St. Walburge’s is built in the early decorated Gothic style of architecture, and it is beyond all controversy, a splendid looking building.  At the eastern end there is a remarkably fine seven-light stained glass window.  This is flanked by a couple of two-light windows; and the general effect is most imposing.  The central window is 35 feet high.  At the western end there is a beautifully-coloured circular window, 22 feet in diameter, which was given by Miss Roper; and beneath it there are small coloured lights, put in by Father Weston out of money left him by Miss Green.  Nearly all the side windows in the church are coloured, and four of them are of the “presentation” stamp.  The most prominent thing about the church is the spire, which, as well as the tower, is built of limestone, and surmounted by a cross, the distance from its apex to the ground being about 301 feet.  We saw the weather vane fixed upon this spire, and how the man who did the job managed to keep his head from spinning right round, and then right off, was at the time an exciting mystery to us which we have not yet been able to properly solve.  A little before the actual completion of the spire, we had a chance of ascending it, but we remained below.  The man in charge wanted half-a-crown for the trip; and as we fancied that something like 5 pounds ought to be given to us for undertaking a journey so perilous, it was mutually decided that we should keep down.  Why, it would be a sort of agony to ascend the spire under the most favourable circumstances; and as one might only tumble down if ascension were achieved, the safest plan is to keep down altogether.  We have often philosophised on the question of punishment, and, locally speaking, we have come to this conclusion, that agony would be sufficiently piled in any case of crime, if the delinquent were just hoisted to the top of St. Walburge’s spire and left there.  From the summit of the tower, which is quite as high as safe-sided human beings need desire to get, there is a magnificent view:  Preston lurches beneath like a hazy amphitheatre of houses and chimneys; to the east you have Pendle, Longridge, and the dark hills of Bowland; northwards, in the far distance, the undulating Lake hills; westward, the fertile Fylde, flanked by the Ribble, winding its way like a silver thread to the ocean; and southwards Rivington Pyke and Hoghton’s wooded summit with a dim valley to the left thereof, in which Blackburn works and dreams out its vigorous existence.  The general scenery from the tower is panoramic and charming.  The view from the spire head must be immense and exquisite, but few people of this generation, unless a very safe plan of ascension is found out, will be able to enjoy it.  In the tower there is a large bell, weighing 31 cwt.; and it can make a very considerable sound, drowning all the smaller ringing arrangements in the neighbourhood.  Some time, but not yet, there will probably be a peal of twelve bells in the tower, for it has accomodation for that number.