The village parson is quite a character.  You do not often see the like nowadays.  An excellent man in every way, and having his duty at heart, he is one of the few Tories of the old school that are left to us.  Ruling his parish with a rod of iron, he is loved and respected by most of his flock.  In the Parish Council, at the Board of Guardians, his word is law.  He seldom goes away from the village save for his annual holiday, yet he knows all that is going on in the great metropolis, and will tell you the latest bit of gossip from Belgravia.  He has a good property of his own in Somersetshire, but to his credit let it be said that his affections are entirely centred in the little Cotswold village, which he has ruled for a quarter of a century.

     “Full loth were him to curse for his tithes,
      But rather would be given out of doubt
      Unto his poore parishens about
      Of his off’ring, and eke of his substance. 
      He could in little thing have suffisance. 
      Wide was his parish and houses far asunder,
      But he ne left not for no rain nor thunder
      In sickness and in mischief to visit
      The farthest in his parish much and lit,
      Upon his feet, and in his hand a staff,
      This noble ensample to his sheep he gaf,
      That first he wrought and afterwards he taught.”

      CHAUCER.

Sermons are not so lengthy in our church as they were three hundred years ago.  Rudder mentions that a parson of the name of Winnington used to preach here for two hours at a time, regularly turning the hour-glass; for in those days hour-glasses were placed near the pulpit, and the clergy used to vie with each other as to who could preach the longest.  I do not know if Mr. Barrow was ever surpassed in this respect.  History relates that he succeeded in emptying his church of the whole congregation, including the Lord Mayor and Aldermen of London—­one man only (an apprentice) remaining to the bitter end.  Misguided laymen used to amuse themselves in the same way.  Fozbrooke mentions that one Will Hulcote, a zealous lay preacher after the Reformation, used to mount the pulpit in a velvet bonnet, a damask gown, and a gold chain.  What an ass he must have looked!  This reminds me that at the age of twenty-four I accepted the office of churchwarden of a certain country parish.  I do not recommend any of my readers to become churchwardens.  You become a sort of acting aide-de-camp to the parson, liable to be called out on duty at a moment’s notice.  No; a young man might with some advantage to others and credit to himself take upon himself the office of Parish Councillor, Poor Law Guardian, Inspector of Lunatic Asylums, High Sheriff, or even Public Hangman; but save, oh, save us from being churchwardens!  To be obliged to attend those terrible institutions called “vestry meetings,” and to receive each year an examination paper from the archdeacon of the diocese propounding such questions as, “Do you attend church regularly?  If not, why not?” etc., etc., is the natural destiny of the churchwarden, and is more than human nature can stand:  in short, my advice to those thinking of becoming churchwardens is, “Don’t,” with a very big D.