The architecture of the building is Gothic.  There is nothing very striking about the exterior; indeed it looks cold, and sad, and forsaken, and its associations don’t improve it.  The church is built upon a hill, and, therefore, can’t be hid.  Its approaches may have been good at one time; its environs may have been aristocratic and healthy in 1814, but they are not so now.  Smoky workshops, old buildings, with the windows awfully smashed in, houses given up to “lodgings for travellers here,” densely packed dingy cottages, and the tower of a wind mill, which for years nobody has been willing to either mend or pull down, are its architectural concomitants.  The approaches to the church are varied and aggravatingly awkward.  You can get to the church from any point of the compass, but access to it may mean anything—­perhaps, a wandering up courts and passages, a turning round the corners of old narrow streets, an unsavoury acquaintance with the regions of trampery, and an uncomfortable perambulation along corn-torturing causeways and clumsily paved roads.  Pigeon flyers, dog fanciers, gossipping vagrants, crying children, old iron, stray hens, women with a passion for sitting on door steps, men looking at nothing with their hands in their pockets, ancient rags pushed into broken windows, and the mirage of perhaps one policeman on duty constitute the sights in the neighbourhood.  The church-yard, which contains several substantial tombs and monuments, is in a decent state of preservation.  It looks grave as all such places must do; but it is kept in order, and men of the Hervey type of mind might meditate very beneficially amongst its tombs.  Trinity may not be the longest, but it is certainly about the widest, church in the town.  It is neither a high nor a low, but an absolutely broad church.

Internally it is excellent.  On entering the place you are perfectly surprised at its capaciousness.  Nothing cramped, nothing showy, nothing dim, grim, nor shabby-genteel enters into its proportions.  It is finely expansive, airy, light, and well made.  Goodness of build without gaudiness, sanctity without sadness, and evenness of finish without new-fangled intricacy, pervade it.  It is fit for either beggars or plutocrats.  There is not a better, not a plainer, neater, nor more respectable looking church in the town.  And there is not a cleaner.  Some of our churches have for years been cultivating a close and irreligious acquaintance with dirt—­with dust, cobwebs, mould, and other ancient kinds of mild nastiness; but Trinity Church is a model of cleanliness.  Everything in it seems clean—­the windows, pews, cushions, mats, floors, &c., are all clean; there is even an air of cleanliness about the sweeping brushes and the venerable dust bin.  The church has accomodation for about 1,400 persons of ordinary proportions.  The seats are constructed on comfortable principles, and that very traditional article—­green baize—­plays an important and goodly part