lowliness, and obedience with such a majestic
expression on his fine aristocratic features,
that we all thought he was a beautiful
specimen of meekness and self-denial to speak
to anybody at all under the degree of a duke.
He was himself the patron of the living, and
when he died, the advowson, as it is called, or
perpetual right of such presentation, was
bought by a gentleman of a very dark
complexion, long straight nose, wide unshapely
mouth, with remarkably long and thin legs,
and a great habit of drinking gin-sling in the
morning, and spitting at all times on the
floor. His name was Smith—a good old
English name, he said, and he was as decided
a Britisher as ever was raised in Old England.
Some people said he was an American, others
that he had made a deal of money as a slave-
driver in Cuba. But here he was, owner of
Nettleton House in our parish, and patron
of the living. None of us liked him. He was
always chewing tobacco, and looked as if he
thought we were going to try a garrotte
robbery on him, for he never would let
anybody get in the slightest degree behind his
back or even parallel with his shoulder, but
managed to keep us all right in front. I
used to think I saw the butt-end of a
revolver bulging out of his breast-pocket;
but he said it was a telescope, though none of
us ever saw him look through it. He often
picked his teeth, by way of amusement,
apparently; for the act had no connection with
his meal-time, and his toothpick was a long,
sharp-pointed, broad-bladed knife, which
opened and shut with a noisy spring, as if it
had been a dagger, and would have cut the
sides of his mouth with its razor-like edges,
if he had not handled it with the greatest
dexterity. Mr. Jollico asked him to dinner,
and examined him very carefully. He said
he considered him in the pre-Adamite period
of brain, and probably cognate with the
plesiosaurus. We did not know what he
meant, and at that time had never heard of
the plesiosaurus; but we waited impatiently
for the appearance of the new rector. We
all got ready our best smiles and kindest
manners to do honour to his reception. Mr.
Smith—his Christian name was Jefferson,—
Mr. Jefferson Smith bought a labourer's
cottage for ninety pounds, and laid out fifty in
improving its appearance, telling us that he
intended to present it as a rectory-house to
the new incumbent; whereupon we all joined
in furthering so desirable an object, and in
less a week made up a purse of two
hundred and twenty guineas, which we
presented to the generous patron, and were
gratified in return with the name of our
future friend, the Reverend Hieronymus
Wicket. A rumour got round the parish
that he was young, that he was rich, that he
was handsome. Young Charlie Baskins said
he hated handsome clergymen, and Sophy
Jells the same. Charlie was going into
the Engineers, and said no clergyman should
be more than five feet four; above that
height, he ought to be in the army; and
Sophy agreed with him. It was a waste of
power, they both thought, for a man of six
feet high to be preaching, when he could be
leading a storming party at a siege, or
repelling a sortie at the head of the grenadiers.
And as to a clergyman being rich, it was
sinful. What could the fellow do with his
money? He couldn't hunt, or keep a yacht,
or have a box at the opera; it was wealth
utterly thrown away. But there are ways of
spending money upon horses without keeping
a stud at Melton; and on music, without
keeping an opera-box. Mr. Hieronymus
Wicket came down in the handsomest
curricle any of us had ever seen; he was
possessed of more silver-mounted flutes and
hundred-guinea fiddles than would have set
up a respectable music-shop; he took the
largest house in the parish; it had been
built for a hotel, but a licence could not be
procured, because two of the licensing
magistrates had shares in the Queen's Head; he
furnished it handsomely; and in a short
time made himself very agreeable to half the
congregation. I say to half, for the days of
perfect unanimity were already past. Some
thought it too bad, and savouring of popish
tyranny, to appoint a clergyman over us
without asking our opinion. Mr. Welford
Jells stuck up for what he called the lay
element in parochial affairs; Mr. Baskins
the elder was inclined to submit to the
Church in all things. The ladies were equally
divided; and Mrs. Baskins even hinted that
Mrs. Jells' principles were nearly akin to
Dissent. Mrs. Jells drew up a little, and
said her family were as true Churchpeople
as the Baskinses; she never had an uncle a
Methodist preacher at York, and her father
had ALWAYS been a Churchman, and had not
merely conformed when he retired from
trade. How Mrs. Baskins hated Mrs. Jells!
But Mr. Jollico gave a party, spoke to the
ladies separately, reminded us that our only
chance of retaining our comfortable society
was by mutual forbearance; and we had a
nice little dance, and a nice little supper, a
great deal of laughter, some games at "yes"
and "no,"—and Charlie Baskins walked
home in the moonlight with the Jellses,
lingering occasionally behind to show Sophy
the effects of the shadows on the ripples in
Wallaston Brook, and on the ridges of
Peverton Hill. There is certainly nothing
so beautiful in young people's eyes as the
glimmer and gloom of moonlight on hill and
stream.

Mr. Wicket preached, and we were all
delighted with his eloquence. It was
something quite different from what we had
heard before. None of us understood it, not
even Mr. Jollico. Mr. Jefferson Smith sat in
the principal pew, chewing tobacco, and
looking up at the preacher with pride and
exultation. He occasionally looked round