bully of the parish, a hulking, powerful the storm had passed and the calm had man of about five-and-twenty -a very followed it was only a change of dangerous ruffian when he was in beer, venue· he would rush into his own and a "black" who was the terror of room and fling himself upon the ground, the night-school boys when they were writhing and moaning, sometimes sobon their way home. He was a good bing, revenging himself upon himself deal over six feet high, had maimed in self-accusation, refusing all food, more than one opponent in a stand-up lying there with clenched hands and fight, and might have been a Hercules shut eyes for hours, till Mrs. Clayton but that he was coarse in his fibre, would get frightened, and, when all gross in his habits, and wholly undisci- other kindly devices failed, would send plined in mind or body. His name, one of the little children with broth, or Dan Leeds. tea, or some simple dainty, the little toddler being commanded to stand by the strong man and make him speak, if it were only yes or no. On one occasion, when he had lain there unmoved for more than twenty-four hours, the little boy, a child of four, went in with a Jew's-harp and began to spring it. Luke opened his eyes sadly. "Mofer says you're Saul, and she says I'm to play my harp to you, Mis' Termain!”

Luke could have no doubt who the missing two were, and the less so when he began to hear himself shouted at by men at work in the fields as he was on his walks, with the cry of "Spy!" • Blooming spy "“Informer!" and so on, with many an oath to give the words emphasis. Of course he was saddened, but he was too obstinate to alter his ways of treating the people. He took no notice, and seemed not to

care.

The curate and his wife were to return on New Year's day, Christmas was very near, and Luke had no plans for the future. It looked as if he were going to stay on the old footing. As for the rector, he had become quite childish h; no one made any account of him.

The sight of this hulking Dan Leeds showering blows upon the poor little beast was more than Luke could stand. He burst out in uncontrollable anger.

"What a brute-what an unmitigated brute you are, Dan Leeds, for treating that poor beast that way y! Yes, you're an unmitigated brute. You deserve to have that stick laid across your own thick shoulders!"

Many a Rampton man, even Dan himself, might possibly have borne being called a brute, but to add to that word "brute" an epithet of five syllables― to call him an unmitigated brute when he did not know what the long word meant that was quite intolerable; it was ten times worse than swearing in the vernacular!

One day he was walking at his usual swinging pace along the coach-road on some errand of mercy to a sad one at the other end of the parish, when he met the big bully, Dan Leeds, driving a tiny donkey in a heavily loaded cart, Dan sitting upon the load and furiously beating the poor little animal with a heavy ash stick in mere wantonness of ferocity. Luke's blood was up, for that devil in him that he had spoken of to little Sally was a devil that would not always be laid. The young man was always struggling with it, praying against it, getting overcome by it, gnashing his teeth and beating his breast with shame and self-reproach The "devil" was getting the upper when he had been mastered by it, find-hand - the devil had got the upper ing the conflict so very, very hard and hand.

"Oh! I'm a titigated brute, am I?" growled Dan. "I'd soon larn you to call folks names out o' the Bible if you weren't a parson. A titigated brute, eh! I've a good mind to do it now, and I will lay the stick on you, too, if you don't mind yersel'."

the issue, alas! so often doubtful. "Oh, I don't mind if you know how As often as his passionate temper to do it," said Luke, and that terrible, broke out, and it seemed to others that indescribable smile passed over his

face, and its scorn, contempt, irony, | sir! So's my neck broke too. What'll indignation, wrath, defiance smote upon mother du w'rout me? He's a-going Dan Leeds with the sting of a blow to kill me! Murder! Murder! Ow! and drove him mad. He sprang out of Booh!" the donkey-cart, grasping the ash stick in his hand, and came with a rush upon Luke. "I'll larn you to keep a civil tongue in your head, you parson. You want a lesson, you do."

"Up on your knees, you cowardly sneak.”

The fellow, blubbering and half beside himself with terror, did as he was bid.

"Now say after me :

"I'm a brute. Yes, I am! as you said I was, sir!

"I'm a cur said I was, sir! "I'm a liar. Yes, I am; I gnaw't. My arm ain't broke !

