stand
in the town than he did if he had made more fuss about himself; the
Rev. W. Croke Squier, who made too much fuss, who had too big a passion
for Easter-due martyrdoms and the like, for Corn Exchange speeches,
patriotic agony points, and virtuous fighting, but who was nevertheless
a sharp-headed, quick-sighted, energetic little gentleman; and the Rev.
R. J. Orr—the present minister—who came to Preston about
a year and a half since. Mr. Orr is an Irishman, young in years, tall,
cold, timid, quiet, yet excellently educated. He is critical, seems
slightly cynical, and moves along as if he either knew nobody or didn’t
want to look at anybody. There is somewhat of the student, and somewhat
of the college professor in his appearance. But he is a very sincere
man; has neither show nor fussiness in him; and practices his duties
with a strict, quiet regularity. He may have moods of mirth and high
moments of sparkling glee, but he looks as if he had never only laughed
right out about once in his life, and had repented of it directly afterwards.
If he had more dash and less shyness in him, less learned coolness and
much more humour in his composition, he would reap a better harvest
in both pulpit and general life. Mr. Orr is no roaring will o’ the wisp
minister; what he says he means; and what he means he reads. His prayers
and sermons are all read. He is not eloquent, but his language is scholarly,
and if he had a freer and more genial expression he would be better
appreciated. If he were livelier and smiled more he would be fatter
and happier. His style is his own; is too Orrible, needs a little more
sunshine and blithesomeness. He never allows himself to be led away
by passion; sticks well to his text; invariably keeps his temper. He
wears neither surplice nor black gown in the pulpit, and does quite
as well without as with them. For his services he receives about £120
a year and if the times mend he will probably get more. In the chapel
there is a harmonium, which is played as well as the generality of such
instruments are. The singing is only moderate, and if it were not for
the good strong female voice, apparently owned by somebody in the gallery,
it would be nearly inaudible—would have to be either gently whispered
or “thought out.” The services in the main are simple, free
from all boisterous balderdash, and if not of such a character as would
suit everybody, are evidently well liked by those participating in them.

ALL SAINTS’ CHURCH.

The calendar of the canonised has come in handy for the christening
of churches. Without it, we might have indulged in a poor and prosaic
nomenclature; with it, the dullest, as well as the finest, architecture
can get into the company of the beatified. Barring a few places, all
our churches are associated with some particular saint; every edifice
has cultivated the acquaintance of at least one; but that we have now
to notice has made a direct move into the general constellation, and
is dedicated to the aggregate body. We believe that in church-naming,
as in common life, “all is for the best,” and we
commend, rather than censure, the judgment which recognised the full
complement of saints when All Saints’ was consecrated. A man maybe wrong
in fixing upon one name, or upon fifty, or fifty hundred, but if he
agglomerates the entire mass, condenses every name into one, and gives
something respectable that particular name, he won’t be far off the
equinoctial of exactness. In this sense, the christeners of All Saints’
were wise; they went in for the posse comitatus of saints—backed
the favourites as well as “the field”—and their scheme,
so far as naming goes, must win. There is, however, not much in a name,
and less in a reverie of speculative comment, so we will descend to
a lower, yet, perhaps, more healthy, atmosphere.

In 1841, the Rev. W. Walling, son of a yeoman living is Silverdale—one
of the prettiest places we know of in the North of England—came
to Preston, as minister of St. James’s Church. He stayed at the place
for about a year, then went to Carlton, in Nottinghamshire, and afterwards
to Whitby. Mr. Walling was a man of quiet disposition; during his stay
in Preston he was exceedingly well liked; and when he left the town,
a vacuum seemed to have been created. He was a missed man; his value
was not found out until he had gone; and it was determined—mainly
amongst a pious, enthusiastic section of working people—to get
him back again if possible. And they went about the business like sensible
people—decided not to root out his predecessor at St. James’s,
nor to exterminate any of the sundry clerical beings in other parts
of the town, but to build him a new church. They were only poor men;
but they persevered; and in a short time their movement took a distinct
shape, and the building, whose erection they had in view, was prospectively
called “The Poor Man’s Church.” In time they raised about
£200; but a sum like that goes only a little way in church building—sometimes
doesn’t cover those very refreshing things which contractors call “extras;”
a number of wealthier men, who appreciated the earnestness of the original
promoters, and saw the necessity, of such a church as they contemplated,
came to the rescue, and what they and divers friends gave justified
a start, on a plot of land between Walker-street and Elizabeth-street.
On the 21st of September, 1846, the foundation-stone of the church—All
Saints—was laid by the late Thomas German, Esq., who was mayor
of Preston at that time. The building, which cost about £2,600,
was not consecrated till December, 1856, but it was ministerially occupied
by the Rev. W. Walling on the 23rd September, 1848, and he held his
post, earning the respect and esteem of all in the discharge of its
duties, till October 10th, 1863, when death suddenly ended his labours.
When the church was consecrated there was a debt of about £750
upon it; but in a few years, by the judicious and energetic action of
the trustees, it was entirely cleared off. The present trustees of the
church are Dr. Hall, Messrs. J. R. Ambler, F. Mitchell, and W. Fort.
The successor of the Rev. W. Walling was the Rev. G. Beardsell, who
still occupies the situation; but before saying anything to the point
concerning him we must describe the church and its concomitants.

All Saints’ is a good substantial-looking church. It is built in
the Ionic style of Greek architecture; has a massive pillared front;
is railed round, has an easy and respectable entrance, and—getting
worse as it gets higher—is surmounted with a small bell turret
and a chimney. Other things may be put upon the roof after a while,
for space is abundant there. The church has a square, respectable, capacious
interior—is roomy, airy, light; doesn’t seem thrown together in
a dim foggy labrynth like some places, and you feel as if you could
breathe freely on taking a seat in it. It is well-galleried, and will
accommodate altogether about 1,500 human beings. The pews are good,
and whilst it is impossible for them to hold more people than can get
into them, they are charged for as if one additional person could take
a seat in each after being full! This is odd but quite true. In the
case of pews which will just accommodate five persons, six sittings
are charged for; those holding four are put down in the rent book for
five; and this scale of charges is kept up in respect to all the pews,
whether big or little. The rents go into the pocket of the incumbent.
At the southern end there is a small chancel, which was erected at the
expense of the late J. Bairstow, Esq. It is ornamented with several
stained glass windows, and has an inlaid wooden canopy, but there is
nothing startling nor remarkable about the work. Beneath the windows
there is painted in large, letters the word “Emmanuel;”
but the position of it is very inconvenient. People sitting above may
see the name fairly; but many below have a difficulty in grasping it,
and those sitting in the centre will never be able to get hold of more
letters than those which makeup the mild name of “Emma.”
Names—particularly great ones—should never be put up anywhere
unless they can be seen. On each side of the chancel arch then is a
small tablet; one being to the memory of the Rev. W. Walling, and the
other to that of the late W. Tuson, Esq., who was one of the original
wardens. The church is clean and in good condition; but the windows
would stand re-painting. There are about 400 free seats in the building,
and they are pretty well patronised. The general attendance is tolerably
large; between 700 and 800 people frequent the church on the average;
but the congregation seems to be of a floating character, is constantly
changing, and embraces few “old stagers.” Formerly, many
who had been at the church from the first might be seen at it; numerous
persons recognised as “fixtures” were there; but they have
either gone to other churches or died off, and there is now a strong
ebb and flow of new material at the place.

The congregation is of a complex description; you may see in it the
“Grecian bend” and the coal scuttle hood, the buff waistcoat
and the dark moleskin coat; but in the main the worshippers are of a
quiet well-assorted character—partly working class, partly middle-class,
with a sprinkling of folk above and below both. The humble minded and
the ancient appear to have a liking for the left side range of seats;
the swellishly-young and the substantially-middle class take up a central
position; people of a fair habilimental stamp occupy the bulk of the
seats on the other side; whilst the select and the specially virtuous
approximate the pulpit—one or two in the excelsior category get
even beyond it, and like both the quietude and the dignity of the position.
The galleries are used by a promiscuous company of worshippers, who
keep good order and make no undue noises. The tale-tellers and the gossips—for
they exist here as in the generality of sacred places—are distributed
in various directions. It would be advantageous if they were all put
in one separate part; for then their influence would not be so ramified,
and they might in the end get up a small Kilkenny affair and mutually
finish off one another. Late attendance does not seem to be so fashionable
at All Saints’ as at some churches; still it exists; things would look
as if they were getting wrong if somebody didn’t come late and make
everybody turn their heads. When we visited the church, the great mass
were present at the right time; but a few dropped in after the stipulated
period; one put in an appearance 30 minutes late; and another sauntered
serenely into the region of the ancient people just 65 minutes after
the proceedings had commenced. At a distance, the reading desk and the
pulpit look oddly mixed up; but a close inspection shows that they are
but fairly associated, stand closely together, the pulpit, which is
the higher, being in the rear. There is no decoration of any sort in
the body of the church; everything appears tranquil, serious, straightforward,
and respectable. The singing is of a very poor character,—is slow,
weak, and calculated at times to make you ill. Pope, in his Essay on
Criticism, says—

Some to church repair,
Not for the doctrine, but the music there.

Probably they do; but nobody goes to All Saints’ for that purpose.
No genuine hearty interest seems to be taken in the singing by anybody
particularly. The choir move through their notes as if some of them
were either fastened up hopelessly in barrels, or in a state of musical
syncope; the organist works his hands and feet as well as he can with
a poor organ; the members of the congregation follow, lowly and contentedly,
doing their best against long odds and the parson sits still, all in
one grand piece, and looks on. The importance and influence of good
music should be recognised by every church; and we trust in time there
will be a decided improvement at All Saints’. A church like it—a
building of its size and with its congregation—ought to have something
superior and effective in the matter of music.

We have already said that the Rev. George Beardsell is the minister
of All Saints’. He has been at the church, as its incumbent, about five
years. Originally Mr. Beardsell was a Methodist;—a Methodist preacher,
too, we believe; but in time he changed his notions; and eventually
flung himself, in a direct line, into the arms of “Mother Church.”
Mr. Beardsell made his first appearance in Preston as curate of Trinity
Church. He worked hard in this capacity, stirred up the district at
times with that peculiar energy which poor curates longing for good
incumbencies, wherein they may settle down into security and ease, can
only manifest, and with many he was a favourite. From Trinity Church
he went to St. Saviour’s, and here he slackened none of his powers.
Enthusiasm, combined with earnest plodding, enabled him to improve the
district considerably. He drew many poor people around him; he repeatedly
charmed the “unwashed” with his strong rough-hewn orgasms;
the place seemed to have been specially reserved for some man having
just the perseverance and vigorous volubility which he possessed; he
had ostensibly a “mission” in the locality; the people of
the district liked him, he reciprocated the feeling, and more than once
intimated that he would make one or two spots, including the wild region
of Lark-hill, “Blossom as the rose.” But the period of efflorescence
has not yet arrived; a “call” came in due season, and this
carried the ministerial florist to another “sphere of action.”
Mr. Beardsell was translated to the incumbency of All Saints’, and he
still holds it. When Mr. Walling was at this church the income was about
£260 a year; taking everything into account, it is now worth upwards
of £400.

Mr. Beardsell is not a beautiful, but a stout, well-made, strong-looking
man, close upon 40, with a growing tendency towards adiposity. He has
a healthy, bulky, English look; is not a man of profound education,
but, makes up by weight what he may lack in depth; thinks it a good
thing to carry a walking-stick, to keep his coat well buttoned, and
to arrange his hair in the high-front, full-whig style; has a powerful,
roughly eloquent voice; is rather sensational in the construction of
some of his sentences; bellows a little at times; welters pathetically
often; is somewhat monotonous in tone; ululates too heavily; behaves
harshly to the letter “r”—sounds it with a violent
vigour, and makes it fairly spin round his tongue end occasionally;
can sustain himself well as a speaker; is never at a loss for words;
has a forcible way of arranging his subjects; is systematic in his style
of treatment; and can throw into his elucidation of questions well-coined
and emphatic expressions. He likes perorations—used to imitate
Punshon a little. He has a good analogical faculty; takes many of his
illustrations from nature, and works them out exceedingly well; is a
capital explainer of biblical difficulties; is peculiarly fond of the
travels of St. Paul; piles up the agony easily and effectively; many
times gets into a groove of high-beating, fierce-burning enthusiasm,
as if he were going to take a distinct leap out of his “pent-up
Utica,” and revel in the “whole boundless continent”
of thought and sacred sensation; is a thorough believer in the “My
brethren” phrase—we recently heard him use it nineteen times
in twenty minutes, and regretted that he didn’t make the numbers equal;
delights in decking out his discourses with couplets and snatches of
hymns; has a full-blown determined style of speaking; reads with his
gloves on, and preaches with them off, like one or two other parsons
we have seen; makes his sermons too long; is a good platform man, and
would make a fair travelling lecturer; has a great predilection for
open-air preaching, and has spells of it to the Orchard; might with
advantage work more in and less out of his own district; wouldn’t commit
a sin if he studied the question of personal visiting; shouldn’t think
that his scripture reader—a really good, hard-working man—can
perform miracles, and do nearly everything; can talk genuine common
sense if he likes, and make himself either very agreeable or pugnacious;
is an Orangeman, with a holy horror of Popery; can give deliciously
passionate lectures about the Reformation; considers money a very important
article, and is inclined to believe that all people, particularly parsons,
should stick to it very firmly; will have his own way in church matters;
likes to fight with a warden; has had many a lively little brush over
sacrament money; might have got on better with many of the officials
if he had been more conciliatory; is a man of moderate ability, of fair
metal, of strong endurance, but would be more relished if he were less
dogmatic, were given less to wandering preaching, and threw himself
heart, soul, purse, and clothes into his own district. Near the church,
and occupying good relative positions on each side of a beerhouse, called
“The Rising Sun,” are All Saints’ schools. One of them—that
now occupied by the boys—was, according to a tablet at the outside,
erected several years ago by our old friend Captain German “as
an affectionate tribute to the memory of Thomas German, Esq.”
About five years since, two class-rooms were attached to it, at the
expense of J. Bairstow, J. Horrocks, R. Newsham, and T. Miller, Esqrs.
The other school, set apart for the girls, was erected after that built
by Captain German. Both of the schools are very good ones—are
large, lofty, and commodious. That used for the boys is, scholastically,
in a superior condition. The master is sharp, fully up to his duties;
and, according to a report by the government inspector, his school is
one of the best in the district. The average day attendance at the boys’
school is 150; whilst at the girls school the regular attendance may
be set down at 330. The schools are used on Sundays, and their average
attendance then is 800. Much might be written concerning them; but we
must close; we have said enough; and can only add that if all are not
saints who go to All Saints’ they are about as good as the rest of people.

UNITED METHODIST FREE CHURCH AND POLE-STREET BAPTIST CHAPEL.

We have two places of worship to struggle with “on the present
occasion,” and shall take the freest yet most methodistical of
them first. The United Methodist Free Church—that is a rather
long and imposing name—is generally called “Orchard Chapel.”
The “poetry of the thing” may suffer somewhat by this deviation;
but the building appears to smell as sweetly under the shorter as the
longer name, so that we shall not enter into any Criticism condemnatory
of the change. This chapel is the successor, in a direct line, of the
first building ever erected in the Orchard. Its ancestor was placed
on precisely the same spot, in 1831. Those who raised it seceded from
the Wesleyan community, in sympathy with the individuals who retired
from the “old body” at Leeds, in 1828, and who adopted the
name of “Protestant Methodists.” For a short time the Preston
branch of these Methodists worshipped in that mystic nursery of germinating
“isms” called Vauxhall-road Chapel; and in the year named
they erected in the Orchard a building for their own spiritual improvement.
It was a plain chapel outside, and mortally ugly within. Amongst the
preaching confraternity in the connexion it used to be known as “the
ugliest Chapel in Great Britain and Ireland.” In 1834 a further
secession of upwards of 20,000 from the Wesleyans took place, under
the leadership of the late Dr. Warren, of Manchester. These secessionists
called themselves the “Wesleyan Association,” and with them
the “Protestant Methodists,” including those meeting in
the Orchard Chapel, Preston, amalgamated. They also adopted the name
of their new companions. In 1857 the “Wesleyan Association”
coalesced with another large body of persons, who seceded from the original
Wesleyans in 1849, under the leadership of the Rev. James Everett and
others, and the two conjoined sections termed themselves the “United
Methodist Free Church.” None of the separations recorded were
occasioned by any theological difference with the parent society, but
through disagreement on matters of “government.”

The ministers of the United Methodist Free Church body move about
somewhat after the fashion of the Wesleyan preachers. They first go
to a place for twelve months, and if they stay longer it has to be through
“invitation” from one of the quarterly meetings. As a rule,
they stop three or four years at one church, and then move off to some
new circuit, where old sermons come in, at times, conveniently for new
hearers. The various churches are ruled by “leaders”—men
of a deaconly frame of mind, invested with power sufficient to enable
them to rule the roost in ministerial matters, to say who shall preach
and who shall not, and to work sundry other wonders in the high atmosphere
of church government. The “members” support their churches,
financially, in accordance with their means. There is no fixed payment.
Those who are better off, and not stingy, give liberally; the less opulent
contribute moderately; those who can’t give anything don’t. After an
existence of about 30 years, the old chapel in the Orchard was pulled
down, in order to make way for a larger and a better looking building.
During the work of reconstruction Sunday services were held in the school
at the rear, which was built some time before, at a cost of £1,700.
The new chapel, which cost £2,600, was opened on the 22nd of May,
1862. It has a rather ornamental front—looks piquant and seriously
nobby. There is nothing of the “great” or the “grand”
in any part of it. The building is diminutive, cheerful, well-made,
and inclined, in its stone work, to be fantastical.

