ejaculating, hymn-singing nonentities. But there was vitality at the
core of their creed, and its fuller triumphs were but a question of
time. In 1817, Methodism became dissatisfied with its Back-lane
quarters, and migrated into a lighter, healthier, and cleaner
portion of the town--Lune-street--where a building was erected for
its special convenience and edification. It was not a very elegant
structure: it was, in fact, a plain, phlegmatic aggregation of
brick and mortar, calculated to charm no body externally, and
evidently patronised for absolute internal rapture.

In 1861 the chapel was rebuilt--enlarged, beautified, and made fine,
so as to harmonise with the laws of modern fashion, and afford easy
sitting room for the large and increasing congregation attending it.
The frontispiece is of a costly character; but it has really been
"born to blush unseen." It is so tightly wedged in between other
buildings, is so evenly crammed into companionship with the ordinary
masonry of the street, that the general effect of the tall arch and
spacious porch is lost. Nothing can be distinctly seen at even a
moderate distance. You have to get to the place before you become
clearly aware of its existence; and if you wish to know anything of
its appearance, you have either to turn the head violently off its
regular axis, or cross the street and ask somebody for a step
ladder. The facade of the building is not very prepossessing; the
large arch, which has given way at some of the joints considerably,
and has been doing its best to fall for about six years, does not
look well--it is too high and too big for the place; the stonework
within is also hid; and the whitewashed ceiling above ought to be
either cleaned or made properly black. At present it is neither
light nor dark, and is rather awkwardly relieved at intervals with
cobwebs. There is something humorous and incongruous in the physical