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