Internally, it is clean, ornate, and substantial. Its gallery has
stronger supports than can be found in any other Preston chapel. If
every person sitting in it weighed just a ton it would remain firm.
There are two front entrances to the building, and at each end red curtains
are fixed. On pushing one pair aside, the other Sunday, we cogitated
considerably as to what we should see inside. We always associate mystery
with curtains, “caudle lectures” with curtains, shows, and
wax-work, and big women, and dwarfs with curtains; but as we slowly,
yet determinedly, undid these United Methodist Free Church curtains,
and presented our “mould of form” before the full and absolute
interior, we beheld nothing special: there were only a child, two devotional
women, and a young man playing a slow and death-like tune on a well-made
harmonium, present. But the “plot thickened,” the place
was soon moderately filled, and whilst in our seat, before the service
commenced, we calmly pondered over many matters, including the difficulty
we had in reaching the building. Yes, and it was a difficulty. We took
the most direct cut, as we thought, to the place, from the southern
side—passed along the Market-place, into that narrowly-beautiful
thoroughfare called New-street, then through a yet newer road made by
the pulling down of old buildings in Lord-street, and reminding one
by its sides of the ruins of Petra, and afterwards merged into the Orchard.
To neither the right nor the left did we swerve, but moved on, the chapel
being directly is front of us; but in a few moments afterwards we found
ourselves surrounded by myriads of pots and a mighty cordon of crates—it
was the pot fair. Thinking that the Orchard was public ground, and seeing
the chapel so very near, we pursued the even tenour of our way, but
just as we were about sliding between two crates, so as to pass on into
the chapel, a strong man, top-coated, muffled up, and with a small bludgeon
in his hand, moved forward and said “Can’t go.” “Why?”
said we; “Folks isn’t allowed in this here place now,” said
he. “Well, but this is the town’s property and we pay rates,”
was our rejoinder, and his was “Don’t matter a cuss, if you were
Lord Derby I should send you back.” We accused him of rudeness,
and threatened to go to the police station, close by; but the fellow
was obstinate; his labours were concentred in the virtuous guardianship
of pots, he defied the police and “everybody;” and feeling
that amid all this mass of crockery we had, for once, unfortunately,
“gone to pot,” we quietly walked round to the bottom of
the ground, for the crates and the pots swamped the whole _place, came
up to the chapel door, within four yards of the Lord-Derby-defying individual,
and quietly went into the building.

There are about 300 “members” of the church. In the Preston
circuit, which until recently included Croston, Cuerden, Brinscall,
Chorley, and Blackpool, and which now only embraces, Cuerden and Croston—the
other places being thought sufficiently strong to look after themselves—there
are about 400 “members.” What are termed “Churches”
have been established at all the places named; Preston being the “parent”
of them. A branch of the body exists at Southport, and it was “brought
up” under the care of the Preston party. Orchard Chapel will accommodate
between 700 and 800 persons; but, like other places of worship, it is
never full except upon special occasions; and the average attendance
may be put down at about 400. In the old chapel the father of the late
Alderman G. Smith preached for a time. The first minister of the chapel,
when rebuilt, was the Rev. J. Guttridge—an energetic, impetuous,
eloquent, earnest man. He had two spells at the place; was at it altogether
about six years; and left the last time about a year ago. Mr. Guttridge,
who is one of the smartest ministers in the body, is now residing at
Manchester, connected regularly with no place of worship, on account
of ill health, but doing what he can amongst the different churches.
The congregation of Orchard Chapel consists principally of well-dressed
working people—a quiet, sincere-looking class of individuals,
given in no way to devotional hysteria, and taking all things smoothly
and seriously. They are a liberal class, too. During the past two years
they have raised amongst themselves about £800 towards the chapel,
upon which there is still a debt, but which would have been clear of
all monetary encumbrances long since if certain old scores needing liquidation
had not stood in the way. The members of the choir sit near the pulpit,
the females on one side and the males on the other. They are young,
good-looking, and often glance at each other kindly. A female who plays
the harmonium occupies the centre. The music is vigorous and, considering
the place, commendable. On Sundays there are two services at the chapel—morning
and evening; and during the week meetings of a religious character are
held in either the chapel or the adjoining rooms.

The present minister of the chapel is the Rev. Richard Abercrombie.
He has only just arrived, and may in one sense be termed the “greatest”
minister in Preston, for he is at least six feet high in his stocking
feet. He is an elderly gentleman,—must be getting near 70; but
he is almost as straight as a wand, has a dignified look, wears a venerable
grey beard, and has quite a military precision in his form and walk.
And he may well have, for he has been a soldier, Mr. Abercrombie served
in the British army upwards of twenty years. He followed Wellington,
after Waterloo, and was in Paris as a British soldier when the famous
treaty of peace was signed. His grandfather was cousin of the celebrated
Sir Ralph Abercrombie, who defeated Napoleon’s forces in Egypt, and
his ancestors held commissions in our army for upwards of four generations.
Tired of military life, Mr. Abercrombie eventually laid down his arms,
and for 33 years he has been a minister in the body he is now connected
with. It is worthy of remark that, before leaving the army, he occasionally
sermonised in his uniform, and 35 years ago he preached in his red jacket,
&c., in the old Orchard Chapel. Mr. Abercrombie is a genial, smooth-natured,
quiet man—talks easily yet carefully, preaches earnestly yet evenly;
there is no froth in either his prayers or sermons; he never gets into
fits of uncontrollable passion, never rides the high horse of personal
ambition, nor the low ass of religious vulgarity—keeps cool, behaves
himself, and looks after his work midly and well. He has two or three
sons in the United Methodist Free Church ministry, and one of them,
called after the general who defeated the Napoleonic forces, is the
only man belonging the body who has a university M.A. after his name.

Very good schools are connected with Orchard Chapel. The average
day attendance is 140; and on Sundays the average is about 350, In the
last place, we may observe that the people belonging Orchard Chapel
are, generally, getting along comfortably in all their departments.
Formerly they had feuds, and fights, and church meetings, at which odd
pieces of scandal were bandied about—they may have morsels of
unpleasantness yet to encounter; but taking them all in all they are
moving on serenely and well.

Passing not “from pole to pole,” but from the Orchard
to Pole-street, we come to the Baptist Chapel in that, thoroughfare—a
rather dull, strongly-railed-off place, which seems to be receding from
public sight altogether. About 45 years ago, a small parcel of Preston
people, enamoured of the Calvinistic Methodism which the Countess of
Huntingdon recognised, worshipped in a building in Cannon-street. In
1825 they built, or had raised for them, a chapel in Pole-street, which
was dedicated to St. Mark. At this time, probably on account of its
novelty, the creed drew many followers—the new chapel was patronised
by a somewhat numerous congregation, which kept increasing for a period.
But it gradually dwindled down, and a total collapse finally ensued.
In 1855 a number of General Baptists, who split from their brethren
worshipping in the old Leeming-street chapel, struck a bargain with
the expiring Lady Huntingdon section for their building in Pole-street,
gave about £700 for it, forthwith shifted thereto, and continue
to hold the place. There is nothing at all calling for comment as to
the exterior of the chapel; and not much as to the interior. It will
accommodate about 900 persons. The pews are high, awkward to sit in,
and have a grim cold appearance. The building is pretty lofty, and is
well galleried. The pulpit is at the far end, and the singers sit on
a railed platform before it. The congregation seems both thin and poor.
Very lately we were in it, and estimated the number present at 84—rather
a small party for a chapel capable of holding 900.

The building possesses about the best acoustical properties of any
place of worship in Preston. The late Mr. Samuel Grimshaw, of Preston,
who, amongst many other things, had a special taste for music, used
to occupy it at times, with his band, for the purposes of “practising.”
He liked it on account of its excellent sounding qualities. Once, after
some practice in it, Mr. Grimshaw offered a “return”—said
he would give the brethren a musical lift with his band during some
anniversary services to be held in the chapel. His promise was accepted,
and when the day came there was a complete musical flood. The orchestra,
including the singers, numbered about 50, and the melodious din they
created was something tremendous. “Sam” had the arrangement
of it. There were tenors, baritones, bass men, trebles, alto-singers,
in the fullest feather; there were trumpeters, tromboners, bassooners,
ophicleideans, cornet-a-piston players, and many others, all instrumentally
armed to the very teeth, and the sensation they made, fairly shook and
unnerved the more pious members of the congregation, who protested against
the chapel being turned into a “concert-hall,” &c. The
music after all, was good, and if it were as excellent now there would
be a better attendance at the place. The present orchestra consists
of perhaps a dozen singers, including a central gentleman who is about
the best shouter we ever heard; and they are helped out of any difficulties
they may get into by a rather awkwardly-played harmonium.

The Rev. W. J. Stuart is the minister of the chapel, and he receives
from £70 to £80 a year for his duties. He has a gentlemanly
appearance; looks pretty well considering the nature of his salary;
is getting into the grey epoch of life; is not very erudite; but seems
well up in scriptural subjects; is sincere, mild, primitive in his notions;
has fits of cautiousness and boldness; is precise and earnest in expression;
has an “interpretational” tendency in his sacred utterances;
is disposed to explain mysteries; likes homilising the people; can talk
much; and can be very earnest over it all. He has fair action, and sometimes
gets up to 212° in his preaching. We won’t say that he is in any
sense a wearying preacher; but this we may state, that if his sermons
were shorter they would not be quite so long. And from this he may take
the hint. We are told that the attendance at the chapel is slightly
increasing; but as compared with the past it is still very slender.
The admission to either the platform or pulpit of the chapel, not very
long ago, of a wandering “Indian chief,” and a number of
Revivalists, who told strange tales and talked wildly, has operated,
we believe, against the place—annoyed and offended some, and caused
them to leave. The minister, no doubt, admitted these men with an honest
intention; but everybody can’t stand the war-whooping of itinerant Indians,
nor the sincere ferociousness of Revivalists; and awkward feelings were
consequently generated in some quarters by them. In the main, Mr. Stuart
is a kindly, quiet, gentlemanly person, and barring the little interruption
caused by the dubious Indian and the untamed Revivalists, has got on
with a small congregation and a bad salary better than many parsons
would have been able to do.

CHURCH OF THE ENGLISH MARTYRS.

To this church a name which is general property has been given. Each
of our religious sects can number its martyrs. In the good old times
cruelty was a reciprocal thing amongst professing Christians; it was
a pre-eminently mutual affair amongst the two great religious parties
in the land—the Protestants and the Catholics,—for when
one side got into power they slaughtered their opponents, and when the
other became paramount the compliment was returned. The church we have
here to describe is dedicated to those English Catholics who, in the
stormy days of persecution, were martyred. It is situated on the northern
side of the town, in a new and rapidly increasing part of Preston, at
the extreme south-western corner of what used to be called Preston Moor,
and on the very spot where men used to be hanged often, and get their
heads cut off occasionally. “Gallows Hill” is the exact
site of the Church of the English Martyrs. And this “hill”
is associated with a movement constituting one of the rugged points
in our history. The rebellion of 1715 virtually collapsed at Preston;
many fights and skirmishes were indulged in, one or two breezy passages
of arms even took place within a good stone-throw of the ground occupied
by the Church of the English Martyrs; but the King’s troops finally
prevailed. According to an old book before us there were “taken
at Preston”—amongst the rebels—“seven lords,
besides 1,490 other, including the several gentlemen, officers, and
private men, and two clergymen.” And the book further says, in
a humorously sarcastic mood, “There was a Popish priest called
Littleton among them; but having a great deal of the Jesuit he contrived
a most excellent disguise, for he put on a blue apron, went behind an
apothecary’s counter, and passed for an assistant or journeyman to the
apothecary, and so took an opportunity of getting off.” But all
the captured rebels did not escape so adroitly as our Jesuitical friend
Littleton; for several of them were either hanged or beheaded, and the
fate of many was sealed on the site of the Church of the English Martyrs.
On the 5th of January, 1715, we are told that sixteen rebels “were
hanged upon Gallows Hill, for high treason and conspiracy.” In
the following year “42 condemned prisoners of all religions were
hanged and decapitated at Preston;” and amongst them were five
belonging Preston and the neighbourhood. They were “Richard Shuttleworth,
of Preston, Esq.; Roger Moncaster, of Garstang, attorney; Thomas Cowpe,
of Walton-le-Dale; William Butler, of Myerscough, Esq.; William Arkwright,
of Preston, gentleman;” and all of them were put to death on Gallows
Hill the cost being for “materialls, hurdle, fire, cart, &c.,”
and for “setting up” Shuttleworth’s head, &c., £12
0s 4d. There can be no doubt that Gallows Hill derives its name directly
from the transactions of 1715-16. Prior to that time it was a simple
mound; after that period it became associated with hangings and beheadings,
and received the name of “Gallows Hill,” which was peculiarly
appropriate.

In May, 1817, “Gallows Hill” was cut through, so that
“the great north road to Lancaster” might be improved. Whilst
this was being done two coffins were found, and in them there were discovered
two headless bodies. Local historians think they were the remains of
“two rebel chieftains;” they may have been; but there is
no proof of this, although the fair supposition is that they were the
decapitated remnants of two somebodies, who had assumed a rebellious
attitude in 1715. It is probable that the heads of these parties were
“exposed on poles in front of our Town-hall,” for that was
an olden practice, and was considered very legitimate 154 years ago.
We have spoken of the “discoveries” of 1817, and in continuing
our remarks it may be said that “near the spot” some timber,
supposed to have been the gallows, was once found, and that a brass
hand-axe was dug up not far from it, at the same time. The Moor, which
amongst other things embraced the “hill” we have mentioned,
was a rough wildish place—a rude looking common; but it seems
to have been well liked by the people, for upon it they used to hold
trade meetings, political demonstrations, &c.; and for 65 years—from
1726 to 1791—horse races were annually run upon it. The Corporation
and the freemen of the borough once had a great dispute as to their
respective claims to the Moor, and the latter by way of asserting their
rights, put upon it an old white horse; but the Corporation were not
to be cajoled out of their ownership by an argument so very “horsey”
as this; they ordered the animal off; and Mr. J. Dearden, who still
obeys their injunctions with courteous precision, put it into a pinfold
hard by.

The Church of the English Martyrs was erected not long ago upon that
part of the Moor we have described. Originally the promoters of the
church treated for a plot of land about 20 yards above the present site;
but the negotiations were broken off, and afterwards they bought Wren
Cottage and a stable adjoining, situated about a quarter of a mile northwards.
The house was made available for the priest; the stable was converted
into a church; and mass was said in it for the first time on Christmas
morning, 1864. On the 21st of January, 1865, it was formally “opened;”
the Revs. Canon Walker, T. Walton, and F. Soden taking part in the services
of the day. During 1865 preparations were made for erecting a new church
upon the same site; but some of the gentlemen living in the immediate
neighbourhood took offence at the movement, and insisted upon certain
stipulations contained in the covenants, which barred out the construction
of such a building as a church or a chapel, being carried out. There
was a considerable amount of Corporation discussion in respect to the
question, and eventually the idea of erecting a church upon the land
was abandoned. Directly afterwards, “Gallows Hill,” in which
both the Corporation and Mr. Samuel Pole Shaw had rights, was purchased
as a site for it. Operations, involving the removal of an immense quantity
of earth—for the place was nothing more than a high, rough, sandy
hillock,—were commenced on the 26th of March, 1866. On the 26th
of May, in the same year, the foundation-stone was laid, with great
ceremony, by Dr. Goss, and on the 12th of December, 1867, the church
was opened. Mr. E. W. Pugin designed the building, which externally
does not look very wonderful at present; but, when completed, it will
be a handsome place. The original design includes a beautiful steeple,
surmounted with pinnacles; but want of funds precludes its erection.

The church is a high double-roofed edifice—looks like two buildings,
one placed above the other; and, owing to the absence of a steeple,
it seems very tall and bald. It has a pretty western gable, which can
only be fully appreciated by close inspection. The centre of this gable
is occupied by a fine eight-light window, and the general work is surmounted
by pinnacles and ornamental masonry. Two angels, cut in stone, originally
formed part of the ornamentation; but during a strong gale, early in
1868, they were blown down. These “fallen angels” have never
regained their first estate; and as they might only tumble down if re-fixed,
and perhaps kill somebody, which would not be a very angelic proceeding,
we suppose they will not be interfered with.

The church has an imposing, a noble interior. It is wide, lofty,
has a fine calm majestic look, and is excellently arranged. The nave,
which is 69 feet high, is supported by 14 stone pillars. From nearly
any point every part of the building may be seen; the nave pillars,
do not, as is the case in some churches, obstruct the vision; and everything
seems easy, clear, and open. In the daytime a rich shadowy light is
thrown into the church by the excellent disposition of its windows;
at eventide the sheen of the setting sun, caught by the western window,
falls like a bright flood down the nave, and makes the scene beautiful.
The high altar is a fine piece of workmanship; is of Gothic design,
is richly carved, is ornamented with marbles, has a canopy of most elaborate
construction, and is in good harmony with the general architecture.
Two small altars are near it. One of them, dedicated to St. Joseph,
and given by Mr. J. Pyke, of this town, is particularly handsome; the
other, dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, is of a less costly, though
very pretty, character. Near one of the pillars on the north-eastern
side there stands a square wooden frame, which is called the pulpit.
It is a deliciously primitive and remarkably common-place concern; but
it is strong enough, and will have to stop where it is until money for
something better is raised. There are sittings in the church for 850
persons. On Sundays there are masses at eight, and half-past nine; a
regular service at eleven, and another at half-past six in the evening.
The aggregate attendance during the day is about 1,350. The assemblage
at the first mass is thin; at the second it is good—better than
at any other time; at eleven it is pretty numerous; and in the evening
it is fair. Adults and children from the union workhouse, of the Catholic
persuasion, attend the eleven o’clock service; and they come in tolerable
force—sometimes they number 100.

The general congregation consists nearly altogether of working class
people, and it includes some of the best sleepers we have seen. The
members of the choir sit in a gallery at the western end. Their performances
are of a curious description. Sometimes they sing very well—are
quite exact in their renderings and decidedly harmonious; at other times
they torture the music somewhat. But then they are young at the business,
haven’t had so much experience, and have nothing to rely upon in the
shape of instrumental music except the hard tones of an ordinary harmonium.
Organ accompaniments help up good choirs and materially drown the defects
of bad ones. With better instrumental assistance, the singers at the
Church of the English Martyrs would acquit themselves more satisfactorily,
and with additional practice they would still further improve matters.

