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Updated: August 29, 2024
Thomas Brindle, of St. Wilfrid's, has been the officiating priest at St. Mary's. Father Brindle is a Fylde man, is about 45 years of age, and is a thoroughly healthy subject. He is at least 72 inches high, is well built, powerful, straight as a die, good looking, keeps his teeth clean, and attends most regularly to his clerical duties.
The person in the pulpit was, we learned, a Fylde farmer; but he must at some time have lived in the north, for he said "dowter" for daughter, "gert" for great, "nather" for neither, "natteral" for natural, and gave his "r's" capital good exercise, turning them round well, throughout his entire discourse; and he cared very little for either singular or plural verbs.
He is a "Fylde man;" has in him much strong straight-forwardness; looks as if he had never ailed anything in his life; doesn't appear to have mortified the flesh very acutely; seems to have taken things comfortably and well since the day of his birth; has not allowed his creed to spoil his face a trick which some professors of religion are guilty of; and is, on the whole, a genuine specimen of the true John Bull type.
On my way back to the middle of the town, I called at an old inn, in Friargate, where I listened with pleasure a few minutes to the old- fashioned talk of three farmers from the Fylde country. Their conversation was principally upon cow-drinks. One of them said there was nothing in the world like "peppermint tay an' new butter" for cows that had the belly-ache.
His first mission was at the Church of the English Martyrs in this town; then he went to Wigan, and after staying there for a time he landed at St. Joseph's. Father Parkinson is a native of the Fylde, and he has got much of the warm healthy blood of that district in his veins.
We visited a little newly-settled meeting at Thornton Marsh, near Poulton in the Fylde. Our worthy friend Joseph Wood had the first meeting of our Society that was ever held in this part.
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.
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