and gilt.  There is something substantial and respectable about the building.  It is neither gaudy nor paltry; neither too good nor too bad looking.  Nobody will ever die in a state of architectural ecstacy through gazing upon it; and not one out of a battalion of cynics will say that it is too ornamental.  It is one of those well-finished, middle-class looking establishments, about which you can’t say much any way; and if you could, nobody would be either madder or wiser for the exposition.  Usually the only noticeable feature about the front of it—­and that is generally the place where one looks for the virtues or vices of a thing—­is a series of caged-up boards, announcing homilies, and tea parties, and collections all over the north Lancashire portion of Congregational Christendom.  It is to be hoped that the sermons are not too dry, that the tea saturnalias are neither too hot nor too wet, and that the collections have more sixpenny than threepenny pieces in them.

The interior of Cannon-street Chapel has a spacious and somewhat genteel appearance.  A practical business air pervades it.  There is no “storied window,” scarcely any “dim religious light,” and not a morsel of extra colouring in the whole establishment.  At this place, the worshippers have an idea that they are going to get to heaven in a plain way, and if they succeed, all the better—­we were going to say that they would be so much the more into pocket by it.  Freedom of thought, sincerity of heart, and going as straight to the point as possible, is what they aim at.  There are many seats in Cannon-street Chapel, and, as it is said that hardly any of them are to let, the reverend gentleman who makes a stipulated descent upon the pew rents ought to be happy.  It is but seldom the pews are well filled:  they are not even crammed on collection Sundays; but they are paid for, and if a congenial wrinkle does not lurk in that fact--for the minister—­he will find neither the balm of Gilead nor a doctor anywhere.  The clerical notion is, that pew rents, as well as texts; must be stuck to; and if those who pay and listen quietly acquiesce, then it becomes a simple question of “so mote it be” for outsiders.

The congregation at Cannon-street Chapel is made up of tolerably respectable materials.  It is no common Dissenting rendezvous for ill-clad screamers and roaring enthusiasts.  Neither fanatics nor ejaculators find an abiding place in it.  Not many poor people join the charmed circle.  A middle-class, shopkeeping halo largely environs the assemblage.  There is a good deal of pride, vanity, scent, and silk-rustling astir in it every Sunday, just as there is in every sacred throng; and the oriental, theory of caste is not altogether ignored.  The ordinary elements of every Christian congregation are necessarily visible here—­backsliders and newly-caught communicants; ancient women duly converted and moderately fond of tea, snuff, and charity; people who cough continually,