There are two priests stationed at the church—the Rev. James
Taylor and the Rev. Joseph Pyke. Father Taylor, the principal, is a
blooming, healthy, full-spirited gentleman. He is a “Fylde man;”
has in him much strong straight-forwardness; looks as if he had never
ailed anything in his life; doesn’t appear to have mortified the flesh
very acutely; seems to have taken things comfortably and well since
the day of his birth; has not allowed his creed to spoil his face—a
trick which some professors of religion are guilty of; and is, on the
whole, a genuine specimen of the true John Bull type. Father Taylor’s
first mission was at Lancaster, under the late Dean Brown; afterwards
he came to St. Augustine’s, Preston, where he remained four and a half
years; then he was appointed Catholic chaplain at the House of Correction;
and subsequently he took charge of his present mission. He is an active
man, and works very hard in his district. As a preacher he is energetic,
impetuous, and practical—speaks plainly and straight out, minces
nothing, and tries to drive what he considers to be the truth right
home. He has very little rhetorical action, hardly moves at all in the
pulpit, stirs neither head nor hand except upon special occasions; but
he has a powerful voice, he pours out his words in a strong, full volume,
and the force he has in this respect compensates for the general immobility
he displays during his discourses.

His colleague—the Rev. J. Pyke—is a small, mild gentleman,
unassuming in manner, cautious, careful, quiet, precise, and, whilst
attending to his duties regularly, he makes no bluster about them. He
was ordained at the Church of the English Martyrs, in September, 1868.
In the pulpit he is earnest, clear, and regular in his remarks. He makes
no repetitions, flings himself into no attitudes, assumes no airs, but
proceeds on to the end steadily and calmly. Both the priests named live
close to the church, in a building which forms part of the property
of the mission. It is intended some time to have a proper presbytery,
near the church: one is included in the original plan; but shortness
of funds bars its erection. The work thus far executed—the church,
vestries, &c.—has cost about £8,000, and there still
remains upon the buildings a debt of about £4,000. There are no
schools in connection with the church; but it is expected that there
will be by and bye. The land formerly used as the cattle market, and
situated near the church, has been bought for this purpose, and collectors
are now engaged in raising money towards the erection of the schools.
The church has two or three “guilds,” the female members
thereof numbering about 200, and the males 100. In the “district”
there are about 3,000 Catholics, including 700 children under 10 years
of age; so that the priests in charge of it have quite enough on hand
for the present. A mission in debt to the tune of £4,000; a church
to internally complete—for much yet remains to be finished in
the one described; a church tower which will cost £2,000 to raise;
a presbytery to begin of; schools, which are primarily essential, to
erect; and 7,000 human beings to look after, constitute what may fairly
be termed “no joke.”

ST. SAVIOUR’S CHURCH.

Few districts are more thoroughly vitiated, more distinctly poverty-struck,
more entirely at enmity with soap and water than that in which this
church stands. Physically, mentally, and spiritually, it is in a state
of squash and mildew. Heathenism seethes in it, and something even more
potent than a forty-parson power of virtue will be required to bring
it to healthy consciousness and legitimate action. You needn’t go to
the low slums of London, needn’t smuggle yourself round with detectives
into the back dens of big cities if you want to see “sights”
of poverty and depravity; you can have them nearer home—at home—in
the murky streets, sinister courts, crowded houses, dim cellars, and
noisy drinking dens of St. Saviour’s district. Pass through it, move
quietly along its parapets—leaving a tour through its internal
institutions for some future occasion—and you will see enough
to convince you that many missionaries, with numerous Bibles and piles
of blankets, are yet wanted at home before being despatched to either
farthest land or the plains of Timbuctoo. The general scene may be thus
condensed and described: Myriads of children, ragged, sore-headed, bare-legged,
dirty, and amazingly alive amid all of it; wretched-looking matrons,
hugging saucy, screaming infants to their breasts, and sending senior
youngsters for either herring, or beer, or very small loaves; strong,
idle young men hanging about street corners with either dogs at their
feet, or pigeon-baskets in their hands; little shops driving a brisk
“booking” business with either females wearing shawls over
their heads or children wearing nothing at all on their feet; bevies
of brazen-faced hussies looking out of grim doorways for more victims
and more drink; stray soldiers struggling about beer or dram shops entrances,
with dissolute, brawny-armed females; and wandering old hags with black
eyes and dishevelled hair, closing up the career of shame and ruin they
have so long and so wretchedly run.

Anybody may see the sights we have just described. We mention this
not because there is anything pleasing in it, but because it is something
which exists daily in the heart of our town—in the centre of St.
Saviour’s district. No locality we know of stands more in need of general
redemption than this, and any Christian church, no matter whatever may
be its denominational peculiarities, which may exist in it, deserves
encouragement and support. The district is so supremely poor, and so
absolutely bad, that anything calculated to improve or enlighten it
in any way is worthy of assistance. A Baptist chapel was built in the
quarter we are now describing—it was erected in Leeming-street,
at the corner of Queen-street—in 1783. Fifty years afterwards
it was enlarged; subsequently the Baptists couldn’t agree amongst themselves;
the parties to the quarrel then separated, some going to Pole-street
Chapel, others forming a new “church”—that now in
Fishergate; and on the 10th of August, 1859, the old building was bought
by certain gentlemen connected with the Church of England. A young man,
named William Dent Thompson, strong in constitution, greatly enamoured
of Reformation principles, keenly polemical, and brought up under the
aegis of the Rev. Geo. Alker, was appointed superintendent of the place.
He stayed awhile, then went away, and was succeeded by the Rev. Geo.
Donaldson, who in turn left for Blackburn, and was followed by the Rev.
Geo. Beardsell, the present incumbent of All Saints’ in this town. Mr.
Beardsell did an excellent business in the district—worked it
up well and most praiseworthily; but he, in time, left.

For seven months after this, there was no regular minister at the
place; still it didn’t go down; several energetic, zealous laymen looked
after it and the schools established in connection with it, and, considering
their calibre, they did a good work. But they couldn’t keep up a full
and continuous fire; a properly stationed minister was needed; and Mr.
Thompson, who had in the meantime entered holy orders, was summoned
from Blackenall, in Staffordshire, to take charge of the church and
district. In 1863 he came; under his ministrations the congregation
soon augmented; and in a short time a movement was started for a new
church; the old building being a ricketty, inconvenient, rudely-dismal
place, quite insufficient for the requirements of the locality. The
principal friends of the new movement were R. Newsham, the late J. Bairstow,
J. Horrocks, and T. Miller, Esqrs., and what they subscribed constituted
a substantial nucleus guaranteeing the commencement of operations. In
1866, the old edifice was pulled down to make way for a new church,
and during the work of re-construction divine service was performed
in Vauxhall-road schools, which were, sometime after Mr. Thompson’s
appointment, transferred by the Rev. Canon Parr from the Parish Church’s
to St. Saviour’s district. R. Newsham, Esq., laid the corner-stone of
St. Saviour’s Church on the 26th of November, 1866; the building was
consecrated by the Bishop of Manchester, on the 29th of October, 1868;
on the 9th of December in that year, the Rev. W. D. Thompson was licensed
to its incumbency; and on the 16th of April, 1869, the district was
“legally assigned” by the Ecclesiastical Commissioners.

St. Saviour’s—designed by Mr. Hibbert, architect, of this town—is
one of the handsomest and best finished churches we have seen. It almost
seems too good for the district in which it is situated. The style of
it is Gothic. Externally its most striking feature is the tower. We
thought at one time, when the tower had been run up a considerable distance,
that it was positively “going to the dogs.” At each of its
angles there is a strange arrangement of dogs; they bristle out on all
sides, and are not over good looking—are thin, hungry, weird-looking
animals, appear to have had a hard time of it somewhere, and to be doing
their best to escape from the stone whence they are protruding. But
the pinnacles placed above have completely taken away their grotesqueness,
their malicious, suspicious appearance, and the tower now looks beautiful.
There are three entrances to the church—one at the back, another
at the north-western corner, and the third beneath the tower on the
south-western side. If you please we will enter by the door on the last-named
side.

We are within the building—just within; and here we have on
the right a glass screen, on the left a multiplicity of warm water pipes,
and in the centre of the spot a handsome substantial baptismal font,
the gift of Sir T. G. Fermor-Hesketh, M.P. This font can’t be too highly
praised; its workmanship is excellent; its material is most durable;
and with care it will last for at least four thousand years. Behind
it are two stained glass windows; one being in memory of the father
of the incumbent’s wife; the other in remembrance of the architect’s
mother. Adjoining is a plain window which will shortly be filled in
with stained glass, at the expense of Mr. W. B. Roper, in memory of
a relative. Leaving the font, and the water pipes, and the windows,
we move forward, and are at once struck with the capaciousness, the
excellent disposition, and the handsome finish of the interior. Directly
in front there is a magnificent five-light chancel window—beautifully
coloured, well arranged, containing in the centre a representation of
our Saviour, and flanked by figures of the four evangelists. We have
seldom seen a more exquisite, a more elegantly artistic window than
this. Edward Swainson, Esq., whose works are in the district, presented
it. Still looking eastward, but taking a nearer view and one of less
altitude, we notice the pulpit—a piece of fine carved oak-work,
resting upon a circular column of stone, and given by Mrs. Newsham;
then we have a lectern, of the eagle pattern, presented by the Rev.
R. Brown; and to the left of this there is a most excellently finished,
carved-oak, reading desk, given by R. Newsham, Esq. The communion plate—most
choice and elaborate in design—was, we may observe, given by the
same gentleman. Turning round, we notice a pretty four-light window
in the western gable. This was also presented by R. Newsham, Esq., in
memory of the late J. Bairstow, Esq. The church consists of a nave and
a northern aisle. If an aisle could be constructed on the southern side
the building would assume proportions at once most complete and imposing.
But space will not permit of this. Land constitutes a difficulty on
that side; and the general building is considerably deteriorated in
appearance at present through “associations” in this part.
At the south-eastern end there is a small wretched-looking beershop,
and near it a dingy used-up cottage. These two buildings are a nuisance
to the church; they spoil the appearance of the building at one end
completely, and they ought to be pulled down and carted off forthwith.

Reverting to the interior of St. Saviour’s, we observe that the northern
side is supported by four arches, the central one depending upon double
columns of polished granite, and all of them having highly ornamented
capitals. A couple of stone angels support the primary principal of
the chancel roof, and they bear the weight put upon them very complacently.
The northern aisle is occupied below with free seats; and above, in
a gallery, with ditto. At the western end there is a continuation of
the gallery, filled with free seats. The church will hold 800 people,
and more than half the seats are free. All the pews are strong, open,
and good to sit in. The central ones on the ground floor are very lengthy—perhaps
thirty feet in extent.

The congregation, considering the capacity of the church, is large,
and consists almost absolutely of working people. We noticed during
our visit to this place what we have seen at no other church or chapel
in the town, namely, that many of the worshippers put in an early appearance—several
were in their seats at least a quarter of an hour before the service
commenced. We further noticed that the congregation is a pre-eminently
quiet and orderly one. At some places you are tormented to death with
stirring feet, shuffling, rustling clothes, coughing, sneezing, &c.;
here, however, you have little of these things, and at times, a positive
dead calm prevails. It may also be worthy of mention that we saw fewer
sleepers at St. Saviour’s than in any other place of worship yet visited
by us. Only one gentleman got fairly into a state of slumber during
the whole service; a stout girl tried to “drop over” several
times, and an old man made two or three quiet efforts to get his eyes
properly closed, but both failed. All the other members of the congregation
appeared to be wide awake and amazingly attentive. The free seats are
well patronised by poor people, and it is to such a class as this that
the place seems really advantageous.

The music at the church is simple, hearty, and quite congregational.
The tunes are plain, and the worshippers, instead of looking on whilst
the choir perform, join in the music, and get up a very full volume
of respectable melody. The regular singers have their quarters at the
north-eastern end, on the ground floor, and they acquit themselves with
a very good grace. Near them is a small, poor-looking organ; it is played
well, but its music is not very consolatory, and its tame, infantile
appearance throws it quite out of keeping with the general excellence
of the church. Some money has, we believe, been promised towards a new
organ, and if somebody else would promise some more, a seemly-looking
instrument might be obtained.

Two or three “classes” meet every Sunday for instruction
in the church. Formerly, owing to defective accomodation, the members
of them had to assemble in two public-house rooms, where the education
was in one sense of the “mixed” kind, for whilst virtue
was being inculcated above, where the members met, the elegant war-whooping
of pagans below, given over to beer, tobacco, and blasphemy, could be
heard. This wasn’t a thing to be desired, and as soon as ever the church
was ready, a removal to it was effected. Educational business in connection
with St. Saviour’s is carried on in various parts of the district. In
Vauxhall-road there are day schools with an average attendance of 220.
On Sundays, the work of education is carried on here; also at the Parsonage-house
(which adjoins Lark-hill convent), where a mother’s class is taught
by Mrs. Thompson; in Shepherd-street, where a number of poor ragged
children meet; and likewise, as before stated, in the church; the aggregate
attendance being about 900. The Parsonage-house was purchased and presented
to St. Saviour’s by the late J. Bairstow, Esq. Handsome new schools
are being built (entirely at the expense of R. Newsham, Esq., who has
been a most admirable friend to St. Saviour’s) near the church. They
will accommodate about 400 scholars, and will, it is expected, be ready
by the end of the present year. The entire cost of the church, parsonage
house, &c., has been about £10,000; and not more than £50
will be required to clear off all the liabilities thus far incurred.

The incumbent of St. Saviour’s is plain, unpoetical, strong-looking,
and practical. He was reared under the shadow of Ingleborough. We have
known him for 30 years. On coming to Preston he was for sometime a mechanic;
then he became missioner in connection with the Protestant Reformation
Society, first at St. Peter’s in this town,—and next at St. Mary’s.
Afterwards he left, studied for the ministry, and six years since, as
already intimated, came to St. Saviour’s as its incumbent. For a time
after the church was erected, he had nothing to depend upon but the
pew rents, which realised about £70 a year: but fortune favours
parsons: the Ecclesiastical Commissioners subsequently increased his
stipend, then £1,000 was left by J. Bairstow, Esq., and the income
is now equal to about £300 per annum. Mr. Thompson is not a brilliant
man, and never will be. He is close-shaven, full-featured, heavily-set,
slow is his mental processes, but earnest, pushing, and enduring. He
is an industrious parson, a striving, persevering, roughly-hewn, hard-working
man—a good visitor, a willing worker, free and kindly disposed
towards poor people, and the exact man for such a district as that in
which he is located. If a smart, highly-drawn, classical gentleman were
fixed as minister in the region of St. Saviour’s, the people would neither
understand him nor care for him. If he talked learnedly, discussed old
cosmogonies, worked out subtle theories of divinity, and chopped logic;
if he spiced up big homilies with Plato and Virgil, or wandered into
the domain of Hebrew roots and Greek iambics, his congregation would
put him down as insane, and would be driven crazy themselves. But Mr.
Thompson avoids these things, primarily because he doesn’t know much
about them, and generally because plain words and practical work are
the sole things required in his district.

The gentleman under review used to be a tremendous anti-Popery speaker,
and more than once thought well of the Reformation perorations of Henry
Vincent; but he has toned down much in this respect, like Panjandrum
the Grand, under whose feathers he originally nestled. He is still,
and has a right to be, if that way inclined, a strong believer in the
triumph achieved at Boyne Water; only he doesn’t make so much stir about
it as formerly. Mr. Thompson is a determined and aspiring man; is earnest,
windy, and clerically “large;” knows he is a parson without
being told of it; has a somewhat ponderous and flatulent style of articulation;
has not the faculty of originality much developed, but can imitate excellently;
could sooner quote than coin a great thought; believes in stray polemical
struggles with outsiders; used to have a Byronic notion that getting
hold of other people’s thoughts, and passing them off for those of somebody
else, was not a very great sin; is a better anecdote teller than reasoner;
can be very solemn and most virtuously combative; could yet, though
he seems to have settled down, get up, on the shortest notice, any amount
of “immortal William” steam, and throw every ounce of it
into a good ninth-rate jeremiad. Still he has many capital points; he
is a most indefatigable toiler in his own district, and that covers
all his defects; he is not too proud nor too idle to visit everybody,
however wretched or vile, requiring his advice and assistance; he is
homely, sincere, and devoted to the cause he has in hand, and the locality
he has charge of; he does his best to improve it; he has not laboured
unsuccessfully; and no better minister could be found for such a place.
He can adapt himself to its requirements; can level himself to its social
and spiritual necessities; does more good in it every day than a more
polished, or brilliant, or namby-pamby parson would be able to accomplish
in a year; has an excellent wife, who takes her share of the district’s
work; attends to the varied wants of the locality—and there are
many in a godless district like his, with its 5,000 souls—in a
most praiseworthy manner. He is the right man is the right place, and
it is a good job that he is not too learned, for that would have interfered
with his utility, would have dumfounded those in his keeping, and operated
against his success. Mr. Thompson, adieu, and good luck to you.

CHRISTIAN BRETHREN AND BROOK-STREET PRIMITIVE METHODISTS.

All over, there are many who consider themselves Christian brethren;
but the number taking up the name specifically, with a determination
to stick to it denominationally, is small. In all large towns a few
of this complexion may be found; and in Preston odd ones exist whose
shibboleth is “Christian Brethren.” We had a spell with
them, rather unexpectedly, on a recent “first day”—“Christian
Brethren” always call Sunday the first day. And it came about
in this way: we were on the point of entering a Dissenting place of
worship, when a kindly-natured somewhat originally-constituted “pillar
of the Church” intercepted our movements, and said, “You
mustn’t come here today.” “Why?” we asked, and his
reply was, that a fiftieth-rate stray parson, whom “the Church
doesn’t care for” would be in the pulpit that day, and that if
we wished for “a fair sample” we must “come next Sunday.”
We didn’t want to be hard, and therefore said that if “another
place” could be found for us, we would take it instead. Violent
cogitation for five minutes ensued, and at last our friend, more zealous
than erudite, conjured up what he termed, “them here new lot,
called Christians.”

