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.”