he can tell a good tale, is full of humour; he knows a few things as well as the rest of men, and is charitably disposed—­indeed he is too sympathetic and this causes hint to be pestered with rubbishy tales from all sorts of individuals, and sometimes to act upon them as if they were true.  As a Protestant vicar—­and, remembering that no angels have yet been born in this country, that everybody is somewhat imperfect, and that folk will differ—­we look upon Canon Parr as above the average.  He has said extravagant and unreasonable things in his time; but he has rare properties, qualities of sense and erudition, which are strangers to many pretentious men in his line of business; and, on the whole, he may be legitimately set down, in the language of the “gods,” as “O.K.”

No.  II.

ST. WILFRID’S CATHOLIC CHURCH.

It was at one time of the day a rather dangerous sort of thing for a man, or a woman, or a medium-sized infant, living in this highly-favoured land of ours, to show any special liking for Roman Catholicism.  But the days of religious bruising have perished; and Catholics are now, in the main, considered to be human as well as other people, and to have a right to live, and put their Sunday clothes on, and go to their own places of worship like the rest of mortals.  No doubt there are a few distempered adherents of the “immortal William” school who would like to see Catholics driven into a corner, banished, or squeezed into nothing; probably there are some of the highly sublimated “no surrender” gentlemen who would be considerably pleased if they could galvanise the old penal code and put a barrel able to play the air of “Boyne Water” into every street organ; but the great mass of men have learned to be tolerant, and have come to the conclusion that Catholics, civilly and religiously, are entitled to all the liberty which a free and enlightened constitution can confer—­to all the privileges which fair-play and even-handed justice call give; and if these are not fully granted now, the day is coming when they will be possessed.  Lancashire seems to be the great centre of Catholicism in England, and Preston appears to be its centre in Lancashire.  This benign town of Preston, with its fervent galaxy of lecturing curates, and its noble army of high falutin’ incumbents, is the very fulcrum and lever of northern Romanism.  If Catholics are wrong and on the way to perdition and blisters there are 33,000 of them here moving in that very awkward direction at the present.  A number so large, whether right or wrong cannot he despised; a body so great, whether good or evil, will, by its sheer inherent force, persist in living, moving, and having, a fair share of being.  You can’t evaporate 33,000 of anything in a hurry; and you could no more put a nightcap upon the Catholics of Preston than you could blacken up the eye of the sun.  That stout old Vatican gentleman who storms this fast