We had heard of this section before, and at our request he accompanied
us to a small, curiously-constructed building in Meadow-street. At the
side of the doorway we observed a strangely-written, badly-spelled sign,
referring to the different periods when the “Christian Brethren”
met for worship, &c.; and above it another sign appeared, small
and dim, and making some allusion to certain academical business. Hurrying
up fourteen steps we reached a dark, time-worn door, and after pausing
for a moment—listening to some singing within—our guide,
philosopher, &c., opened it, and we entered the place with him.
The room was not “crowded to suffocation;” its windows were
not gathering carbon drops through the density of human breathing; there
were just fourteen persons in the place—four men, three women,
two youths, a girl, and four children. A Bible and a hymn book—the
latter, according to its preface, being intended for none but the righteous—were
handed to us, and our friend want through the singing in a delightfully-dreadful
style. He appeared to have a way of his own in the business of psalmody—sang
whatever came into his head first, got into all manner of keys, and
considering that he was doing quite enough for both of us, we remained
silent, listening to the general melody, and drinking in its raptures
as placidly as possible.

Prior to describing either the service we witnessed, or the principles
of those participating in it, we must say a word in reference to the
building. It stands on the northern side of Meadow-street, between sundry
cottage houses, retiring a little from the general frontage, and by
its architecture seems to be a cross between a small school and a minute
country meeting-house. It was originally built in 1844 by Mr. John Todd
of this town. He started it as a chapel on his own account—for
at that time he had special theological notions; and probably considered
that he had as much right to have a place of worship as anybody else.
We have been unable to ascertain the primal denominational character
of the building; the founder of it is unable to tell us; all that we
have been able to get out of him is, that the place “had no name,”
and all that we can, therefore, fairly say is, that he built it, and
did either something or nothing in it. Mr. Todd did not occupy it very
long; he struck his colours in about a year; and afterwards it was used
by different Dissenting bodies, including some Scotch Baptists, on whose
behalf the building was altered. Originally it was only one story high;
but when the Baptists went to it a second story was added, and, having
either aspiring notions or considering that they would be better accommodated
in the higher than the lower portion of the building, they went aloft,
leaving the ground floor for individuals of more earthly proclivities.
Two years ago Mr. Todd sold the building, and about six months since
certain Christian Brethren hired the top room for “first day”
purposes, week day work being carried on in it by an industrious schoolmaster.

Like the Quakers, Christian Brethren are a “peculiar people.”
They believe more in being good and doing good than in professing goodness
formally. They recognise some forms and a few ceremonies; but vital
inherent excellence—simple Christianity, plain, unadorned, and
earnest—is their pole-star. They claim to be guided in all their
religious acts solely by the Scriptures; consider that as “the
disciples were first called Christians at Antioch,” their followers
have no right to assume any other name; think, baptismally speaking,
that whilst there may be some virtue in sprinkling and pouring, there
can be no mistake about absolute immersion, inasmuch as that will include
everything; think baby baptism unnecessary, and hold that none except
penitent believers, with brains fairly solidified, should be admitted
to the ordinance; maintain that, as under the apostolic regime, “the
disciples came together on the first day of the week to break bread,”
Christians should partake of the sacrament every Sunday; call their
ministers “evangelists;” hold that at general meetings for
worship there should be full liberty of speech; that worship should
be perfectly free; and that everything should be supported on the voluntary
principle. Those now worshipping in Meadow-street are the first “Christian
Brethren” we have had, regularly organised, in Preston. How they
will go on we cannot tell; but if present appearances are any criterion,
we are afraid they will not make very rapid progress. They have about
ten “members” at present; when the “baker’s dozen”
will be reached is a mystery.

The executive business of Christian Brethren is managed by deacons;
but the diaconal stage has not yet been reached in Preston. There are
branches of the body in Blackburn, Southport, Bolton, &c.; but none
exist in Lancashire north of Preston. The brethren here have no Sunday-school;
but the establishment of one is contemplated, and it may be in time
fairly attended. What the number of attendants will be we can’t tell,
but this may be fairly said—that if each of the ten members happens,
in the lapse of time, to have 12 children, and if all are sent to school,
120 scholars will be raised, and that this would constitute a very good
muster for a small denomination. But we must return to the subject.

After the singing, which our friend so improved—and he continued
“in the werry same tone of voice,” as poor Sam Cowell used
to say in his “Station Porter’s” song, through every hymn—a
bearded, mustached, and energetic young man (Mr. W. Hindle), originally
a Methodist town missionary, at one time connected with Shepherd-street
Ragged School, Preston, and now an “Evangelist” belonging
the Christian Brethren, labouring at Southport, Blackburn, &c.,
but generally engaged for Sunday service at Preston, read several verses
from the Bible; then be prayed, his orison being of a free and wide-spreading
type; and afterwards he asked if any “brother” would read
from Holy Writ. A pause followed, doubt and bashfulness apparently supervening;
but at length a calm, thoughtful gentleman got up, and went through
sundry passages in Isaiah. The singing of a hymn succeeded, and Mr.
Hindle then asked if “another brother” would read. A gentleman,
spectacled, with his hair well thrown back, and very earnest, here rose,
and having put a small Bible upon a little table in front, and taken
up a larger volume which the minister had been perusing, diced into
Corinthians, and gave a tolerably satisfactory reading. The minister
then commenced discussing certain antithetical points in St. Paul’s
writings, and next asked if “two or three brethren” would
engage in prayer. Thirty seconds elapsed, and then one of the brethren
made a prayer. The sacrament—bread and wine—directly followed,
and after a purse, suddenly pulled out from some place by the minister,
had been sharply handed round for contributions, a serious young man
gave out a hymn, which the company genially sung. More speaking ensued:
but the minister had it all to himself. He said—“Will any
brother speak; now is the time; if you have anything to state utter
it; lose no time, but say on.” Never a brother spoke; eye-squeezing
and thumb-turning, and deep introspection followed; and in the end the
minister rose, took his text from three or four parts of the Bible,
and gave a lengthy discourse, relieved at intervals with genuine outbursts
of eloquence, relative to Christian action and general duty. He seemed
to have a poor notion of many Christians, and somewhat fantastically
illustrated their position by saying that they were, spiritually troubled
with consumption and apparently with diabetes!—were continually
devouring good things, constantly wasting away, and doing no particular
good amongst it at all. We felt the force of this; but we didn’t ejaculate;
quietness, except on very excited occasions, being the rule here. His
discourse lasted about 30 minutes, and it was well and forcibly delivered.
At the conclusion two or three of the Brethren came out of their circle—they
were all round a table before the parson—and shook hands with
us.

We shortly afterwards retired, leaving our “musical”
friend engaged in a hot discussion with the parson as to the propriety
of certain observations he had made in his sermon. How the matter was
fought out we cannot tell. The Brethren assemble every Sunday morning
and evening in the building; sometimes they have a Bible class meeting
on a Sunday afternoon; and occasionally a week night service. They are
a calm, devout, forlorn-looking class; are distinctly sincere; have
strong liberal notions of Christianity; seem to love one another considerably,
and may at times greet each other with a holy kiss; but they don’t thrive
much in Preston. In time they may become a “great people,”
but at present their status is small. Ten Christian Brethren up 14 steps
may grow potent eventually; but they may, figuratively speaking, fall
down the steps in the meantime, and so injure the cause as to defy the
influence of theraputics.

A few words now as to Brook-street Primitive Methodist Chapel, which
we visited the same day. This is a tiny building, and appears to stand
in a dangerous region. On one side all the windows are continually shuttered,
so as to prevent the mischievous action of stones, and in front the
door is railed in closely so as to frustrate the efforts of those who
might be inclined to kick it. The chapel, which is also used for Sunday
school purposes, was built in 1856. It is a very humble, plain-looking
edifice externally; and internally it is equally unassuming. You get
to it collaterally, through a pair of narrow doors, which bang about
very much in stormy weather. The roof is supported by two iron pillars,
with which a tall stove pipe keeps company. In the centre there are
16 pews, each capable of holding three persons, and a large pew which
will accommodate six. Rows of small forms run down each side. Those
on the left are used by men and boys; those on the other side are principally
patronised by women and little children, some of whom are too young
to engage in anything but lactary pursuits. Green is a favourite colour
here. The inside of the pews are green; portions of the walls are green;
some of the windows are similarly coloured at the base; the music stands
in the orchestra are green; and there is a fine semi-circular display
of green at the back of the pulpit. At the south-eastern corner there
are sundry pieces of old timber piled up; at the opposite side there
is a cupboard; and over the entrance numerous forms, colour poles, and
a ladder are placed. These constitute all the loose ornaments in the
chapel. About 150 persons can be accommodated in the place. When we
visited it—the time was rather unfavourable, owing to the roughness
of the weather—sixty-six persons, exclusive of the choir and the
parson, were in it.

The congregation is a very poor one, but it is singularly sincere
and orderly—is not refined but devout, is comparatively unlettered
but honest. There is neither silk, nor satin, nor diamond rings, nor
lavender kids, in the place; a hard working-day plainness, mingled with
poverty, pervades it; but there is no sham seen: if the people are poor,
commonly dressed, noisy—if they effervesce sometimes, and shout
“Hallelujah” with a fiery joyfulness, and pray right out,
as if they were being ship-wrecked or frightened to death, why let them
have their way, for they are happy amongst it. Their convictions are
strong, and when they are at it they go in for a good thing—for
something roughly exquisite, hilariously pious, and consumingly good.
They don’t mince matters; are neither dainty nor given to cant, but
shout out what they feel at the moment whatever may become of it afterwards.
Sunday services, prayer meetings, and class meetings are held in the
chapel regularly. The pulpit is occupied by various persons.

The minister stationed at the place is the Rev. J. Hall—colleague
of the pastor at Saul-street Chapel—but he only takes his turn
in it. A strong-built man, plainly attired, earnest, and not so given
to flights of violent fancy as some preachers, had charge of the pulpit
during our visit. His style was homely, and in his easier periods he
had a knack of putting his left hand into his breeches pocket, and talking
in a semi-conversational Lancashire dialect style. He dilated for thirty
minutes upon the horn-blowing at Jericho, the siege, the wall-falling,
and the sin of Achan; and then wound up by telling his hearers—drawing
the moral from Achan’s fate—that if they did wrong they would
be sure to be found out. The sermon was quite equal to the bulk of homilies
given in Primitive Methodist Chapels, and it seemed to go right home
to the congregation. The plundering of Achan was well told, and when
it was announced that he was stoned with stones, and then burned, the
congregation sent up a mild, half-sighing groan, shaking their heads
a little, and apparently determining to do right as long as ever they
lived.

The music at the chapel was strong, and, remembering the nature of
the place, satisfactory. Three men, three young women, and a boy managed
it. The women sometimes drowned the men; the boy often got into a shrill
mood; but the men finally reached the surface, the women quietly subsided,
the boy toned down his forces somewhat; and on the whole the singing
was well done. After the sermon there came a prayer meeting. We determined
to see it out, preserving that quietude and respect which one ought
always to evince towards those believing in the great cardinal points
of Christanity, however peculiar may be, the modes of their expression.
Only about twenty-five, who assembled on the southern side of the chapel,
joined the prayer meeting. The proceedings were of a most enthusiastic,
virtuous, hot, and bewildering character. Singing, feet-beating, praying,
hand-clapping, and reciprocal shouting constituted the programme. One
elderly man went fairly wild during the business. He shook his head,
doubled his fists, threw his arms about, ejaculated with terrible rapidity
and force, and appeared to be entirely set on fire by his feelings.
A thorough craze—a wild, beating, electrifying passion—got
completely hold of him for a few minutes, and he enjoyed the stormy
pulsations of it exceedingly. At the end somebody said, “Now,
will some of the women pray?” Instantly a little old man said,
“God bless the women;” “Aye,” said another,
while several gave vent to sympathetic sighs. But the women were not
to be drawn out in this style; none of them were in the humour for praying;
they didn’t even return the benediction of the little old man by saying
“God bless the men;” they kept quiet, then got up, and then
all walked out; the last words we remember being from a woman, who,
addressing us, said, “Now, draw it mild!”

ST. THOMAS’S CHURCH.

We have made no inquiry as to the original predecessors of those
attending this church. They may have been links in the chain of those
men who, ages ago, planted themselves on the coast of Malabar, rejoicing
in the name of “Christians of St. Thomas,” and struggling
curiously with Nestorians, Franciscans, Dominicans, and Jesuits; they
may have constituted a remnant of the good people whom Cosmas Indicopleustes
saw in the East twelve hundred years since; they may have only had a
Preston connection, knowing nothing of the Apostle of India—St.
Thomas—beyond what anybody knows, and caring more for his creed
than his title. Whatever may have been their history and fate, it is
certain their successors believe in that most apostolical of unbelievers
just mentioned—so far, at least, as the name is concerned. The
church they respect is situated at the northern end of Preston, near
the junction of Moor-lane and Lancaster-road. It is a small, strong,
hard-looking building; seems as if it would stand any amount of rain
and never get wet through, any quantity of heat and never have a sunstroke;
it is stoical, cold, firm, and very stony; has a bodkin-pointed spire,
ornamented with round holes and circular places into which penetration
has not yet been effected; and its “tout ensemble” is in
no way edifying. It is neither ornate nor colossal. Strength, plainness,
and smallness, with a strong dash of general rigidity, are its outward
characteristics.

St. Thomas’s is one of the local churches erected through the exertions
of the late Rev. R. Carus Wilson; and, like all those churches, it is
built in the Norman style of architecture—a massive, severe style,
which will never be popularly pleasing, but will always secure endurance
for the edifices constructed on its principles. The first stone of this
church was laid in August, 1837. The building stands upon a hill, is
surrounded by a powerful stone wall, can be approached two ways, and
has its front entrance opposite a small street, which has not yet received
any name at all. To a stranger, ingress to the building is rather perplexing.
A gateway in Lancaster-road, leading to a footpath, fringed with rockery,
would appear to be the front way, but it is only a rear road, and when
you get fairly upon it you wonder where it will end—whether you
will be able to get to the interior by it, or only to some rails on
one side and a wall on the other. It, however, eventuates round a corner,
at the main entrance. We recommend this back way, for the legitimate
front road is much more intricate and harassing; you can only become
acquainted with it, if topographically unenlightened, and bashful as
to making inquiries, by hovering about an ancient windmill, moving up
narrow hilly streets, flanked by angular bye-paths, and then following
either the first woman you see with a prayer book in her hand, or the
first man you catch a sight of with a good coat on his back. The main
entrance is ornamental but diminutive in many respects. There are three
doorways here, the collateral ones, which are very low, and quite calculated
to prevent people from entering the building with their hats on, being
patronised the most—not because there is an offertory box in the
central passage, but because the side roads are the handiest. During
a second visit to the church we went in by the middle door, the medium
course, as the proverb hath it, being the safest, and seeing the offertory
box—a remarkably strong, iron-cornered article, fastened to the
wall—we remarked to an official, in his shirt sleeves, who was
with us, “This will stand a deal of money before falling.”
The official replied “It will so,” and the look, he gave
us superinduced the conclusion that the offertory box was not going
to fall for some time.

We have seen no more deceptive-looking church than that we are now
at. Viewed externally, you would say that scarcely a good handful of
people could be accommodated in it; it seems so narrow, so entirely
made up of and filled in with stone, that one infers at first sight
it will hardly hold the parson and the sacrament-loving “old woman”
who invariably exists as a permanent arrangement at all our places of
worship; but this is a fallacy, for the building will accommodate about
1,100 people. The interior consists of a nave, two aisles, and a chancel.
Everything in the building seems strong, clean, and good; and considering
the ponderous character of its architecture a fair share of light is
admitted to it. At the entrance, there is a glass screen, ornamentally
got up and surmounted with a small lion and unicorn design. Just within
this screen there is a curtained pew, and sitting within its enclosure
must be a very snug and select thing. It is occupied by Mr. Hermon,
M.P., and when he draws the curtains all round—“he sometimes
does,” said the official accompanying us—no one can see
a morsel of him whilst he can see never a one in the building, not even
the parson, without a special effort. The nave is broad and quadrangular,
is supported by immensely strong pillars, and has a fine high roof,
looking clean and spacious, but considerably spoiled by several commonplace
awkwardly fashioned beams. The roof of each aisle is similarily marred.
The seats are disposed in six parallel ranges, and the generality are
quite good enough for anybody. Along each side there is a row of free
seats—about 50 altogether—capable of accommodating upwards
of 300 persons. There are also many free seats in the gallery.

The present incumbent has an idea that he has made some addition
to this accomodation; but people who have known the church ever since
it was built say that the extra “free pews” appropriated
for the poor by him were never charged for. At the end of each aisle
there is a neat stained glass window; that to the right bearing this
inscription—“To the memory of W. P. Jones, M.A., ob. January
29, 1864, aged 77 years,” and that on the left these words “To
the memory of Mrs. Fanny Jones, ob. January 27, 1864, aged 75 years.”
Mr. Jones was a former incumbent of St. Thomas’s. He was a quiet, mild-minded
man, devoid of bombast, neither cynical nor meddlesome, and was well
liked by all. His wife died just two days before him, and both were
interred in one grave in St. Peter’s church yard. The pulpit and reading
desk at St. Thomas’s are good-looking and substantial, but both are
rather bad to get into and out of—the steps are narrow and angular,
with a sudden descent, which might cause a stranger to miss his footing
and fall, if he had not firm hold of the side rail. Right above, perhaps
20 feet high, and surmounting the chancel arch, there is a small ornamental
projection, like a balcony. It would make a capital stand for the minister;
or might be turned into a conspicuous place of Sunday resort for the
wardens; but, then, they would have to be hoisted to it, for there is
no road up, and that would not be seemly. Formerly, we believe, this
balcony was used by the singers, but they were subsequently transplanted
to the western gallery. The passage to the balcony front is now shut
off. A considerable effort at ornamentation has been made on the walls
flanking the balcony described. But we don’t care much for it. Little
pillars, quaint window models, and other architectural devices, are
heaped upon each other in curious profusion, and it is difficult to
get at their real meaning. They relieve the walls a little, but they
do the work whimsically, and you can neither get a smile nor a tear
from them. The chancel arch is strong and ornamental; within it there
is another arch, the intervening roof being neatly groined and coloured;
and beyond there is the chancel—a small, somewhat cimmerian, yet
pretty-looking place. There are five windows in it; three having sacred
figures painted upon them, and the remaining two being filled in with
fancy designs, which don’t look over well, owing to the decay of the
colours.

