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