The present chapel was built in the early part of Queen Anne's reign--in 1703, it is said, and about the time that Hugh, Lord Willoughby, the first of that name, with his co-trustees were causing so much anxiety to poor Vicar Rothwell by retaining the funds of Horwich Episcopal Chapel, and threatening "against justice and honesty" to build a meeting-house with them. Like many other chapels erected contemporaneously, it was built and endowed for the promulgation of doctrines accordant with those of the Church, but enforced by a Presbyterian form of government; eventually Arian sentiments were introduced, and it has experienced the declension almost universal with English Presbyterian congregations. There is a tradition current that when these changes were introduced they were received with so much disfavour that a worthy couple in the neighbourhood who had a child born to them at the time, determined that it should be named Ichabod, believing, as they said, the glory to have departed. The building, clothed in its mantle of verdant ivy, stands a little way back from the wayside in the midst of its own graveyard and encompassed by a grey stone fence that looks as old as the structure itself. Having obtained the key, we passed through the little wicket into the enclosure-- Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap. A few shrubs grasp the cold earth, and you can see where flowers have been planted by loving hands, but there is no gravelled path, and so you have to pick your way round the grass-grown hillocks, stepping from dwelling to dwelling of the listless dead, and over the half-sunken flag-stones, many of them bemossed with age and appearing as if about to sink into the graves of those they commemorate. Time, as Hawthorne says, gnaws an English gravestone with wonderful aptitude. Our climate soon gives an antiquity of aspect, and the moisture encourages the moss and lichens to fill up the lettered furrows with a living green that obliterates the inscription while the beloved name it records is yet fresh upon the survivor's heart-- The record some fond hand hath traced, To mark thy burial spot, The lichen will have soon effaced, To write thy doom--forgot.