The congregation is tolerably numerous, has in it the high, the fair-middling,
and the humble—the good-looking, the well-dressed, the rubicund,
the mildly mahogany-featured, the simply-dressed, the attenuated, and
the indigent. But there is a clear halo of respectability about the
place; superior habiliments are distinctly in the ascendant; and orderly
behaviour reigns throughout each section of worshippers. The free seats
are very fairly patronised, and sometimes very oddly. In one part of
them we saw nine persons all near each other, and out of that number
five wore spectacles, whilst three could only see with one eye. At the
western end of the church there is a beautiful circular window, but
it has not met with very good treatment. It has been broken in one part,
and every morsel of it is covered up from general view by the organ
occupying the gallery. Only the organ blower can see it properly, and
having the whole of it to himself, it is to be expected he will derive
some consolation from his special position. If he doesn’t, then he neither
gets up the wind nor looks through the window properly. The organ is
a good one, and it is played with average ability, but it is too big
for the place it occupies, and entirely swamps what was once considered
a fine gallery. The singers are rather afraid of giving vent to their
feelings. They discourse the music tastefully, but they are too quiet,
and don’t get into a temper, as they ought to do occasionally, over
it. Prior to the advent of the present incumbent, the choir, considering
its numbers, was, perhaps, as good as any in the town or neighbourhood;
but one Sunday morning the gentleman referred to, having apparently
been fiercely stung by a Ritualistic wasp, blew the trumpet of his indignation
very strongly—got into a whirlwind of denunciation all at once
and without the aid of a text, regarding Ritualism; and the organist
and singers, whose musical services embraced chants, &c., fancying
that the rev. gentleman was either tired of their presence or performances,
many of which were voluntary, sent in their resignations. Since then
the music has not been very brilliant.

There are religious services every Sunday morning and evening at
St. Thomas’s, and on Thursday night a small gathering of the faithful
takes place in the building. The trustees of the church are—Miss
Margaret Ann Beckles, St. Leonard’s; Samuel Husband Beckles, Esq., of
the Middle Temple; the Rev. Edward Auriol, St. Dunstans; the Rev. Charles
F. Close, St. Ann’s, Blackfriars; the Rev. W. Cadman, Marylebone; and
Sir Hugh Hill. The Rev. L. W. Jeffrey was the first incumbent of the
church; then came the Rev. W. P. Jones, who died, as before stated,
in 1884; afterwards the Rev. J. T. Becher was appointed to the incumbency,
but he died from typhus fever in five weeks and was succeeded by the
Rev. J. P. Shepperd who still holds the post and receives from it about
£400 a year.

Mr. Shepperd is a man of middle age, and looks after his sheep fairly,
but at times eccentrically. He has a polished, tasteful, clerical contour;
attends well to his hair, whiskers, and linen; wears a hat half bishoply
and half archidiaconal in its brim; is a good scholar, a clear reasoner,
an able-preacher, but repeats himself often, and gets long-winded on
Sunday nights; is highly enamelled, touchy, and imperial; is lofty in
tone, cream laid and double thick in manner; is full of metal, and there
is a stately mystery about him, as if he were a blood relation of the
Great Mokanna; he is nearly infallible, and would make a good Pope;
he is strongly combative, and would be a vigorous bruiser in stormy
ecclesiastical circles. We fancy no parson in Preston has had more officials
than Mr. Shepperd. In less than half a dozen years there have been at
the place many organists, singers, curates, scripture readers, and eight
or nine churchwardens. Either they have been very uneasy people or he
has been uniquely antagonistic. Mr. Shepperd resides at a good parsonage
some distance north of the church, and he has a pretty garden adjoining,
the walls thereof having been built at the expense of Mr. Hermon, who
has been a capital friend to the church. In the garden there is a quantity
of handsome rockery, purchased by the late Mr. James Carr (who was at
one time a warden), out of the church funds. This rockery was originally
placed in the church yard, along with that still remaining there; but
it was thought by somebody that the yard didn’t require so much ornamental
stone, so a quantity of it was removed to the place mentioned. If Mr.
Shepperd has it set in a circle he may play the Druid amongst it, reserving
the biggest block for a cromlech and the smoothest for a seat; if it
is concentrated in one mass he may stand upon it, defy all the ex-churchwardens,
and quoting Scott, cry out, “Come one, come all, this rock shall
fly” &c. Originally, St. Thomas’s cost a considerable amount
of money, and in consequence of improvements subsequently made, there
is still, it is said, a pretty round sum due to the late wardens and
the contractors, and they, are much in the dark as to when they will
get it. The parson can’t see the force of paying it himself, the officers
of the church make no move in the matter, the congregation is apathetic
on the subject, the beadle keeps quiet, and does his central church
walk calmly, never thinking of it. But, if owing, somebody should settle
the bill, and the sooner it is liquidated, the more respectable will
the affairs of the church become. Bother without end has prevailed at
St. Thomas’s about money, and until people get their own, and see regular
annual statements of accounts—things which seem to be scarce in
these times—they will continue to be uneasy and, probably, noisy.

Associated with the church are superior schools—one for infants,
in the unchristened street near the church, and two others for boys
and girls, in Lancaster-road. The average day attendance is—boys,
250; girls, 220; infants, 240. The average attendance on the Sunday
is—boys, 250; girls, 320. The day schools are in a good state
of efficiency, and are of great service to the district. They are well
managed, and with respect to some of their departments Government reports
speak most encouragingly. Worn old grievances with ex-churchwardens
are duly squared, when a greater amount of what is called “fixity
of tenure” exists in respect to the officials, and when Mr. Sheppard
drops his little dogma as to personal immaculacy, and allows other people
a trifle more freedom, his flock will be fatter, woollier, and quieter
than ever they have been since he came.

CROFT-STREET WESLEYANS AND PARKER-STREET UNITED METHODISTS.

In 1827, a little school was opened in a building at the corner of
Gildow-street, abutting upon Marsh-lane, in this town. It was established
in the Wesleyan Methodist interest, and one of its chief supporters
was Mr. T. C. Hincksman, a gentleman still living, who has for a long
period been a warm friend of the general cause of Methodism. Although
begun tentatively, the school soon progressed; in time there was a good
attendance at it; ultimately it was considered too small; and the result
was a removal to more convenient premises—to a room connected
with the mill of the late Mr. John Furness, in Markland-street: But
the little old building did not change so much in its character after
being deserted by the Wesleyan scholars; it was still retained for juvenile
purposes—still kept open for the edification, if not improvement,
of youngsters. Old-fashioned sweets were sold in it, and the place was
long known as “Granny Bird’s toffy shop.” At the mill in
Markland-street, which used to be called “Noggy Tow,” the
school was very prosperous; but the accomodation here at length became
defective, and in 1832 the scholars retraced their steps to Gildow-street,—not
to the small toffy establishment, where sucklings, if not babes, were
cared for, but to a building at the opposite end of the thoroughfare
erected specially for them. In 1840 they withdrew from this edifice
and went to a new school made in Croft-street, the foundation stone
of which was laid by the Rev. John Bedford, a well-known Wesleyan minister,
who at that time was stationed in Preston. In 1858 two wings for class
and other purposes, principally promoted by the late Mr. T. Meek, costing
£700, and opened clear of debt, were attached to the school, and
twelve months ago—scholastic business still proceeding—the
central portion of it was set apart for regular religious services on
the Sabbath.

The building is large, good-looking, and well-proportioned. There
is nothing of an ecclesiastical complexion about either its external
or internal architecture. Substantially it is a school, utilised twice
every Sunday for devotional purposes. The floor of it is well cared
for, and ought to enjoy much fresh air, for there are 18 ventilators,
grate shaped, in front of it. When that which formed the nucleus of
the school was started, the neighbourhood was open; there was a suburban
look about the locality; but entire rows of new dwellings now surround
the school; the part in which it stands is densely populated; all grades
of men, women, and children inhabit it; “civilisation”—rags,
impudence, dirt, and sharpness, for they mean civilisation—has
long prevailed in the immediate neighbourhood; a fine new brewery almost
shakes hands with the building on one side; the “Sailor’s Home”
beershop stands sentry two doors off on the other. What more could you
desire? A large industrious population, lots of crying, stone-throwing
children, a good-looking brewery, a busy beershop, a school, and a chapel,
all closely mixed up, are surely sufficient for the most ardent lover
of variety and “progress.” The room wherein the Wesleyans
associated with Croft-street school meet for religious duties is square,
heavy-looking, dull, and hazy in its atmosphere. It is ventilated by
curious pieces of iron which work curvilinearly up huge apertures covered
with glass; its walls are ornamented with maps, painted texts, natural
history pictures, &c.; and at the eastern side there is a small
orthodox article for pulpit purposes. There are several ways into the
room—by the back way if you climb walls, by the direct front if
you ascend steps, by the sides of the front if you move through rooms,
pass round doorways, and glide past glass screens.

We took the last route, and sat down near a young gentleman with
a strong bass voice. In a corner near there was a roseate-featured,
elderly man, who enjoyed the service at intervals and slept out what
he could not fathom. Close to him was a youth who did the very same
thing; and in front there were three females who followed the like example.
The service was plain, simple, sincere, and quite Methodistical; it
was earnestly participated in by a numerous congregation; the responses
were quiet and somewhat internal; an easy respectable seriousness prevailed;
nothing approaching either cant or wild-fire was manifested. Working-class
people preponderated in the place, as they always do; the singing was
clear, and plain, odd lines coming in for a share of melodious quavering;
and the sermon was well got-up and eloquent. The Rev. C. F. Hame, who
has recently come to Preston in the place of the Rev. W. H. Tindall
(Lune-street Circuit), was the preacher on this occasion. He is a little
gentleman, with considerable penetration and power; has a good theological
faculty; is cool, genial, and lucid in language; and, although he can
shout a little when very warm, he never loses either the thread of his
argument or his personal equilibrium. There are 120 members at this
place of worship; the average attendance at the different services is
250; and the number is gradually increasing.

Regular ministers and local preachers fill the pulpit in turns; there
being, as a rule, one of the former at either the morning or evening
service every Sunday. Sometimes both kinds may be present and ready
for action at the same moment; but they never quarrel as to which shall
preach—never get “up a tree,” figuratively speaking,
and everything is arranged quietly. The school, wherein the services
we have referred to are held, has been one of the most useful in Preston;
more scholars have probably passed through it than through any other
similar place in the town; old scholars—men and women now—who
received their religious education here, are in all parts, and there
is not a quarter of the globe where some may not be found who have a
pleasant recollection of the school. Its average day attendance is 240;
its average Sunday morning attendance 275; whilst on a Sunday afternoon
the regular number is 425. The school, which is conveniently arranged
and well fit up with every sort of ordinary educational contrivance,
is in a satisfactory state, and, in conjunction with the “chapel,”
which it makes provision for, is doing an excellent work in the district,
which is open to all comers, and will stand much drilling and spiritual
flogging ere it reaches perfection.

“Over the hills and far away”—up the brow of Maudlands,
down new streets on the other side, under the canal, up another brow,
through narrow, angular roads, flanked with factories, by the edge of
a wild piece of land supplying accomodation for ancient horses, brick-makers,
pitch and toss youths, and pigeon flyers, and then turning suddenly
at a mysterious corner in the direction of mill gates you reach Parker-street
United Methodist Free Church. Externally this church is a very simple,
prosaic building. Viewed from the front it looks like the second storey
bedroom of a cottage; eyed from the side it seems like a long office,
four yards from the ground, with a pair of round-headed folding doors
below, and at the extreme end a narrow aperture, which apparently leads
round the corner. It was built 12 or 13 years ago, for a school, by
Messrs. J. and J. Haslam, near whose mill it is situated, and it is
still used for educational purposes. During the latter end of 1858 and
the beginning of 1859 there was a dispute amongst the United Free Church
brethren assembling in Orchard Chapel. Both men and women entered into
the disturbance freely; but they did not follow the plan lately adopted
by some United Methodist Christians, living at Batley, who, having a
grievance at their chapel, “fought it out” in the back yard;
what they did, after many a lively church meeting, was to appeal to
the authorities of the denomination, state their case quietly, and abide
the decision of their superiors. That decision sanctioned a separation
and the establishment in Preston of a second United Methodist circuit,
totally independent of the Orchard-street people, but responsible to
the general executive for its actions. Those forming the new circuit
in Preston—about twenty “members”—had not, however,
a chapel, so Messrs. Haslam, who sympathised with the movement, permitted
them to meet in the school they had built in Parker-street. The course
pursued by the secessionists was approved of by some United Methodists
at Cuerden Green, where the Orchard brethren had a small chapel, and
they left the parent body when the separation already mentioned took
place. There was a fair amount of goodly squabbling about the Cuerden
Green Chapel. Each side wanted it. For a time the secessionists held
it; then the owner of the building died; and, after various movements,
the Orchard brethren “went in and won,” and they have retained
possession of the premises ever since. The second circuit includes no
country place except Brindle, where the denomination has a good chapel.

The “full members” of the circuit number about 90, and
75 of them are in Preston. There are 25 “on trial” at the
present moment, but as we cannot tell how they will pass through the
alembic, it would be out of place to make any absolute statement as
to their fate. The circuit is increasing in strength; its finances,
notwithstanding bad times, are in a very fair state; a good feeling
exists between the members of both circuits; they have become peaceable
and pachydermatous, thin-skinnedness being considered an evil; and altogether
affairs are satisfactory. The system under which ministers are appointed
to Parker-street chapel is the same as that prevailing amongst the general
body, and as we described at in a previous article no allusion need
now be made to it. The first parson at the chapel in Parker-street was
the Rev. Robert Eltringham; since then the following have been at it—the
Revs. J. Nettleton, J. Shaw, J. Mara (who is now a missionary in China
for the United Methodist body), W. Lucas, C. Evans, J. W. Chisholm,
and the Rev. T. Lee. The names show that there has been a new parson
at the chapel almost every year. The present pastor (Rev. T. Lee) only
came in August last; his predecessor (Mr. Chisholm), who is a sharp,
shrewd, liberal-minded gentleman, having been removed to Manchester.

Not long ago, after struggling through many far-away streets, we
found ourselves at the corner of a little opening at the top of Parker-street.
“This is the place,” said a friend who was with us. We knew
it was, for several yards before reaching the building, the torrents
of a strong voice came impetuously through an open window, and the burthen
of its strains had reference to a revival of “our connexion.”
Such a noise as this we thought ought to have aroused the whole neighbourhood;
but we could see nobody about except a woman right opposite, who was
engaged in the serious business of front step washing, and who seemed
to take no notice whatever of the strong utterances coming through the
window. She washed on, and the good man above prayed on. It was rather
difficult to find the way to the chapel. It could not, we fancied, be
by the front door of a shop which we saw beneath; it could not, we were
certain, be through a window above, for whilst there was a pulley roller
in front of it there was neither rope nor block visible for regular
lifting purposes; neither, we thought, could it be through a large double-door
at the side, for that was bolted, and seemed to have been made for something
taller and broader than the human form. After sauntering about, the
grand rush of words through the window still continuing, in the interests
of “our connexion,” we moved towards a corner at the far
end of the side opening, passed up twelve narrow steps, rushed past
a charity box, seventeen hats and caps, and a small umbrella stand,
and then sat down.

We were surprised at the cleanness and neatness of the building,
and at the large number of people within it. Rumour had conveyed to
us a notion that about three persons visited this chapel; but we found
between 100 and 200—all well-dressed, orderly, and pleasant—in
attendance. We also noticed a policeman amongst the company. He was
present, not to keep the peace, but to get some good, for Heaven knows
that policemen need much of the article, and that they have very little
Sunday time to find it in. The policeman behaved himself very well during
the whole service. The building will accommodate about 200 persons,
and the average attendance at the Sunday services is 120. Three or four
middle-class persons, several good-looking young women, a number of
men, including the policeman; a wedding party, and a numerous gathering
of children, made up the congregation we saw. The service was simple
and heartily joined in; the singing, supported by a small harmonium,
went off well; and the minister preached a fair sermon. But he is far
too excitable to last out long. The speed he goes at would kill a man
directly if he were made of cast-iron.

Mr. Lee, the preacher, is a ten times breezier man than his vivacious
namesake at the Parish Church; he is small like him, dark-complexioned
like him, wears spectacles like him; but he travels at the rate of 1000
miles an hour, and his namesake has never yet got beyond 500. The gentleman
under review is a pre-eminently earnest man. We never saw any minister
throw himself, head, arms, shoes, and shirt, so intensely into the business
of praying and preaching as he. Nothing seems to impede his progress.
He rushes into space with terrible vehemence; prays until the veins
on his forehead swell and throb as if they would burst; and when he
sits down he pants as if he had been running himself to death in a dream,
whilst sweat pours off him as if he had been trying to burn up the sun
at the equator. In his preaching he is equally intense and earnest.
He puts on the steam at once, drives forward at limited mail speed;
stops instantly; then rushes onto the next station—steam up instantly;
stops again in a moment without whistling; is at full speed forthwith,
everybody holding on to their seats whilst the regulator is open; and
in this way he continues, getting safely to the end at last, but driving
at such a frightfully rapid speed that travellers wonder how it is everything
has not been smashed to atoms in readiness for coroners, and juries,
and newspaper reporters. As to his sincerity there cannot be a question.
He is not profound, but is very honest; he has nothing strongly ratiocinative
in him, but he has for ever of earnestness in his composition—indeed
he burns himself up in a great blaze of zeal and blows himself to pieces
in a self-generated whirlwind. If he were quieter he would be more persuasive;
and if he expended less of his vital energy in trying to brew forty
storms in one tea pot he would live longer. “Easy does it”
is a phrase plucked from the plebeian lexicon of life, which we recommend
for his consideration. If he doesn’t attend to it we shall have a case
of spontaneous combustion to record; and we want to avoid that if possible.
There is not a more sincere man, not a man more anxious to do good in
Preston than Mr. Lee, only he piles Ossa upon Olympus too stiffly, and
that was a job which the gods couldn’t manage properly.

