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