397 THE POOR MAN'S COAT. 66 BY THE AUTHOR OF THE PURGATORY OF SUICIDES. THE sun shone out so gay, of late, Who laugh, while throwing crumbs of bread, The quick-eyed ducks throng o'er the lake, 'Twas lightsome for the heart, to view And talk unto myself I did, Saying, "These waters pellucid, These plumaged things, this goodly grass, These spreading elms,-each lad and lass, Linked arm-in-arm, can freely view; And, after all, 'tis scarcely true To have their holidays of mirth; But then, of course, folk wear their best Thus I sagely talked, And to the other gate I walked : The gate, I mean, that 's near the mansion, Just as I reached the gate in question, One whose worn features showed he toiled, And turned him out! I stared: but, quick, The porter hid his splenetic And ruby face, that did betoken He feared some harsh words would be spoken By me and others, who did look Little inclined that deed to brook. Then forth to him that out was thrust I sped, and thus his case discussed: guess, my honest friend, you bought, With your own hard-earned brass, that coat?" Upon that coat that tax you paid; In pleasing trim :-but now, friend, hark! "Did you say this, seditious rogue ?" A CHAPTER OF CHURCH MICE. THE clergy of a rural district in the south-west were assembled at a visitation dinner. At the head of the board presided the lord bishop, in the person of his chancellor. At a side-table sat a company of the laity, consisting of agricultural and bucolic gentlemen, under the superintendence of the deputy-registrar. The after-grace had been duly said, and the cloth-except in as far as it formed part of the meeting-removed. Leaving the reverend and more dignified guests to the discussion of grave matters and port, descend we, as romances say, to the lower end of the hall, and to the conversation that took place between the stout yeomen there, over a bowl of punch. "Well, naaighbour Cowdry," said Mr. Goddard, addressing a brother farmer, "what didst think o' the chancellor's charge this marnun'?" "Ah! 'twur a wonderful fine discoorse, warn't it? answered Mr. Cowdry. "'A talk'd like a book, didn't 'a? There was moor nor haaf 'a zed as I couldn't undersdand-not I." 66 'I wonders what 'a meant, now," observed Mr. Buckle, the collar-maker, "when 'a talk'd o' the.. unhappy divisions now prevalent in our church? '"' 66 What, dostn't thee know," replied Goddard, "that there be a split among the paasons ? What is 't they calls the new lights? "Loosafers?" suggested a member of the company. "Loosafers! exclaimed Mr. Goddard. 66 No, no. be matches. I'm a talk'n' o' paarsons. Pshoo! the neam on 'em if I heerd 'un." 66 Avunjellyculls?" surmised another. Loosafers I should know "Naw," said Farmer Goddard. "Not they. There be newer lights yit than they. I manes the last up. What d'ye call 'um, young Measter Lovelock? Thee'st bin to boordunschool.' "Call 'em? Puseyites, don't they?" replied the swain appealed to. 66 Ah, to be sure!" cried the other. "Pussyites. That's the word. Pussyites." "Well; who be the Pusseyites?" demanded Mr. Cowdry. "Who be they?" repeated a rather elderly personage, in a rural and somewhat rusty full dress of black and drab, with grizzled locks, a copper nose, and solemn visage, but a queer twinkle in the eye. "Who be they? Why, they be a sart o' rattle-mice, nuther bird nor beeast, a flicker'n in the twilight atween one church and t'other." "Hush, naaighbour Frost; spake lower, mun; the chancellor 'll hear thee else, and tell the bishop on thee," said Mr. Cowdry. "What dost mane by call'n on 'em rattle-mice? How," he continued, not understanding Mr. Frost's metaphor, "d'ye make a Christian out a rattle-mouse?" "Why, spake'n by comparazun," replied Farmer Frost. "Howsumdever, there be Christians,-ah! and paasons too, as changes into mice, and rale mice.' 66 How? When? Who told thee?" exclaimed several of the hearers, some in astonishment, others derisively. 66 How? That's nuther here nor there. When? Arter the death on 'em. Who told me? They as spoke for theirselves,' asserted Mr. Frost with the utmost gravity. "Measter Frost," said a neighbouring acquaintance, "it strikes me thy liquor has got into thy head." 66 No, Measter Andress, it ha'nt.' "Then thee bist a comin' the old sojer over us." "No, I baint-' 66 Then, what in the neam o' Fort'n' bist thee a talk'n about ?" "What I heer'd and zee; and if you've a mind to know as much as I knows, I tell you what you do, mate,you goo one o' these here nights and git lock'd up in Winchester Cathedral." "Thankee. I'd rather you than me, returned Mr. Andrews. Why, what should you be afraid of, Mr. Andrews??" asked young Lovelock. 66 "What odds is that to you?" was the evasive, and not very gracious answer. "Master Andrews believes in ghosts," cried the youth, laughing. "Well; and why not?" demanded Mr. Andrews. "Han't things been sin at night about Danebury Hill ? Don't Will Smithers, as hung his self along o Cicely Westbrook, walk reg'larly arter dark up Whiteshoot Lane ? Didn't 'a vrighten Sarah Grunsell into vits? ' |