The building where the Parker-street brethren meet is used for school
purposes regularly—barring the periods when worship is being conducted
in it. On week days about 100 scholars attend it; and on Sundays about
150. The school and the chapel have done much good in the locality,
and we wish both prosperity. Whatever maybe the character of the building,
and however difficult it may be for strangers to get to it, those living
in the neighbourhood know its whereabouts, many having derived improvement
from it, and if more went to it, pigeon-flying, gambling, Sunday rat
hunting, tossing, drinking, and paganism generally—things which
have long flourished in its locality—would be nearer a finish.

GRIMSHAW-STREET INDEPENDENT CHAPEL

Long before two-thirds of the people now living were born there was
a rather curious difficulty at the Unitarian Chapel in this town. In
1807, the Rev. W. Manning Walker, who at that time had been minister
of the chapel for five years, changed his mind, became “more evangelical,”
could not agree with the doctrines he had previously preached, got into
water somewhat warm with the members, and left the place. He took with
him a few sympathisers, and through their instrumentality a new chapel
was built for him in Grimshaw-street, and opened on the 12th of April,
1808. It was a small edifice, would accommodate about 850 persons, and
was the original ancestor of the Independent Chapel in that street.
In 1817 the building was enlarged so as to accommodate between 500 and
600, and Mr. Walker laboured regularly at it till 1822, when declining
health necessitated his retirement. The Rev. Thomas Mc.Connell, a gentleman
with a smart polemical tongue, succeeded him. Mr. Mc.Connell drew large
congregations, and for a time was a burning and a shining light; but
in 1825 be withdrew; became an infidel or something of the sort, and
subsequently gave lectures on theological subjects, much to the regret
of his friends and the horror of the orthodox.

On the 23rd of July, 1826, the Rev. R. Slate began duty as regular
minister of the chapel, and remained at his post until April 7th, 1861,
when through old age and growing infirmity he resigned. Mr. Slate was
a tiny, careful, smoothly-earnest man, consistent and faithful as a
minister, made more for quiet sincere work than dashing labour or dazzling
performance; fond of the Puritan divines, a believer in old manuscripts,
disposed to tell his audiences every time he got upon a platform how
long he had been in the ministry, but in the aggregate well and deservedly
respected. No clergyman in Preston has ever stayed so long at one place
as Mr. Slate; and Grimshaw-street Chapel since it lost him has many
a time had a “slate off” in more respects than one.

After Mr. Slate retired from his post at Grimshaw-street Chapel,
the Rev. J. Briggs, a young and vociferous gentleman, fresh from college,
given to Sunday evening lecturing, Corn Exchange serenading, virtuous
speech-making, and other—we were going to say evils—labours
of love, appeared upon the stage. Soon after he arrived a new black
gown was presented to him, and if one of the local papers which recorded
the event at the time tells the truth, he had it donned in the vestry,
after which there was a procession round the church, Mr. Briggs leading
the way, whilst the deacons, including some mythological “Mr.
Clinkscales”—that was the name given—and others brought
up the rear. If the town’s beadle and mace-bearer had been present,
the procession would have been complete. In October, 1866, Mr. Briggs
retired, with the gown, and he has since, like Brother Clapham, formerly
minister of Lancaster-road Independent Chapel—“par nobile
fratrum”—gone over to “mother church.”

On the 20th of January, 1867, the Rev. Evan Lewis became minister
of Grimshaw-street Chapel, but after staying about a year and a half,
he, on account of ill health, resigned, went south, and died there.
Mr. Lewis was a cautious, cultured person, had very many letters, which
were always coming in a row to the surface, after his name, was a man
of ripe and polished intellect, was clever in brain work, had good strategic
skill, could manage an ill-natured church meeting well, and would have
been a power in his own denomination and in the town if he had been
physically stronger. He was an invalided intellectualist, well up in
everything, but defective in stamina, muscle force, and lung strength.
For about nine months after the retirement of Mr. Lewis no fixed minister
occupied the pulpit. Sunday “supplies” were tried in the
meantime; finally the Rev. G. F. Newman was selected, and about two
months ago he commenced his ministerial labours.

The building as enlarged in 1817 remained without molestation for
years; but in 1850 it was thought that a better place was needed; in
1856 it was decided to have a better place; soon afterwards the old
edifice was pulled down; and in 1859 the Congregational Chapel we now
see was opened. It stands upon the original site, but is extended nearer
the street than its predecessor. There used to be a considerable portion
of the graveyard in front, but owing to the enlarged character of the
new chapel it was mainly covered over—built upon; and only a remnant
of the old burial ground can now be seen in this quarter. Two small
upright tombstones, immediately adjoining the chapel, and a few flat
slabs on the ground below, are the only sepulchural indications remaining
here. On the southern side of the building there is a dull and dreary
square piece of ground, railed round, which constituted a portion of
the old burial-yard, and which now contains a few forsaken-looking tombstones.
The new church cost between £3,000 and £4,000, and it is
not entirely finished yet. At the front it has a one-sided irregular
look; and this is owing to the non-completion of a collateral spire.
In the original design the facade consists of a central elevation with
two flanking towers and spires; but one of the towers, whilst being
constructed, gave way, got seriously out of the perpendicular, and it
was decided to pull it down rather than allow the stone-work to fall
of its own accord. New foundations, ten feet deep, had to be sunk into
the old front burial ground for it, and during the excavations 33 coffins
were taken up and conveyed to a more peaceable place of sepulture. They
literally couldn’t stand the pressure of the tower, and for their sake;
as well as the safety of the building, a change was necessary. Afterwards
the tower was raised to its former elevation, but it is still without
a spire. The re-erection of the tower coat £380, which was raised
by a weekly offertory.

The chapel, barring the incomplete masonry mentioned, is a well made,
neat-looking building. In front there is a large four-light window,
which had to be taken right out when the tower was being re-made; on
each side there is a long and very narrow window, more for ornament
than use; and below there are two small triangular apertures of a similar
character. Strong rails, intended to prevent people from approaching
the building too closely on week-days, surround the chapel. There are
three arched doorways immediately adjoining one another at the front,
and on a Sunday you are at perfect liberty to use any of them—to
try all of them if so disposed—and pass through that which appears
most agreeable. The chapel has a large and remarkably clean interior.
It is well lighted with numerous windows bordered with coloured glass,
and has a fine arched roof, supported by four principals, and filled-in
centrally with elaborate designs. Around the building there is a large
octagonal gallery; and whilst all the seats in it run up to a pretty
fair height, those at the western end approach quite an aerial altitude.
It is almost a question of being “up in a balloon, boys,”
when you are perched in the loftiest of them.

All the pews are plain, strong, and without doors. The central ones
on the ground-floor are very uniform in design; those at the sides are,
of various shapes, and are whimsically disposed—seem to be up
and down, straight, diagonal, and semi-circular. The first pew on the
right side was occupied, when we last saw it, with three brushes, an
elderly shovel, and two gas-meters, one of them being a very full-grown
fatherly affair—a sort of deacon amongst ordinary meters, and
looking very authoritatively upon its smaller colleague and the brushes.
The pulpit, at the eastern end of the chapel, is neatly made, but when
the parson sits in it you can’t see him from the front. When we went
the other Sunday evening, we could see no one in it; but after a hymn
had been sung, a spring seemed to be touched, and up jumped the parson,
who had been reclining on his dorsal vertebra for eight minutes at the
rear. The pulpit formerly stood about a foot-and-a-half higher than
it does now; Mr. Slate, who was a little man, would have it a good height;
but a hole was afterwards made in the platform supporting the pulpit,
and it was dropped through it to the level of the ordinary floor, where
it now stands. Six chairs, in Gothic design, with cushions of rich velvet,
are placed upon the platform near the pulpit; in the centre there is
a more patriarchal-looking seat—a sort of pastoral throne; and
in the front of the whole there is a strong table. The deacons and the
minister sit here periodically, feeling grand and furzy all over, weighing
up the universe on special occasions, but endeavouring always to discharge
their executive duties with due propriety and gravity. We have seen
them once or twice on this platform—on those silk velvet-bottomed
chairs, resting upon Brussels carpet—and they looked majestic.
One old gentleman we know, who used to be a deacon here, never would
sit in any of these chairs. He seemed to have either a dread of the
eighteen-inch elevation they conferred, or a fear that the platform
would give way, or a dislike of the conspicuousness caused by it, and
on all occasions when his official brethren took possession of the chairs,
he sat upon an open bench adjoining.

An ancient-looking organ, of Gothic pattern, and formerly used in
a Blackburn chapel, is placed within an archway in the eastern gallery.
It is a moderately fair instrument, and is decently played, but it is
not good enough for the place, and it is quite time to sell it to some
other chapel, and get a better. The choir contains about the usual complement
of smiling young men and maidens, with a central gentleman “bearded
like the pard,” who sits in state in an elaborately backed chair,
and conducts the proceedings with legitimate authority. The singing
of the choir is pretty exact and melodious; but it is too weak—needs
more harmonic energy and general strength. The congregation do their
duty mildly in the singing portion of the proceedings, and at times,
when some good old tune is started, they rush to the rescue with much
dexterity and thoracic power. There are about 200 “members of
the Church” at this place of worship, and several young people
are now, we believe “ready for admission.” The average congregation
will be about 300—not a large number considering the size of the
building; but then, through ministerial changes, &c., the place
has had much to contend with, and it has not had a chance for some time
of getting into proper working order. Peacefulness prevails now at the
chapel.

Prior to the advent of the late Mr. Lewis, there were many storms
at the place. The parson never got to literal fighting with any of the
members; the members never threatened to hit him; but one or more of
them have been heard to say that they would put him “behind the
fire” in the vestry, and he in turn has been heard to remark that
he would return the compliment. But all this sort of Christian courtesy
has disappeared—let us hope forever; and the members now nestle
in their seats lovingly, casting calm glances at each other betimes,
and attending duly to the parson, who eyes them placidly, and encourages
their affection. If they had to nestle upon each other’s bosoms during
the intervals—properly, and without falling asleep over the job—he
would not grow sullen and angry. On Sundays, there are a couple of services—morning,
and evening—at the chapel; and every Wednesday evening there is
a prayer meeting, but it is not a very savage gathering; men and women
seldom lash themselves into a foam at it; and nothing is uttered during
its proceedings out of the ordinary run of Queen’s English.

The Rev. G. F. Newman, a south of England gentleman, who, during
the past seven or eight years, through delicate health, has spent much
of his time in France, is the minister. He has an income independent
of his clerical stipend. From Grimshaw-street Chapel he gets about £3
per week. It is derived from pew rents, which range from 1s. to 2s.
11d. per seat per quarter, so that its increase will depend upon the
manner he fills the place. Mr. Newman is about 34 years of age, is of
middle stature, has nothing physically ponderous or irrelevant about
him; is a dark complexioned, moderately-sized person, of gentlemanly
taste, deportment, and expression; knows manners—“they order
this matter better in France,” as Sterne would say; his commingling
with our lively neighbours has evidently given him the direct cue to
them; has a temperament of the nervous-bilious order; is more perceptive
than reflective; but has a calm, clear intellect notwithstanding; is
rather fond of the sublime, and likes a strong dash of the beautiful;
believes in good music, and understands notes a little himself; is an
excellent reader—one of the best we have heard; is an average
preacher; has nothing flashy or terrific in his style, but goes on quietly,
tastefully, and with precision; cares more for short than long sermons;
repeats himself rather often; likes to give his own experience during
illustrations; talks much of France, and never forgets to let his hearers
know that he has been there; takes long, careful pauses in his sermons,
as if he were elaborating his conceptions, or selecting the exact words
in which to convey them most definitely; has a special regard for the
gas pendant on the left side of the pulpit, which he handles affectionately
as a rest; dislikes being interrupted when either reading, or praying,
or preaching; can’t stand coughing; doesn’t like a Preston cough—it
has a half-harsh half-oily sound, which he could detect if in London
or Paris; believes more in faith than good works, but respects both;
is scrupulous as to punctuality, and is almost inclined to emulate the
incumbent of Christ Church, who once threatened to lock the doors of
that building at a certain time after business commenced, if all were
not in their places; particularly objects to a lady coming late, because,
as a rule, she makes a great noise with her dress on entering a place
of worship, and, in addition, induces all the other ladies present to
turn round, or look on one side, for the purpose of seeing what she
is wearing; is more of a conversationalist than a speaker; likes chit-chat;
would be at home in a conversazione or al fresco tea party, where
the attendants walk about, gossip merrily, and, whilst holding a tea
cup in one hand, poise with two fingers a piece of delicately-buttered
toast in the other—a continental style quite aesthetic and refined
in comparison with our feeding, and gormandising, and sweating exhibitions.
Mr. Newman promises to be a good minister. His commencement has been,
satisfactory, and his prospects are encouraging. He is a bachelor, and
seems mildly happy; but his bliss might be consummated—let no
lady prick her ears too highly, for Mr. Newman has cautiousness largely
developed—if he would study and practically carry out that notion
expressed at a meeting over which he recently presided; the lecturer
on that occasion saying that “marriage is essential to the true
happiness of man.”

The young men at Grimshaw-street are pretty intelligent and controversial.
They have a mutual improvement class, which is one of the best of its
kind in the town, and they discuss the laws of life,—mental, physical,
political, and spiritual—like embryonic philosophers bent upon
rectifying all creation. Their class is prosperous, and is calculated,
if correctly managed, to be of much importance to those visiting it.
All such classes ought to encouraged, and we hope the Grimshaw-street
essayists will go on rectifying creation—never forgetting themselves
at the same time. For a long period there has been a Sunday school in
connection with the chapel. Several years, in the earlier stages of
the denomination’s career, the scholars were taught in the vestry and
in pews at the chapel; but in 1836 a school was erected for them upon
a plot of land adjoining, and in 1846 it was enlarged to its present
size. The average Sunday attendance is about 300. In January, 1868 a
day school for boys, girls, and infants was opened in the same building,
under the conductorship of Mr. J. Greenhalgh. So far it has been very
successful. Its average attendance is about 190. Government reports
speak very hopefully of the place; more prizes have been awarded to
it by the Science and Art Department, South Kensington, than to any
other school in the town; and its present status indicates a prosperous
future. An unsectarian night school is also held in the building, and
its average attendance is about 120. In addition there is a band of
hope society at the place, and it is better attended than any other
similar association in Preston. All that Grimshaw-street Chapel wants
is a fuller congregation. That would develope every department of it;
and energy, combined with continuity of service, would secure this.
Mr. Newman who understands French, must adopt as his motto, and have
it embossed on the buttons of his own and his deacons’ coats, and on
the backs of the seven chairs they use in the chapel, the words “Boutez
en avant.”

ST. PAUL’S CHURCH.

There are nearly 13,000 people in the “district” of this
church. What a difference time makes! At the beginning of the present
century the greater portion of the district was made up of fields; whilst
lanes, with hedges set each side, constituted what are now some of its
busiest streets. Volunteers and militiamen used to meet for drill on
a large piece of land in the very heart of the locality; troops of charwomen
formerly washed their clothes in water pits hard by, and dried them
on the green-sward adjoining; and everything about wore a rural and
primitive aspect. St. Paul’s Church is situated on a portion of land
which, 50 years ago, was fringed with trees and called “The Park;”
and this accounts for the name still given by many to the sacred edifice—namely
“Park Church.” The sisters of the late J. Bairstow, Esq.,
kept a school at one time on, or contiguous to, this park. A road, starting
opposite the Holy Lamb, in Church-street, and ending near the top of
High-street, formerly passed through “The Park.” Years ago
a ducking or cucking stool was placed at the northern side of it, adjoining
a pit, and at the edge of the thoroughfare known as Meadow street. This
ducking stool was intended for the special benefit of vixens and scolding
wives. It consisted of a strong plank, at the end of which was a chair,
the centre working upon a pivot, and, after the person to be punished
had been duly secured, she was ducked into the water. If this system
were now in force, it would often be patronised, for there are many
lively termagants in the land, and lots in Preston.

The first stone of St. Paul’s Church was laid on Tuesday, 21st October,
1823. Out of the million pounds granted by Parliament for the erection
of churches, some time prior to the date given, Preston, through Dr.
Lawe, who was then Bishop of Chester, got £12,500. It was originally
intended to expend this sum in the erection of one church—St.
Peter’s; but at the request of the Rev. R. Carus Wilson, vicar of Preston,
the money was divided, one half going to St. Peter’s, and the other
to St. Paul’s. Some people might consider this like “robbing Peter
to pay Paul,” but it was better to halve the money for the benefit
of two districts, than give all of it for the spiritual edification
of one, and leave the other destitute. The land forming the site of
St. Paul’s was given by Samuel Pole Shawe, Esq. The full cost of the
building was about £6,500. Around the edifice there is a very
large iron-railed grave yard, which is kept in pretty good order. St.
Paul’s is built entirely of stone, in the early English style of architecture.
It has a rather elegant appearance; but it is defective in altitude
has a broad, flat, and somewhat bald-looking roof, and needs either
a good tower or spire to relieve and dignify it. In front there are
several pointed windows, a small circular hole above for birds’ nests,
two doorways with a window between them, a central surmounting gable,
and a couple of feathery-headed perforated turrets, one being used as
a chimney, and the other as a belfry. There is only a single bell at
the church, and it is pulled industriously on Sundays by a devoted youth,
who takes his stand in a boxed-off corner behind one of the doors. At
the opposite end of the church there are two turrets corresponding in
height and form with those is front. Two screens of red cloth are fixed
just within the entrance and, whilst giving a certain degree of selectness
to the place, they prevent people sitting near them from being blown
away or starved to death on very windy days when the doors happen to
be open.

