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