— cur― coward, as you

666

"The dickey's a better beast than Yes, sir!

me.

666

"I promise faithful, I'll go and tell mother, booh! as the parson brought me on my marrow-bones, booh! w'rout hitt'n of me!

Reckless ruffian as he was, the fellow was staggered for a moment, for Luke stood there with folded hands as calm as a statue, keeping his eye upon his assailant, and only smiling the horrible smile. Dan came upon him with uplifted stick, and in a hesitating way knocked off the parson's hat, as if in challenge. Before he knew where he was Luke's arms were round him like two wire ropes, and the next moment he had been flung into the air like a ball, and was sprawling in the road. The hat had rolled away a few yards into the ditch. Luke coolly went after his hat; but as he stooped to pick it up Dan Leeds, who had scrambled to his feet, came at him from behind and dealt a tremendous blow at the parson, a blow which would certainly have fractured his skull but that the fellow "There! That donkey of yours don't was 'silly" with his fall, and Luke's hat was a stiff one with a stout brim.

"I'll come to church o' Sunday afternoon and be preached at, and I'll tell 'em all as I hit 'en wi' a stick, and he tossed me over his head. Yes, I will. Amen!'

"Now you may go!" said Luke. He broke that tough ash stick across his knee, broke it, and broke it again.

want any more of your beating. I fancy you'll find your collar - bone He never knew how he escaped. He broken. It is a way collar-bones have only remembered crying out, "You of breaking, with that throw. I've coward!" a confused sense that he heard 'em sometimes!" must grapple with a wild beast, that it was life or death; then once more he was closing with his antagonist; then he had thrown him again over his head; then, as he came to himself, there was Dan Leeds a helpless lump, lying as if he were dead! He was very far from dead, only cowed and scared. Wrenching the stick from the hands of the fallen bully, for he still clutched it, Luke stood over him pale and dizzy, the glare in his eyes very bad to see. Then Dan Leeds began to howl like a beaten cur as he

All this happened on Friday afternoon. In a few hours the story was all over the parish and had spread far and wide. As usual, rumor and gossip had taken all sorts of wild liberties with the facts. There had been a stand-up fight in the yard of the White Hart, and the bishop was coming on Sunday afternoon to unfrock the "Wangelist" with extraordinary ceremony. There was a warrant out against Dan Leeds, and he was going to get off by doing penance in a white sheet. Dan's mother was going to have it out with "Oh Lor', ha' mercy on me! Don't the parson. She was a dangerous 'ee, sir! Don't 'ec! Don't 'ee kill virago, who would stick at nothing. me, sir. How war I to know? Both She had been going about trying to my arms is broke, sir. Ow! Booh, borrow a gun, and when no one would

was:

lend it her for they were as much afraid of her fury as they were of her son—she had been screaming out that she'd stick the parson in the pulpit before Dan should demean himself. She'd stop it if she swung for it. He shouldn't have a sheet of hers-no! nor a blanket neither, not for all the Amens that ever were sworn.

ever did that; and if you and I was to try it on, the blacks 'd pretty soon have it all their own way. We ain't no call,' says he, to let the blacks hammer at us. What ha' we got to do?' says he, why, go as near it as we can! No man ain't no right,' says he, to let another murder him if he can help it. That ain't the Gospel,' says he. Luke walked about all Saturday as if And then he went on and told 'em nothing had happened; even passed what the Gospel was. Lor' that was Widow Leeds's hovel, but didn't call. a sermon! They'd use talk of it for She yelled at him through the half-years and years, they did."

opened door, but he passed on and took There are floating scraps and grono notice, swinging his long arms, as tesque reminiscences of the sermon his wont was, and never looking round. still to be picked up in the neighborSunday came. The little urchins got hood, some of them almost profane, as near as they dared and peeped in at and almost all of them representing the rectory gate. The bells rang out. very strange perversions. But it was At morning service Luke expounded evidently a "word spoken in season," the Gospel as usual-cool as a cucum-aud a very impressive appeal to the ber, fluent, gentle, unembarrassed. moral instincts of the ignorant peasNothing ailed the man. Then came antry, which went home to the convicthe memorable afternoon; crowds tions of some few, and was listened to came tramping in from all points of the compass-some walking, some in carts, some on their nags. The White Hart had a harvest. People hung about the churchyard, lingered in the porch, watched for the parson, and some wondered when the bishop would turn up. There was a curious hush of expectation. At last!

by all. At last the preacher stopped. "Daniel Leeds, stand up in the face of God and of this congregation, and make what reparation you can for your sin and wrong.”