The interior consists of a broad, ornamentally roofed nave (resting
upon twelve high narrow pillars of stone), and two aisles. The pillars
seriously obstruct the vision of those sitting at the sides; indeed,
in some places so detrimental are they that you can see neither the
reading-desk nor the pulpit. Above, there is a very large gallery, set
apart on the west for the organ and choir, and on each side for general
worshippers, school children, as a rule, being in front, and requiring
a good deal of watching during the services. In some parts of the gallery
seeing is quite as difficult as in the sides beneath, owing to the intervening
nave pillars. Efforts have been made to rectify this evil, not by trying
to pull down the pillars, but by removing the pulpit, &c, so that
all might have a glance at it. The pulpit is situated on the south-eastern
side, near the chancel, and one Sunday it was brought into the centre
of the church; but it could be seen no better there than in its old
position, so it was carried back, and has remained unmolested ever since.
If it were put upon castors, and pushed slowly and with becoming reverence
up and down the church during sermon time, all would get a view of its
occupant; but we believe the warders have an objection to pulpits on
castors, so that there is no hope in this respect. The reading-desk
stands opposite the pulpit, and looks very broad and diminutive. The
chancel is plain. A large, neatly designed stained glass window occupies
the end. On each side there is a mural monument—one being to the
memory of Samuel Horrocks, Esq., Guild Mayor in 1842, and son of S.
Horrocks, Esq., of Lark-hill, who for twenty-two years represented Preston
in Parliament; and the other, raised by public subscription, to the
memory of the Rev. Joseph Rigg, who was minister of St. Paul’s for nineteen
years, and who died in 1847. The general fittings and arrangements of
the church indicate plainness of design, combined with medium strength
and thorough respectability. In no part of the building is there any
eccentric flourishing or artistic meandering. The roof, the walls, and
the base of the window niches, which have become blackened with rain,
need cleaning up; and some day, when money is plentiful, they will no
doubt be renovated. The seats are strong, broad, and regular in shape.
All of them, except one, are let, and it would speedily be tenanted
if more conveniently located. There is a pillar in it, and, in order
to get a proper view of the officiating minister, you must stand up,
lean forward, and glance with a rolling eye round the corners of the
obstruction—a thing which many of the more bashful of our species
would not like to do.

The church will accommodate about 1,200 persons, and the average
Sunday attendance may be calculated at 800. The gallery is patronised
extensively by the “million”; the ground floor pews are
occupied by more select and fashionable individuals. The great majority
of the worshippers sit above, and few vacant spaces can as a rule be
seen there. Down stairs the crush is less severe. The congregation is
a mixture of working and middle class people; the former kind being
preponderant. At the sides there are long narrow ranges of free seats;
but they are not often disturbed. On two successive Sundays we gave
them a passing look, and they appeared to be almost deserted. A couple
of little boys seated in the centre, and engaged in the pleasing juvenile
business of swinging their legs, were the only occupants we saw on the
right side during our first inspection; and when we viewed the range
on the other side, the Sunday after, we could only catch tender glimpses
of three females, all very quiet, and each belonging the antique school
of life. “Where will you sit?” said a large-hearted young
man, when we made our second appearance. “There,” was our
reply, pointing at the same time to a well-cushioned and genially sequestered
seat at the north-west corner, and we were ushered into it with becoming
decorum. In two minutes afterwards five women and a festive infant,
dressed in a drab cloak, and muffled all over to keep the cold out,
stopped at the pew door. We stepped out; three of the females, with
the baby, stepped in; the remainder went into the next pew; and after
condensing our nerve power, we settled down in the corner from which
we had been disturbed, quietly lifting one hand over the door and latching
it firmly at the same moment, our idea being than an environment of
five females, with a baby thrown into the bargain, was quite enough
for the remainder of the morning. After an inquiry as to the christening
arrangements at the church, for we fancied this was a christening gathering,
we got nearer the baby, and, in a delicately sympathetic whisper said—“How
old is it?” The maiden who was holding it blushed, and laconically
breathed out the words, “Three months.” We subsequently
found out that the seat we were in was the incumbent’s, and that the
blessed baby, whose lot we had been contemplating with such interest,
was his, too.

Six minutes before the commencement there were only nine persons
in the body of the church; but nearly 300 were congregated there when
the service began, whilst the gallery was well filled with worshippers
of all ages and sizes. All the responses here are “congregational”—none
of them being in any way intoned. We believe that St. Paul’s is the
only Protestant church in Preston wherein this system is observed. The
effect, when compared with the plans of intonation now so universal,
is very singular; and it sometimes sounds dull and monotonous—like
a long, low, rumbling of irregular voices, as if there were some quaint,
oddly-humoured contention going on in every pew. But the worshippers
seem to like the system, and as they have a perfect right to be their
own judges, other people must be silent on the subject. The music is
not of an extraordinary sort; it is plain, and very well joined in by
the congregation. But the choir, like many others, lacks weight and
symphony. Mrs. Myres, the wife of the incumbent, is a member of the
choir, and if all the other individuals in it had her musical knowledge,
an improvement would soon follow. The organ is a very good one. It was
given by the late T. Miller, Esq., and H. Miller, Esq., and placed in
the church in 1844. Recently it has been put in first-rate condition,
for organs, like the players of them, get worse for wear, by T. H. and
W. P. Miller, Esqrs. The organist knows his work, and is able to perform
it with ability.

At St. Paul’s there is morning and evening service on a Sunday; and
every Wednesday evening there is a short service, but like the bulk
of mid-week devotional exercises it is not much cared for, only about
150 joining it on the average. On the second Sunday in each month there
is an early sacrament at St. Paul’s. At no other place of worship in
the town, that we know of, save Christ Church, is there a similar sacramental
arrangement. Since St. Paul’s was opened, there have been five incumbents
at it. The first was the Rev. Mr. Russell; then came the Rev. J. Rigg,
who was a most exemplary clergyman; next the Rev. S. F. Page, who was
followed by the Rev. J. Miller; the present incumbent being the Rev.
W. M. Myres, son of Mr. J. J. Myres, of Preston. Mr. Myres came to St.
Paul’s at the beginning of 1867, and when he made his appearance fidgetty
and orthodox souls were in a state of mingled dudgeon and trepidation
as to what be would do. It was fancied that he was a Ritualist—fond
of floral devices and huge candles, with an incipient itching for variegated
millinery, beads, and crosses. But his opponents, who numbered nearly
two-thirds of the congregation, screamed before they were bitten, and
went into solemn paroxysms of pious frothiness for nothing. Subsequent
events have proved how highly imaginative their views were. No church
in the country has less of Ritualism in it than St. Paul’s. Its services
are pre-eminently plain; all those parts whereon the spirit of innovation
has settled so strongly in several churches during the past few years
are kept in their original simplicity; and in the general proceedings
nothing can be observed calculated to disturb the peace of the most
fastidious of show-disliking Churchmen.

Mr. Myres is about 30 years of age, is corporeally condensed, walks
as if he were in earnest and wanted to catch the train, has a mild,
obliging, half-diffident look, wears a light coloured beard and moustache,
each of which is blossoming very nicely; is sharp, yet even-tempered;
bland and genial, yet sincere; has keen powers of observation, has a
better descriptive than logical faculty, is not very imaginative, cares
more for prose than poetry, more for facts than sallies of the fancy,
more for gentle devotion, and quiet persevering labour in his own locality
than for virtuous welterings and sacred acrobatism in other districts.
He has endeavoured, since coming to Preston, to mind his own business,
and parsons often find that a hard thing to accomplish. Polished in
education, he is humble and social in manner. He will never be an ecclesiastical
show-man, for his disposition is in the direction of general quietude
and good neighbourship. If he ever gets into a sacred disturbance the
fault will be through somebody else dragging him into it, and not because
he has courted it by natural choice. He is more cut out for sincere
labour, pleasantly and strenuously conducted, than for intellectual
generalship or lofty theological display. His brain may lack high range
and large creativeness; but he possesses qualities of heart and spirit
which mere brilliance cannot secure, and which simple cerebral strength
can never impart. We admire him for his courteousness, his artless simplicity
of nature, his earnest, kindly-devotedness to duty, and his continual
attention to everything affecting the welfare of those he has to look
after. Mr. Myres is greatly respected by all in his district; he has
transmuted the olden ritualistic horror which prevailed in the district,
into one of love and reverence; and all his sheep have a genial and
affectionate bleat for him.

The Rev. C. G. Acworth, a learned young man, whose facial capillary
forces are coming gradually into play, and who seems to have the entire
Book of Common Prayer off by heart, is the curate of St. Paul’s. He
is a good reader, a steady, sententious, epigrammatic preacher, and
with a little more knowledge of the world ought to make a clever and
most useful minister. Something, which we do not think exists in connection
with any other Preston church for the management of affairs, is established
here. It is a “Church Committee.” It consists of the ministers,
the churchwardens, and a dozen members of the congregation. They discuss
all sorts of matters appertaining to the district, smooth down grievances
when any are nursed, and keep everything in good working order. The
outside machinery for mentally and religiously improving the district
is very extensive and varied. There are five day and Sunday schools
under the auspices of St. Paul’s. They are situated in Pole and Carlisle
streets, and are under the guidance of four superintendents and fifty-seven
teachers. Mrs. Myres (wife of the incumbent), who is a great favourite
throughout the district, is one of the teachers. The day or national
schools are the largest in the town; they have an average attendance
of 934; and that in which boys are taught is the only one of its kind
in Preston which is self-supporting. The average attendance of Sunday
scholars is 800.

Night schools also form part of the educational programme, and they
are well attended. A mutual improvement class—the oldest in the
town—likewise exists in connection with St. Paul’s. It was established
by the Rev. S. F. Page, and is conducted on principles well calculated
to regulate, illumine, and edify the youths who mar and make empires
at it. A temperance society, in which the Rev. Mr. Acworth, who is a
“Bright water for me” believer, has taken praiseworthy interest,
has furthermore got a footing in St. Paul’s, and beyond that there is
a band of hope society in the district, which does its share of work.
Every Monday afternoon, a “Mother’s Meeting,” conducted
by Mrs. Myres, Mrs. Isherwood, Miss Wadsworth, and the Bible woman,
is held in a room of the Carlisle-street school. The mothers are pretty
lacteous and docile. In various parts of the district, cottage lectures,
conducted by the curate and a number of energetic teachers, are held
weekly. The district of St. Paul’s is great in missionary work. There
are about four-and-twenty collectors in the field here, and by the penny
a week system they raise sums which periodical efforts would never realise.
By the way, we ought to have said that there are a good many collections
in St. Paul’s church—16 regular ones and 14 on the offertory principle—every
year. Those who consider it more blessed to give than receive should
be happy at St. Paul’s. The sums collected at the church range from
about £12 to £50. The Irish Church Missionary Society receives
much of its Preston support from this district. Lastly, we may remark
that there is a good staff of tract distributors, supervised by a ladies’
committee, in connection with St. Paul’s. The distributors are chiefly
young women belonging the schools. Owing to the vastness of the district
it is contemplated to erect as early as possible a school chapel as
an auxiliary of the church. It will be built near the railway bridge
in St. Paul’s-road. R. Newsham, Esq., has offered to give a handsome
sum towards the edifice, which is much needed. When opened a second
curate will be required, and towards the stipend of such gentleman,
E. Hermon, Esq., M.P., has offered to contribute liberally. The salary
of the incumbent is about £280 per annum. The generality of the
officials connected with the church and schools have been long at their
posts—a proof of even action and good harmony; everything seems
to be progressing steadily in the district; and if St. Paul himself
had to give it a visit he would shake hands warmly with Mr. Myres, the
incumbent, praise Mrs. Myres and the baby, and throw up his hat gleefully
at the good work which is being done amongst the people.

ST. MARY’S-STREET AND MARSH-END WESLEYAN CHAPELS, AND THE TABERNACLE
OF THE REVIVALISTS.

“When shall we three meet again?” We can’t tell—don’t
care about knowing; you have met now; and keep quiet, if possible, whilst
being vivisected. There are worse companions, so shake hands, and sigh
for universal bliss. We shall use the dissecting knife with a kindly
sharpness. The first of the places named is situated in St. Mary’s-street,
opposite a very high wall, which we believe is intended to prevent men
from scaling it, and is closely associated with the arrangements of
the House of Correction. One hundred yards off, it looks like a high,
modernised, seaside hotel; fifty yards off, it seems like a well-arranged
gentleman’s residence, in the wrong place; two yards off, it indicates
its own mission, and clearly shows that something embracing both education
and religion is carried on within it. It is a large, well-built, quadrangular
building, with two round-headed ranges of windows in front, and a good
roof above, surmounted with an iron rail, put up apparently for imaginary
purposes. Nobody has yet got over that rail so far as we have heard;
and if the job is ever attempted, nothing will be found on the other
side worth carrying home. The foundation stone of this building—it
is really a school chapel—was laid on Good Friday, 1866, and the
place was opened in the same year. The place cost £2,500, and
it is nearly out of debt. Internally, it is full of rooms. On the ground
floor there are nine apartments—all well disposed, appropriately
fit up, and set apart for general scholastic and class purposes. On
week days, some of them are used as school-rooms, the average attendance
of pupils, who are carefully looked after, being about 120; and on Sundays
they are devoted to “class” business. In a large room above,
children are also taught on Sundays: the general attendance on those
days throughout the place being about 450. This school-chapel owes its
existence to the cotton famine. During that trying period, when people
had nothing else to do but think, live on 2s. a week, and grow good,
Messrs. Wilding and Strachan generously opened a room connected with
their mill in New Hall-lane, for secular and religious instruction.
It was attended mainly by those belonging the Wesleyan persuasion; in
time it became too little; and the result was the erection of a school-chapel
in St. Mary’s-street. We have never seen a better arranged nor a more
commodious place of its kind than this. Its class, and ordinary scholastic
departments we have alluded to. Let us now proceed above—into
the room used for worship. You can reach it from either the northern
or the southern side, but from neither can you make headway without
ascending a strong, winding series of steps, which must be trying and
troublesome to heavy and asthmatic subjects, if any of that sort ever
show themselves at the building. The room is large, lofty, clean, and
airy, and will hold about 400 persons. Just within each doorway there
is a box, intended for contributions on behalf of “sick and needy
scholars.” But both have been put too near the side; they often
catch people’s clothes, on entering, and as everybody is not disposed
to stop and exercise the organ of benevolence, whilst the remainder
wish to be judicious about the business and save their dresses, it has
been decided to shift them inwards a little. From the centre of the
ceiling, gas burners, in star-shaped clusters, are suspended, and when
the taps are on they give good lights.

The congregation, which is generally constituted of working-class
people, numbers about 350. The people attending this place are a quiet,
devoted lot, with patches of pride and self-glorification here and there
about them, but, on the whole, kindly-looking and sincere. Some of them
are close-minded and intensely orthodox; but the majority are wide-awake,
and won’t pray for fair weather until it has given over raining. The
members of the choir sit on the eastern side, and if not so refined
and punctillious in their musical performances, they are at least pretty
strong-lunged and earnest. They are located near the wall. The harmonium-player
enjoys a closer proximity to it. He manipulates with fair skill, has
a clock right above him, and ought, therefore, to keep “good time.”
If he doesn’t, then let the clock be condemned as a deceiver and incumberer
of the wall. The pulpit is a broad, neatly-arranged affair—fixed
upon a platform at the southern end, and environed with rails of blue
and gold colour. Just within, and on its immediate left, there is a
small paper nailed up with four nails, and containing, is written English,
these words, as a reminder for each preacher during his “supplications”—“Pray
for God’s ancient people of Israel.” “Does this mean the
Jews?” said we to an elderly man near us, whilst we were scrutinizing
with a plaintive eye, the pulpit, and he replied, “Bleeve it does.”
That, we thought, was a bad speculation for a chapel containing two
subscription boxes for “sick and needy scholars.” The man
who wrote out that exhortation in the interests of Petticoat-lane men
and their kindred, and the patriot who drove with a fierce virtue the
four nails into it didn’t, we are afraid, know clearly how much it costs
to convert a genuine Jew, else more caution would have been exercised
by each of them. A Jew’s eye is a costly thing; but a Jew’s conversion
is much more expensive; you can’t get at the thing fairly for less than
£10,000; and as five good Wesleyan Chapels could be built, in
ordinary districts, for that sum, we advise Wesleyans to go in for chapels
and not for Jews.

If the pulpit had not been a broad and accommodating one, in St.
Mary’s-street Chapel, we should have been inclined to think that the
parson might have had a “walk round.” There is just space
enough in front of the pulpit for a medium-sized gentleman to pass between
it and the front rails. In a moment of high dudgeon, a thin preacher
with a passion for “action” might easily flank off and traverse
it frontally; but an easy-minded individual would find plenty of room
in the pulpit, and if he did not, presuming he were stout, he would
have to “crush” considerably in order to accomplish a full
circular route. Beyond and in the immediate front of the pulpit rails
there is a circular seat. This we fancied, during our inspection, was
the “penitent form”—it seemed close and handy during
a season of stern excitement and warm eruption; but in a moment we were
told it was for “sacrament people,” who patronise it in
turns, on particular Sundays. Two services are conducted on Sundays
here by regular and itinerent preachers; the former coming from Lune-street
Chapel, and the latter being furnished out of the general lay body.
Nearly every night throughout the week, class meetings, &c., are
held in the building, and they are conducted with much rapture and peacefulness.
How the Jew-converting business gets on we cannot tell—badly,
we imagine; but in respect to the ordinary operations of the place they
are successful and promise to be still more so. A chapel whose members
branched off from this place has been established at Walton. About 12
months ago it was opened. A cottage situated on the road side leading
to the church constitutes the walhallah of Methodism there, and the
support accorded to it is increasing. We have no more to say as to the
St. Mary’s-street mission. We hope it will go on and agreeably grapple
with the people in its own district whatever may become of the Jews.

