ur; they neither bubble, nor
scream, nor squirm; and the elders look on solemnly, though
impressed with thoughts that, excellent as the ceremony may be, it
is a rather shivering sort of business after all. After being
baptised, the new members retire into an adjoining room, strip their
saturated cloths, rub themselves briskly with towels, or get the
deacons to do the work for them, then re-dress, comb their hair, and
receive liberty to rejoice with the general Israel of the flock.
Such baptism as that we have described seems a rather curious kind
of rite; but it is honestly believed in, and as those who submit to
it have to undergo the greatest punishment in the case--have to be
put right overhead in cold Longridge water--other persons may keep
tolerably cool on the subject. People have a right to use water any
way so long as they don't throw it unfairly upon others or drown
themselves; and if three-fourths of the people who now laugh at
adult baptism would undergo a dipping next Sunday, and then stick to
water for the remainder of their lives, they would be better
citizens, whatever might become of their theology.

The Rev. J. O'Dell is the pastor of Fishergate Baptist Chapel, and
he is an exemplary man in his way, for be only receives a small
salary and yet contrives to keep out of debt--a thing which a good
deal of parsons, and which many of the ordinary children of grace,
can't accomplish. He is well liked by his congregation, and we have
heard of no fighting over either his virtues or defects. He has
quite a clerical look, and, if he hadn't, his voice would give the
cue to his profession. There is an earnest unctuous modulation about
it, which, as a rule, is acquired after men have flung overboard the
common idioms of secular life. The salary of Mr. O'Dell is about 160
pounds a year, and although he would like more, he can make himself
and Mrs. O'Dell, and the younger branches of the house of O'Dell,
comfortable on that sum. Some pastors gnash their teeth if their
purse strings are opened for less than 300 pounds a year; Mr. O'Dell
would purchase a pair of wings, and sing "'Tis like a little heaven
below," if his stipend was raised to that figure. There is nothing
very extraordinary in the preaching style of Mr. O'Dell. It lacks
the cunning of that rare old Baptist bird, who once went by the name
of Birney, and it is devoid of that learned and masterly eloquence
so finely worked by the last minister of the chapel,