The hulking bully rose up to his full height upon the pulpit step, with a hangdog scowl upon his face, and made answer to question after question, which Luke had written down upon a paper beforehand. Dan was not spared; he said he had been a brute to the donkey a coward, a liar; that he would have killed the parson if he could. The answers were made in a dull, formal manner, every now and then ending up with an Amen! to which mysterious word a special solemattached in the minds of all. The confession finished with some questions which produced an immense sensation.

In the tiny vestry Dan Leeds was waiting in his smockfrock - they wore such things in those days-the left sleeve hanging down empty, for the fracture of the collar-bone was a bad one, and the doctor had bandaged his left arm to his side with voluminous wrappings. When Luke marched into church the other followed at his heels like a dog. The people noticed that nity the parson was well-nigh six inches shorter than his giant henchman. Dan, obeying a sign, took his seat on the pulpit steps. At last the sermon

"Did I strike you, Daniel Leeds, came; the text was a brave and star- a single blow, with stick, or fist, or tling one: "Whosoever shall smite hand?" thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also."

"No, sir! you hadn't no need; you gripped me!"

"Is all this plain truth?" "Yes; that's the truth-far as I know!"

"Are you sorry for your sin? "

A pause; then a sullen nod of the as well. Parson? He ain't no more a head. parson than I am. The folks is all "Do you acquit me of any wrong silly running arter him. Why, he's done?" just got rid of the parson and kep' him Another pause, and another reluc- away these four months. He'd ought tant, hesitating nod and grunt. to be swum ! ??

"Do you ask God's forgiveness? Speak up, man!" cried Luke, with a voice of indignant command, his eyes flashing as he turned them on the wretched culprit.

Dan started, woke up with a stare of terror, and blurted out: "I ain't no objection; I ain't, indeed. Yes, sir! Amen!"

There

The congregation broke up. were little groups of them in the churchyard, at the gate, in the road. Dan Leeds clung to Luke's side - followed him like his shadow. "Well, Dan, anything more you want to say?" "I count they's a-going to hollar at me, sir. I dunno what's come to me; I ain't got no heart to face 'em. Then there's another thing, sir. I'm afeard as I shall find mother dead when I get home. She had a fit like afore churchtime."

Luke was very much exhausted by the work and excitement of the long day. When he got home to the rectory the fire had been out for hours. Half suspecting what was the matter he made the best of it—found the tinderbox, struck a light, managed to boil his kettle at last, comforted himself as best he could with tea and porridge, took his pipe, began to read, dropped asleep over his book, and fell into a deep slumber, from which he was only roused by Mrs. Clayton coming in before the daylight to "tidy up" and get his breakfast things. She looked at him furtively, and as if she were afraid of something, she knew not what. Luke, always kindly interested in other people, asked about the children. Her face fell. He excused her for leaving him without a fire. He had come in so very late. "But it was cold welcome, Mrs. Clayton, and I'm very cold now, Luke was horrorstruck, and hurrying for I fell asleep, and I've not been in with all speed to the woman's cottage, bed." Then it all came out. The with Dan close at his heels, found she poor woman was bitterly penitent, she had slipped down from her chair, and had been afraid to come when the peowas lying huddled before the smoulder-ple were all about. They were saying ing fire unconscious, speechless, evi- this and saying that the parish was dently paralyzed. divided. Up at the White Hart they were all declaring that Dan Leeds had been overlooked, so was his mother, so was Mrs. Blackie, so was the rector, so was everybody. She, Mrs. Clayton, was going to be overlooked John Barleycorn made no manner of doubt but that her little Mary Ann would be turned into a witch and “sold off like."