A mile and a half distant, on the other side of the town, and quietly
resting amongst the desolate premises once occupied by the Preston Ship
Building Company, at the Marsh End, there is a small preaching place,
wherein the Scriptures are expounded and the doctrines of John Wesley
duly inculcated. About two and a half years ago a couple of cottages
in this locality were “thrown into one,” and arranged so
as to moderately accommodate those caring about religion, and willing
to have it in a “good old Methodist” style. There was considerable
briskness of trade hereabouts at that time, ships were made in the adjoining
yards, the bubble of speculation was being strongly blown, large numbers
of strong-armed men, caring more for ale in gallon jugs than either
virtue in tracts or piety in sermons, resided in the district, the population
was rapidly increasing, a new section of the town’s suburbs was being
strongly developed, and there being drinking houses, skittle grounds,
and other accompaniments of a progressive age visible, it was considered
prudent to mix up a small Wesleyan preaching room and school with the
general confraternity of institutions in the locality. At the beginning
of this year, owing to the insufficient accomodation of the premises,
a portion of the pattern room of the Ship Building Company, which in
the meantime had resolved its organisation into thin air and evaporated,
was secured, and arranged in a homely fashion for the required business.
After passing through a small door in the centre of a large one, leading
to the shipyard, then turning to the right, then mounting 18 steep awkward
steps, and then turning again to the right, you arrive at the place.

The moment we saw it we knew it. It was in this very room where grand
champagne luncheons used to be given after ship launches, and where
dancing and genteel carousing followed. The last time we had business
at this place we saw twenty-three gentlemen alcoholically merry in it,
six Town Councillors helpless yet boisterous in it, thirty couples of
ladies and gentlemen dancing in it, four waiters smuggling half-used
bottles of champagne rapidly down their throats in it, an ex-Mayor with
his hat, thrown right back, looking awfully jolly, and superintending
the proceedings, in it, and in an adjoining room, now used for vestry
purposes, three ladies in silk velvet, wine-freighted, and just able
to see, blowing up everybody because their bonnets were lost. The place
where all this “fou and unco happy” work was transacted
is now the school chapel of the Wesleyans. The room wherein the congregation
meet is bare, plain, and primitive-looking, with an open roof, whitewashed
all round, and boarded off from a workshop at the southern end. Its
“furniture” consists of eleven forms, three stoves, a pulpit
with no back, and a chair. A strip of wood is placed across a window
at the rear of the chair, which is used by the officiating parson, and
this wood prevents him from breaking the glass if he should happen to
throw his head back sharply. On one side of the room there are 19 hat
hooks, and on the other 24. There are seats in the place for about 100.
The members number about 20, and the average congregation, entirely
working people, and of homely, orderly character, will range from 80
to 100. The room is connected with the Wesley circuit; every Sunday
there are two services in it; a meeting for religious purposes is held
each Thursday night; and the preaching is done by “locals”
and “regulars.” The singing is neither good, nor bad, nor
indifferent; but a mixture of the whole three qualities. It is accompanied
by a small harmonium, played by a young lady in moderately tasteful
style. The services are simple and hearty, and whilst there may be a
little plaintive noisiness now and then in them—a few penitent
flutterings—they are generally, and remembering the complexion
of the congregation, respectably conducted.

“It’s a regular bird nest, and you’ll never get to it, unless
you ask the neighbouring folk,” said a friend to us whilst talking
about the Revivalists’ tabernacle. To the bottom of Pitt-street we then
went, and seeing two or three females and a man dart out of a dim-looking
passage beneath one of the side arches of the railway bridge there,
we concluded that we were near the “nest.” Having sauntered
about for a few moments, and assured ourselves that this was really
the place we were in search of, we went to the arch, walked six or seven
yards forward, looked up a dark, tortuous, narrow passage on the right,
and entered it. In the centre of the passage there was a hole, through
which you could see telegraph wires and the sky, on one side a grim
crevice running narrowly to the top of the railway bridge, and ahead
a shadowy opening like the front of an underground store, with a wooden
partition, in the centre of which was a small square of glass. Theseus,
who got through the Labyrinth, would have been puzzled with this mystic
passage. We never saw such a time-worn and dumfounding road to any place,
and if those who patronise it regularly had done their best to discover
the essence of dinginess and intractibility, they could not have hit
upon a better spot than this. A warm air wave, similar to that you expect
on entering a bakehouse, met us just when we had passed the wooden partition.
In the centre of the room there was a stove, almost red-hot. This apartment,
which was filled with small forms, was, we ascertained, a Sunday-school.
At the bottom end there were some narrow steps, leading through a large
hole into a room above—the “chapel.” A fat man could
never get up these steps, and a tall one would injure his head if he
did not stoop very considerably in ascending them.

The chapel is about five yards wide, 15 yards long, very low on one
side, and moderately high on the other. It is plain, ricketty, and whitewashed.
The side wall of the railway bridge forms one end of it. On the northern
side, there is a door fastened up with a piece of wood in the form of
a large loadstone. This door leads to the top of a pig-stye. The “chapel”
will hold about 70. When we visited it, the congregation consisted of
35 children of a very uneasy sort, 11 men, and five women. Every now
and then railway goods trains kept passing, and what with the whistling
of the engines, the shaking caused by the waggons, the barking of a
dog in a yard behind, the grunting of a pig in a stye three yards off,
and the noise of the 35 children before us, we had a very refreshing
time of it. The congregation—a poor one—consists of a remnant
of the Revivalists who were in Preston last year, and it has a kind
of nominal connection with the Orchard United Methodists. The building
we have described was formerly a weaving shop or rubbish store. Its
present tenants have occupied it about twelve months. They are an earnest
body, seem obliging to strangers, are not as fiery and wild as some
of their class, and might do better in the town if they had a better
room. They have no fixed minister. The preacher we heard was a stranger.
He pulled off his coat just before beginning his discourse. After a
few introductory remarks, in the course of which he said he had been
troubled with stomach ache for six hours on the previous day, and that
just before his last visit to Preston he had an attack of illness in
the very same place, a lengthy allusion was made to his past history.
He said that he had been “a villain, a gambler, a drunkard, and
a Sabbath breaker”—we expected hearing him say, as many
of his class do, that he had often abused his mother, thrashed his wife,
and punished his children, but he did not utter a word on the subject.
The remainder of his discourse was less personal and more orthodox.
At the close we descended the steps carefully, groped our way out quietly,
and left, wondering how ever we had got to such a place at all, and
how those worshipping in it could afford to Sabbatically pen themselves
up in such a mysterious, ramshackle shanty.

ST. MARY’S AND ST. JOSEPH’S CATHOLIC CHAPELS.

In this combination the past and the present are linked. Into their
history the elements of a vast change enter. One is allied with “saintly
days,” followed by a reactive energy, vigorous and crushing; the
other is amalgamated with an epoch of broadest thought and keenest iconoclasm;
both are now enjoying a toleration giving them peace, and affording
them ample room for the fullest progress. Unless it be our Parish Church,
which was originally a Catholic place of worship, no religious building
in Preston possesses historic associations so far-reaching as St. Mary’s.
It is the oldest Catholic chapel in Preston. Directly, it is associated
with a period of fierce persecution. Relatively, it touches those old
times when religious houses, with their quaintly-trimmed orders, were
in their halcyon days. After the dissolution, caused by Henry VIII,
it was a dangerous thing to profess Catholicism, and in Preston, as
in other places, those believing in it had to conduct their services
privately, and in out-of-the-way places. In Ribbleton-lane there is
an old barn, still standing, wherein mass used to be said at night-time.
People living in the neighbourhood fancied for a considerable period
that this place was haunted; they could see a light in it periodically;
they couldn’t account for it; and they concluded that some headless
woman or wandering gnome was holding a grim revel in it. But the fact
was, a small band of Catholics debarred from open worship, and forced
to secrete themselves during the hours of devotion, were gathered there.

When the storm of persecution had subsided a little, Catholics in
various parts of the country gradually, though quietly, got their worship
into towns; and, ultimately, we find that in Preston a small thatched
building—situated in Chapel-yard, off Friargate—was opened
for the use of Catholics. This was in 1605. The yard, no doubt, took
its name from the chapel, which was dedicated to St. Mary. There was
wisdom in the selection of this spot, and appropriateness, too—it
was secluded, near the heart of the town, and very close to the old
thoroughfare whose very name was redolent of Catholicity. Friargate
is a word which conveys its own meaning. An old writer calls it a “fayre,
long, and spacious street;” and adds, “upon that side of
the town was formerly a large and sumptuous building belonging to the
Fryers Minors or Gray Fryers, but now [1682] only reserved for the reforming
of vagabonds, sturdy beggars, and petty larcenary thieves, and other
people wanting good behaviour; it is now the country prison . . . and
it is cal’d the House of Correction.” This building was approached
by Friargate, and was erected for the benefit of begging friars, under
the patronage of Edward, Earl of Lancaster, son of Henry III. The first
occupants of it came from Coventry, “to sow,” as we are,
told by an ancient document, “the seeds of the divine word, amongst
the people residing in the villa of Preston, in Agmounderness, in Lancashire.”

Primarily it was a very fine edifice, was built in the best style
of Gothic architecture, and had accomodation for upwards of 500 monks.
Upon its site now stands the foundry of Mr. Stevenson, adjoining Lower
Pitt-street. The Catholics of Preston satisfied themselves with the
small building in Chapel-yard until 1761, when a new place of worship,
dedicated to St. Mary, was erected upon part of the site of the convent
of Grey Friars. Towards this chapel the Duke of Norfolk gave a handsome
sum, and presented, for the altar, a curious painting of the Lord’s
Supper. But this building did not enjoy a very prosperous career, for
in 1768, during a great election riot, it was pulled down by an infuriated
mob, all the Catholic registers in it were burned, and the priest—the
Rev. Patrick Barnewell—only saved his life by beating a rapid
retreat at the rear, and crossing the Ribble at an old ford below Frenchwood.
Another chapel was subsequently raised, upon the present site of St.
Mary’s, on the west side of Friargate, but when St. Wilfrid’s was opened,
in 1793, it was closed for religious purposes and transmuted into a
cotton warehouse. The following priests were at St. Mary’s from its
opening in 1761 until its close in 1793:- Revs. Patrick Barnewell, Joseph
Smith, John Jenison, Nicholas Sewall, Joseph Dunn, and Richard Morgan.
The two last named gentleman lived together in a cottage, on the left
side of the entrance to the chapel, behind which they had a fine room
commanding a beautiful view of the Ribble, Penwortham, &c., for
at that time all was open, on the western side of Friargate, down to
the river. Whittle, speaking of Father Dunn, says he was “the
father of the Catholic school, the House of Recovery, and the Gasworks,”
and adds, with a plaintive bathos, that “on the very day he left
this sublunary world he rose, as was his custom, very early, and in
the course of his rambles exchanged a sovereign for sixpences, for distribution
amongst the indigent.”

In 1815 the chapel was restored; but not long afterwards its roof
fell in. Nobody however was hurt, just because nobody was in the building
at the time. The work of reparation followed, and the chapel was deemed
sufficient till 1856, when it was entirely rebuilt and enlarged. As
it was then fashioned so it remains. It is a chapel of ease for St.
Wilfrid’s, and is attended to a very large extent by Irish people. The
situation of it is lofty; it stands upon higher ground than any other
place of worship in the town; but it is so hemmed in with houses, &c.,
that you can scarcely see it, and if you could get a full view of it
nothing very beautiful would be observed about the exterior. The locality
in which this chapel is placed is crowded, dark-looking, and pretty
ungodly. All kinds of sinister-looking alleys, narrow yards, dirty courts,
and smoky back streets surround it; much drinking is done in each; and
a chorus of noise from lounging men in their shirt sleeves, draggle-tailed
women without bonnets, and weird little youngsters, given up entirely
to dirt, treacle, and rags, is constantly kept up in them. The chapel
has a quaint, narrow, awkward entrance. You pass a gateway, then mount
a step, then go on a yard or two and encounter four steps, then breathe
a little, then get into a somewhat sombre lobby two and a half yards
wide, and inconveniently steep, next cross a little stone gutter, and
finally reach a cimmerian square, surrounded by high walls, cracked
house ends, and other objects similarly interesting. The front of the
chapel is cold-looking and devoid of ornament. Upon the roof there is
a square perforated belfry, containing one bell. It was put up a few
years ago, and before it got into use there was considerable newspaper
discussion as to the inconvenience it would cause in the morning, for
having to be rung at the unearthly hour of six it was calculated that
much balmy quietude would be missed through it. Some people can stand
much sleep after six, and on their account early bell-ringing was dreaded.
But the inhabitants have got used to the resonant metal, and those who
have time sleep on very excellently during its most active periods.

The chapel has a broad, lofty, and imposing interior; but it is rather
gloomy, and requires a little extra light, which would add materially
to the general effect. There is considerable decorative skill displayed
in the edifice; but the work looks opaque and needs brightening up.
The sanctuary end is rich and solemn, has a finely-elaborate and sacred
tone, and combines in its construction elegance and power. At the rear
and rising above the altar there is a large and somewhat imposing picture,
representing the taking down of our Saviour from the cross. It was painted
by Mr. C. G. Hill, after a picture of Carracci’s, in Stonyhurst College,
and was originally placed in St. Wilfrid’s church. St. Mary’s will accommodate
about 1,000 persons. All the pews have open sides, and there are none
of a private character in any part of the church. The poorest can have
the best places at any time, if they will pay for them, and the richest
can sit in the worst if they are inclined to be economical.

Large congregations attend this chapel, and the bulk, as already
intimated, are of the Milesian order. At the rear, where many of the
poor choose to sit, some of the truest specimens of the “finest
pisantry,” some of the choicest and most aromatic Hibernians we
have seen, are located. The old swallow-tailed Donnybrook Fair coat,
the cutty knee-breeches, the short pipe in the waistcoat pocket, the
open shirt collar, the ancient family cloak with its broad shoulder
lapelle, the thick dun-coloured shawl in which many a young Patrick
has been huddled up, are all visible. The elderly women have a peculiar
fondness for large bonnets, decorated in front with huge borders running
all round the face like frilled night-caps. The whole of the worshippers
at the lower end seem a pre-eminently devotional lot. How they are at
home we can’t tell; but from the moment they enter the chapel and touch
the holy water stoops, which somehow persist in retaining a good thick
dark sediment at the bottom, to the time they walk out, the utmost earnestness
prevails amongst them. Some of the poorer and more elderly persons who
sit near the door are marvellous hands at dipping, sacred manipulation,
and pious prostration. Like the Islams, they go down on all fours at
certain periods, and seem to relish the business, which, after all,
must be tiring, remarkably well. Considering its general character,
the congregation is very orderly, and we believe of a generous turn
of mind. The chapel is cleanly kept by an amiable old Catholic, who
may, if there is anything in a name, be related to the Grey Friars who
formerly perambulated the street he lives in; and there is an air of
freedom and homeliness about it which we have not noticed at several
places of worship. Around its walls are pictures of saints. They make
up a fine family group, and seem to have gathered from every Catholic
place of worship in the town to do honour to the edifice.

There are sundry masses every Sunday in the chapel, that which is
the shortest—held at half-past nine in the morning—being,
as usual, best patronised. The scholars connected with St. Wilfrid’s
attend the chapel every Sunday. Each Wednesday evening a service is
also held in the chapel, and it is most excellently attended, although
some who visit it put in a rather late appearance. When we were in the
chapel, one Wednesday evening, ten persons came five minutes before
the service was over, and one slipped round the door side and made a
descent upon the holy water forty-five seconds before the business terminated.
Of course it is better late than never, only not much bliss follows
late attendance, and hardly a toothful of ecstacy can be obtained in
three-quarters of a minute. The singing is of an average kind, the choir
being constituted of the school children; whilst the organ, which used
to be in some place at Accrington, is only rather shaky and debilitated.
During the past ten years the Rev. Thomas Brindle, of St. Wilfrid’s,
has been the officiating priest at St. Mary’s. Father Brindle is a Fylde
man, is about 45 years of age, and is a thoroughly healthy subject.
He is at least 72 inches high, is well built, powerful, straight as
a die, good looking, keeps his teeth clean, and attends most regularly
to his clerical duties. He is unassuming in manner, blithe in company,
earnest in the pulpit. His gesticulation is decisive, his lungs are
good, and his vestments fit him well. Not a more stately, yet homely
looking, honest-faced priest have we seen for many a day. There is nothing
sinister nor subtle in his visage; the sad ferocity glancing out of
some men’s eyes is not seen in his. We have not yet confessed our sins
to him, but we fancy he will be a kindly soul when behind the curtain,—would
sooner order boiled than hard peas to be put into one’s shoes by way
of penance, would far rather recommend a fast on salmon than a feast
on bacon, and would generally prefer a soft woollen to a hard horse
hair shirt in the moments of general mortification. Father Brindle!—Give
us your hand, and may you long retain a kindly regard for boiled peas,
soft shirts, and salmon. They are amongst the very best things out if
rightly used, and we shouldn’t care about agonising the flesh with them
three times a week.

St. Joseph’s Catholic Church stands on the eastern side of Preston,
and is surrounded by a rapidly-developing population. The district has
a South Staffordshire look—is full of children, little groceries,
public-houses and beershops, brick kilns, smoke, smudge, clanging hammers,
puddle-holes, dogs, cats, vagrant street hens, unmade roads, and general
bewilderment. When the new gasometer, which looks like the skeleton
of some vast colosseum, is finished here, an additional balminess will
be given to the immediate atmosphere, which may be very good for children
in the hooping-cough, but anything except pleasant for those who have
passed through that lively ordeal. In 1860, a Catholic school was erected
in Rigby-street, Ribbleton-lane. Directly afterwards divine service
was held in the building, which in its religious character was devoted
to St. Joseph. But either the walls of the edifice were too weak, or
the roof of it too strong, for symptoms of “giving way”
soon set in, and the place had to be pulled down. In 1866, having been
rebuilt and enlarged, it was re-opened. In the meantime, religious services
and scholastic training being essential, and it being considered too
far to go to St. Ignatius’s and St. Augustine’s, which were the places
patronised prior to the opening of St. Joseph’s mission, another school,
with accomodation in it for divine worship, was erected on a plot of
land immediately adjoining. Nearly one half of the money required for
this building, which was opened in 1864, was given by Protestants. At
the northern end of it, there is a closed-off gallery, used as a school
for boys. The remainder of the building is used for chapel purposes.
The exterior of the edifice is neat and substantial; the interior—that
part used for worship—is clean, spacious, and light. At the southern
end there is a small but pretty altar, and around the building are hung
what in Catholic phraseology are termed “the stations.”
There is not much ornament, and only a small amount of paint, in the
place.