is a very nice place; and we are not going to say so.  It is a piece of calm sanctity in-buckram, is a stout mass of undiluted lime stone, has been made ornate with pepper castors, looks sweetly-clean after a summer shower, is devoid of a steeple, will never be blown over, couldn’t be lifted in one piece, and will nearly stand forever.  It is as strong as a fortress; has walls thick enough for a castle; is severely plain but full of weft; has no sympathy with elaboration, and is a standing protest against masonic gingerbread.  It rests on the northern side of Fishergate-hill; between Bow-lane and Jordan-street, is surrounded with houses, has two entrances with gateposts which might, owing to their solidity, have descended lineally from the pillars of Hercules; is entirely out of sight on the eastern side; and from the other points of the compass can be seen better a mile off with a magnifying glass than 20 yards off without one.  There is something venerable and monastic, something substantial and coldly powerful about the front; but the general building lacks beauty of outline and gracefulness of detail.  Christ Church is the only place of worship in Preston built of limestone; and if it has not the prettiest, it has the cleanest exterior.  There is no “matter in its wrong place” (Palmerston’s definition of dirt) about it.  If you had to run your hand all round the building—­climbing the rails at the end to do so—­you might get scratched, but wouldn’t get dirtied.  The foundation stone of Christ Church was laid in 1836, and in the following year the place was opened.  Adjoining the church there is a graveyard, which is kept in excellent condition.  Some burial grounds are graced with old hats, broken pots, ancient cans, and dead cats; but this has no such ornaments; it is clean and neat, properly levelled, nicely green-swarded, and well-cared for.  The first person interred in the ground was the wife of the first incumbent—­the Rev. T. Clark.  Outside and in front of the building there is a large blue-featured clock with a cast-iron inside.  It was fixed in 1857, and there was considerable newspaper discussion at the time as to what it would do.  Time has proved how well it can keep time.  It is looked after by a gentleman learned in the deep mysteries of horology, who won’t allow its fingers to get wrong one single second, who used to make his own solar calculations in his own observatory, on the other side of Jordan (street), who gets his time now from Greenwich, who has drilled the clock into a groove of action the most perfect, and who would have just cause to find fault with the sun if antagonising with its indications.  He his thoroughly master of the clock, and could almost make it stop or go by simply shouting or putting up his finger at it.  It is a good clock, however blue it may look; it has gone well constantly; and, if we may credit the words of one of the clock manager’s sanguine brethren, “is likely to do so.”  At the entrance doors there are two curious pieces of wood exactly like spout heads.  Some people say they are for money; but we hardly think so, for during our visits to the church we have seen no one go too near them with their hands.