of cruelty or meanness or deliberate deceit he used to explode into the most violent language.  I remember a scene which it is almost a terror to me now to recollect, when I was walking with him, and we met a tipsy farmer of a neighbouring village flogging his horse along a lane.  He ran up beside the cart, he stopped the horse, he roared at the farmer, “Get out of your cart, you d—­d brute, and lead it home.”  The farmer descended in a state of stupefaction.  Father Payne snatched the whip out of his hand, broke it, threw it over the hedge, threatened him with all the terrors of the law, and reduced him to a state of abject submission.  Presently he recovered somewhat, and in drunken wrath began to abuse Father Payne.  “Very well,” said Father Payne, “you can take your choice:  either you lead the horse home quietly, and I’ll see it done; or else I come with you to the village, and tell the people what I think of you in the open street.  And if you put up your fist like that again, I’ll run you home myself and hand you over to the policeman.  I’ll be d—­d if I won’t do it now.  Here, Duncan,” he said to me, “you go and fetch the policeman, and we’ll have a little procession back.”  The ruffian thought better of it, and led the horse away muttering, while we walked behind until we were near the farm, “Now get in, and behave yourself,” said Father Payne.  “And if you choose to come over to-morrow and beg my pardon, you may; and if you don’t, I’ll have you up before the magistrates on Saturday next.”

I had never seen such wrath; but the tempest subsided instantly, and he walked back with me in high good-humour.  The next day the man came over, and Father Payne said to me in the evening:  “We had quite an affecting scene.  I gave him a bit of my mind, and he thanked me for speaking straight.  He’s a low brute, but I don’t think he’ll do the same sort of thing in a hurry.  I’ll give him six weeks to get over his fright, and then I’ll do a little patrolling!”

His gentleness, on the other hand, with women and children was beautiful to see.  It was as natural for Father Payne to hurry to a scene of disaster or grief as it was for others to wish to stay away.  He used to speak to a sufferer or a mourner with great directness.  “Tell me all about it,” he would say, and he would listen with little nods and gestures, raising his eyebrows or even shutting his eyes, saying very little, except a word or two of sympathy at the end.  He knew all the children, but he never petted them or made favourites, but treated them with a serious kind of gravity which he assured us they infinitely preferred.  He used to have a Christmas entertainment for them at the Hall, as well as a summer feast.  He encouraged the boys and young men to botanise and observe nature in all forms, and though he would never allow nests to be taken, or even eggs if he could help it, he would give little prizes for the noting of any rare bird or butterfly.  “If you want men to live in