enchantment in the music which
binds you--makes you like it whether you will or not. At St.
Wilfrid's there is a choir which can't be excelled by any provincial
body of singers in the kingdom. The learned individual who blows the
organ may say that the comparative perfection attained in the
orchestra is through the very consummate manner in which he "raises
the wind"; the gentleman who manipulates upon its keys may think he
is the primum mobile in the matter; the soprano may fancy she is the
life of the whole concern; the heavy bass or the chief tenor may
respectively lay claim to the honour; but the fact is, its amongst
the lot, so that there may be a general rubbing on the question of
service, and a reciprocal scratching on the point of ability.

There are several priests at St. Wilfrid's; they are all Jesuits to
the marrow; and the chief of them is the Rev. Father Cobb. Each of
them is clever--far cleverer than many of the half-feathered curates
and full-fledged incumbents who are constantly bringing railing
accusations against them; and they work harder--get up sooner, go to
bed later--than the whole of them. They jump at midnight if their
services are required by either a wild Irishman in Canal-street or a
gentleman of the first water in any of our mansions. It is not a
question of cloth but of souls with them. They are afraid of neither
plague, pestilence, nor famine; they administer spiritual
consolation under silken hangings, as well as upon straw lairs; in
the fever stricken garret as well as in the gilded chamber. Neither
the nature of a man's position nor the character of his disease
enters into their considerations. Duty is the star of their
programme; action the object of their lives. They receive no
salaries; their simple necessaries are alone provided for. Some of
them perhaps get half-a-crown a month as pocket money; but that will
neither kill nor cure a man. Sevenpence halfpenny per week is a big
sum--isn't it?--big enough for a Jesuit priest, but calculated to
disturb the Christian balance of any other class of clergymen. If it
isn't, try them.

In reference to the priests of St. Wilfrid's, we shall only
specially mention, and that briefly, the Rev. Father Cobb. No man in
Preston cares less for fine clothes than he does. We once did see
him with a new suit on; but neither before nor since that ever-
memorable day, have we noticed him in anything more ethereal than a
plain well-worn coat, waistcoat,