and will require considerable protection, if its general health has to be preserved.  None of the windows have yet been broken, but we dare say they will be by and by, for the neighbourhood possesses some excellent stone-throwers; the Ribble has not yet flowed into it, but it may pay one of its peculiar visits some day, for in this quarter it is no respecter of buildings, whether they be chapels or public houses.  The edifice has a light, simple, unassuming interior.  Chairs seem to constitute the principal articles of furniture.  There are 232 for the congregation, and 232 little red buffets as well, 11 for the choir, one for the organ blower, and two for the parson.  At the top of each chair back there is a thick piece of wood on which is plastered a printed paper, requesting the worshippers to kneel during prayers, and to join in the responses.  The paper also makes a quiet allusion to offertory business, the defraying of expenses, and the augmentation of the curate’s salary.  The chairs are planted down the church in two rows, and they look very singular.  The organ at the south east corner is a pretty little instrument.  A reading desk on the opposite side, standing upon a small platform, suffices for the pulpit.  Behind there is a strip of strong blue-painted canvas bearing a text in gilt letters referring to the Sacrament.  Above there is a three-light stained glass window.  At the western end, just under the doorway, a marble tablet is fixed; and upon it is an allusion to the virtues of the late J. Bairstow, Esq., and to the gentlemen who erected the building.  The average congregation consists of about 200 middle and working class people.  The services are generally conducted by the Rev. J. D. Harrison, curate of Christ Church—­a young gentleman who works with considerable vigour, and never sneezes at the offertory contributions, however small they may be.  Mr. Harding, of this town, designed the building, which is a homely, kindly-looking little affair—­a bashful, tiny, domesticated creature, a nursling amid the matured and ancient, a baby among the Titans, which may some day reach whiskerdom and manhood.

ST. MARY’S CHURCH.

“And now, finally, brethren.”  To the “beginning of the end” have we got.  The journey has been long and tortuous.  When we have proceeded forty inches further we shall stop.  Not with the “last rose of summer,” nor with the “last of all the Romans,” nor with the “last syllable of recorded time,” nor with the “last words of Marmion”—­ the Mohicans are barred out—­have we to deal, but with the last place of worship, fairly coming within the category of “Our Churches and Chapels.”  St. Mary’s Church is situated in a huge, rudely-spun district, known by the name of “New Preston.”  That district used to be one of the wildest in this locality; “schimelendamowitchwagon” was not known in it; not much of that excellent article is yet known in it; and tons of good seed, saying