The incumbent is the Rev. D. F. Chapman.  He has been at the place a few years, and receives about 400 pounds a-year for his trouble.  Mr. Chapman is a powerfully-constructed gentleman; is somewhat inclined to oleaginousness; has contracted a marine swing in his walk; is heavily clerical in countenance and cloth; believes in keeping his hair broad at the sides; has a strong will and an enormous opinion of the incumbent of St. Peter’s; will fume if crossed; will crush if touched; can’t be convinced; has his mind made up and rivetted down on everything; must have his way; thinks every antagonist mistaken; is washy, windy, ponderous; has a clear notion that each of his postulates is worth a couple of demonstrations, that all his theories are tantamount to axioms; and, finally, has quarelled more with his churchwardens than any other live parson in Preston.  He once fought for weeks, day and night, with a warden as to the position of a small gas-pipe, because he couldn’t get his way about it.  He is well educated, but his erudition is not fairly utilised; he can read with moderate precision; but there is a lack of elocutionary finish in his tone; he can talk a long while, and now and then can say a good thing; he preaches with considerable force, makes good use of his arms, sometimes rants a little, at intervals has to pull back his sentences half an inch to get hold of the right word, talks straight out occasionally, telling the congregation what they are doing and what they ought to do; but there is much in his sermons which neither gods nor men will care about digesting, and there is a theological dogmatism in them which ordinary sinners like ourselves will never swallow.  We are rather inclined to admire the gentleman who, until lately, officiated as his curate—­the Rev. E. Lee,—­and who, after preaching his last sermon, was next day made the recipient of that most fashionable and threadbare of all things, a presentation.  Originally he indulged in odd pranks, said strange things, was laughably eccentric, and did for a period appear to be, in an ecclesiastical sense, what the kangaroo of Artemus Ward was in a zoological one—­“the most amoozin little cuss ever introduced to a discriminatin public.”  He has still some of the “amoozin” traits about him; but during his curacy in St. Peters district he showed that he could work hard, visit often, look after the poor, be generous, get up good classes, and never tire of his duty.  His salary was about 120 pounds a year, and he was benevolent with it.  He has a stronger pair of lungs than any parson in Preston, and he can use them longer than most men without feeling tired.  His sermons are of a practical type; he believes largely in telling people what he thinks; and never hesitates to hit rich and poor alike in his discourses.  He has been transplanted to the Parish Church, and he will stir up a few of the respectable otiose souls there if he has an opportunity.  There is a good deal of swagger about him; he believes in carry a stick