There was considerable difference of opinion as to that said “right man;” one portion of “the church” wanting a smart, well-starched, polished individual, and the other desiring a plain, straightforward “gospel preacher”—­a man of the Gadsby kidney, capable of hitting people hard, and telling the truth without any fear.  This was in 1848, and about this time a plain, homely, broad-hearted “Lancashire chap,” named Thomas Haworth, a block printer by trade, and living in the neighbourhood of Accrington, who had taken to preaching in his spare time, was “invited” to supply the Vauxhall-road pulpit.  “Tommy”—­that’s his recognized name, and he’ll not be offended at us for using it—­came, saw, and conquered.  He made his appearance in a plain coat, a plain waist-coat, and a pair of plain blue-coloured corduroy trousers; and as he went up the steps of the pulpit, people not only wondered where he came from, but who his tailor was.  And if they had seen his hat, they would have been solicitous as to its manufacturer.  The more elaborate portion of the “church” pulled uncongenial features at the young block-printer’s appearance, thought him too rough, too unreclaimed, too outspoken, and too vehement; the plain people, the humble, hard-working, unfashionable folk liked him, and said he was “just the man” for them.  Time kept moving, Tommy was asked to officiate in the pulpit for 52 Sundays; he consented; kept up his fire well and in a good Gadsbyfied style; and when settling day came a majority of the members decided that he should remain with them.  The “non-contents” moved off, said that it would not do; was too much of a good thing; escaped to Zoar; and, in the course of this retreat, somebody took—­what!—­not the pulpit, nor its Bible, nor the hymn books, nor the collecting boxes, nor the unpaid bills belonging the chapel, but—­the title deeds of the old place! and to this day they have not been returned.  This was indeed a sharp thing.  How Shylock—­how the old Jew with his inexorable pound of flesh-worship, creeps up in every section of human society!  Vauxhall-road Chapel, which has passed through more denominational agony than any twenty modern places of worship put together, is situated in a poor locality—­in a district where pure air, and less drink, and more of “the Christ that is to be,” as Tennyson would say, are needed than the majority of places in the town.

Architecturally the chapel is nothing; and if it were not for a few tall front rails, painted green, a good gable end pointed up, and a fairly cut inscription thereon, it would, ecclesiastically speaking, seem less than nothing.  It has just been re-painted internally, and necessarily looks somewhat smart on that account; but there is no pretension to architecture in the general building.  Between 500 and 600 persons might be accomodation in it; but the average attendance is below 200.  People are not “particular” about what church or chapel they belong to in its locality; and some of them who belong to no place