When the doctor arrived Luke made the best of his way home. It was dark now. As he passed the White Hart, John Barleycorn was holding forth in a great state of excitement and in a loud voice:

"Didn't I say so all along? Why, the first thing he said to that girl Kinder was that he'd got a devil. He's one of they chaps as sell their selves, he is. Rampton's been all wrong sin' he came. Why, I tell ye he's got the evil eye. He took and grinned at me once, fit to craze a man, he did. There ain't a man in the parish no! nor two of 'em -as could lift Dan Leeds off his legs and drop him same as this one did. I tell ye he's overlooked him, and now he's gone and witched his mother

next.

The poor woman burst into floods of penitent tears. "Never you mind, sir. They shan't make me turn against you, not if it's ever so. They'll all come round when they come to their senses. Only don't you give in now Lord bless you forevermore ! "

I only set myself in this paper to relate an "incident." I did not prom

If my readers are so deplorably ignorant as not to know what the Anstey Hat means, I am sorry for them, but I don't think it is my business to instruct them at any rate, not now.

AUGUSTUS JESSOPP.

ise, I did not intend, I could not ven- any substitute for the eccentric though ture to give the whole story of Mr. veracious record was erected I cannot Tremain's career. I'm not sure that say. that kind of thing is in my line. But there are some legends and traditions of places and people that I have been thrown among which I like collecting and setting down, and this is one of them. This story would die with me if I did not put it on record. Whether it is much worth preserving is a question which others must answer. We collectors are proverbially undiscriminating; in our museums and repertories there are, as often as not, odds and ends that the world at large holds very cheap.

What was the end of it all?

From Blackwood's Magazine.

A FRENCH STUDY OF BURNS.1

WHEN a foreigner writes a book on one of our great authors, it is an exceedingly difficult matter to find the vantage-ground from which to survey it. The work would presumably have Luke had a very bad time of it at been written for a public whose knowlRampton. Mr. Blackie came back and edge of the subject was either altohis wife with him, and Sally too. They gether wanting, or of the most cursory did not know what to make of it; they nature. It would open up new ground were a good, kindly, weak-minded, for them, and would interest them as woolly-headed pair. Luke stayed on. much from the newness of the subject A few weeks later the rector died. as from the ability of the critic. And Then there was a change. From all something of that kind would be the that I can learn, John Barleycorn won attitude of the average Frenchman the day, and the last state of that par- towards Robert Burns. But the averish was worse than the first. Dan age Briton knows his Burns, poems, Leeds went wrong again, like the sow biography, and criticism included. All that was washed; went, indeed, from three are easily accessible, and fill many bad to worse, and was killed in a poach- shelves of his library. How then can ing affray; his mother had a myste- he in reason be expected to take the rious remittance of two pounds a least interest in yet another biography, quarter, which was paid regularly to and another critical estimate, and by a her till she died a poor, tottering, Frenchman into the bargain? palsied creature -a year or two after Leslie Stephen, one of Burns's English critics, says: "Criticism of Burns is only permitted to Scotchmen of pure blood." But if it is true that the verdict of a foreigner on our literature is as near as we can get to that of posterity, there is an interest and even a usefulness in considering what M. Angellier has to say about Burns. There are, of course, instances in which the verdict of the foreigner is at fault. A librarian of Louis XIV. allowed Shakespeare some fine qualities, but considered them obscured by les ordures that he mingled with his comedies. The Comte de Cominges, ambassador to the court of

her first seizure.

Luke Tremain died of cholera somewhere in the Shires, so they tell me, probably on just such another mission of mercy as brought him to Rampton. A distant cousin, it is said, inherited his little patrimony. His last wish was that he should be buried where he died, and that his only epitaph should be, after giving his name and the date of his death: "He won the Anstey Hat at eighteen years of age.”

The clergyman of the parish, however, refused to allow such a tombstone to be set up in the churchyard, and as the cousin was by no means keen upon the point it never was set up, and if

Mr.

1 Robert Burns. By Auguste Angellier. Paris: Hachette et Cie.