the servant girl who goes through the preliminary somewhat roughly but very earnestly; the smart young fellow, who dips with his gloves on—­a “rather lazy kind of thing,” as the cobbler remarked when he said his prayers in bed—­and gives a sort of half and half nod, as if the whole bend were below his dignity; the business man, who goes into the water and the bowing in a matter-of-fact style, who gets through the ceremony soon but well, and moves on for the next comer; the youth, who touches the water in a come-and-go style, and makes a bow on a similar principle; the aged worshipper, who takes kindly but slowly to the hallowed liquid, and goes nearly upon his knees in the fulness of his reverence; and towards the last you have about six Sisters of Mercy, belonging St. Wilfrid’s convent, who pass through the formality in a calm, easy, finished manner, and then hurry along, some with veils down and others with veils up, to a side sitting they have.  There is no religious shoddy amongst these persons.  They may look solemn, yet some of them have finely moulded features; they may dress strangely and gloomily, yet, if you converse with them, they will always give indications of serener spirits.  Whether their profession be right or wrong, this is certain:  they keep one of the best schools in the town, and they teach children manners—­a thing which many parents can’t manage.  They also make themselves useful in visiting; they have a certain respect for faith, but more for good works; and if other folk in Christendom held similar views on this point the good done would in the end be greater.  All these Sisters of Mercy are accomplished—­they are clever in the head, know how to play music, to paint, and to sew; can cook well if they like; and it’s a pity they are not married.  But they are doing more good single than lots of women are accomplishing in the married state, and we had better let them alone.  Its dangerous to either command or advise the gentler sex, and as everything finds its own level by having its own way they will, we suppose, in the end.

One of the most noticeable features in connection with the services at St. Wilfrid’s is the music.  It is proverbial that Catholics have good music.  You won’t find any of the drawling, face-pulling, rubbishy melodies worked up to a point of agony in some places of worship countenanced in the Catholic Church.  All is classical—­all from the best masters.  There is an 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.