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