. In all large towns a few
of this complexion may be found; and in Preston odd ones exist whose
shibboleth is "Christian Brethren." We had a spell with them, rather
unexpectedly, on a recent "first day"--"Christian Brethren" always
call Sunday the first day. And it came about in this way: we were
on the point of entering a Dissenting place of worship, when a
kindly-natured somewhat originally-constituted "pillar of the
Church" intercepted our movements, and said, "You mustn't come here
today." "Why?" we asked, and his reply was, that a fiftieth-rate
stray parson, whom "the Church doesn't care for" would be in the
pulpit that day, and that if we wished for "a fair sample" we must
"come next Sunday." We didn't want to be hard, and therefore said
that if "another place" could be found for us, we would take it
instead. Violent cogitation for five minutes ensued, and at last our
friend, more zealous than erudite, conjured up what he termed, "them
here new lot, called Christians."

We had heard of this section before, and at our request he
accompanied us to a small, curiously-constructed building in Meadow-
street. At the side of the doorway we observed a strangely-written,
badly-spelled sign, referring to the different periods when the
"Christian Brethren" met for worship, &c.; and above it another sign
appeared, small and dim, and making some allusion to certain
academical business. Hurrying up fourteen steps we reached a dark,
time-worn door, and after pausing for a moment--listening to some
singing within--our guide, philosopher, &c., opened it, and we
entered the place with him. The room was not "crowded to
suffocation;" its windows were not gathering carbon drops through
the density of human breathing; there were just fourteen persons in
the place--four men, three women, two youths, a girl, and four
children. A Bible and a hymn book--the latter, according to its
preface, being intended for none but the righteous--were handed to
us, and our friend want through the singing in a delightfully-
dreadful style. He appeared to have a way of his own in the business
of psalmody--sang whatever came into his head first, got into all
manner of keys, and considering that he was doing quite enough for
both of us, we remained silent, listening to the general melody, and
drinking in its raptures as placidly as possible.

Prior to describing either the service we witnessed, or the
principles of those participating in it, we must say