The inside of the general building is severely plain.  There is no decoration of any description about it, and if the gas pipes running along the side walls had not a slight Hogarthian line of beauty touch in their form, everything would look absolutely horizontal and perpendicular.  The seats are plain and strong with open backs.  A few of them have got green cushions running the whole length of the form.  In some small cushions are dotted down here and there for individual worshippers, who can at any time easily take them up, put them under their arm, and move from one place to another if they wish for a change of location.  Over the front entrance there is a gallery, but ordinarily it is empty.  There is no pulpit in the house, and no description of books—­neither bibles, nor hymn-books, nor prayer-books—­can be seen anywhere.  At the head of the place there is an elevated strongly-fronted bench, running from one side to the other, and below it an open form of similar length.  The more matured Quakers and Quakeresses generally gravitate hitherwards.  The males have separate places and so have the females.  It is expected that the former will always direct their steps to the seats on the right-hand side; that the latter will occupy those on the left; and, generally, you find them on opposite sides in strict accordance with this idea.  There is nothing to absolutely prevent an enraptured swain from sitting at the elbow of his love, and basking in the sunlight of her eyes, nor to stop an elderly man from nestling peacefully under the wing of his spouse; but it is understood that they will not do this, and will at least submit to a deed of separation during hours of worship.  In addition to the 70 actual members of the society there are about 60 persons in Preston who pay a sort of nominal homage at the shrine of George Fox.

They have two meetings every Sunday, morning and evening, and one every Thursday—­at half-past ten in the morning during winter months, and at seven in the evening in summer.  The average attendance at each of the Sunday meetings is about 70.  The character of the services is quite unsettled.  Throughout Christendom the rule in religious edifices is to have a preliminary service, and then a discourse; in Quaker meeting houses there is no such defined course of action.  Sometimes there is a prayer, then another, then an “exhortation”—­Quakers have no sermons; at other times an exhortation without any prayer; now and then a prayer without any exhortation; and occasionally they have neither the one nor the other—­they fall into a state of profound silence, keep astonishingly quiet ever so long, with their eyes shut, and then walk out.  This is called silent meditation.  If a pin drops whilst this is going on you can hear it and tell in which part of the house it is lying.  You can feel the quietude, see the stillness; it is “tranquil and herd-like—­as in the pasture—­’forty feeding like one;’” it is sadly serene, placidly mysterous,