In spite, however, of this intuitive faith in the past, a faith no logic, no mental illumination, can root out or destroy, dissent has its new chapels and new men. Of these latter the Rev. A. J. Morris is one. People who read Mr. Ruskin, and talk sentimentally about architecture—a practice very rare among architects themselves—will see in Mr. Morris’s chapel something of the character of the man. It is new, but still it appropriates to itself what is graceful and useful in the past. For instance, it has more of an Episcopalian character than dissenting chapels at the time of its erection generally had. Up to that time dissenters had prided themselves on the uncomely and unpoetical aspect of the places in which they met for public worship. Your dissenting chapel was generally a square, built of the ugliest red brick, and rendered hideous internally by square deal boxes, called pews, in which the people sat under a common-place divine, generally as plain as the place. Such was the meeting-house, as it was termed in the hallowed days of dissent, in the good old times. The whole affair was an abomination to men of taste. Mr. Morris has introduced a great reform—he has abolished the pew system. He has as graceful a gothic chapel as heart could desire; his place of worship is reverential and in keeping with its character. ‘That man of primitive piety,’ as glorious old Isaak Walton termed him, Mr. George Herbert, says in his Temple:— ‘quit thy state, All equal are within the church’s gate.’ Such certainly is the language of Mr. Morris’s chapel, and such I imagine more or less would be the language of Mr. Morris himself.