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.

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Well, naaighbour Cowdry," said Mr. Goddard, addressing a brother farmer, "what didst think o' the chancellor's charge this marnun'?"

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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."

"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? '

'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.

Loosafers

be matches. I'm a talk'n' o' paarsons. Pshoo! I should know the neam on 'em if I heerd 'un.".

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Avunjellyculls?" surmised another. "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.

"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."

"How? When? Who told thee?" exclaimed several of the hearers, some in astonishment, others derisively.

When? Arter the

"How? That 's nuther here nor there. death on 'em. Who told me? They as spoke for theirselves," asserted Mr. Frost with the utmost gravity.

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Measter Frost," said a neighbouring acquaintance, "it strikes me thy liquor has got into thy head.'

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No, Measter Andress, it ha'nt.'

"Then thee bist a comin' the old sojer over us."

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No, I baint-”

"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.

"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?

NO. XVII.-VOL. III.

Ꭰ Ꭰ

"She-e!" exclaimed the sceptic. "She never saw anything worse than her own shadow."

"How about that thing, then, that used to 'pear in Sandpits in the shape of an old 'ooman bent double, as was well know'd to be old Nanny Tucker; she as went for a witch!"

"How about it? Why, it turned out to be a giddy sheep, that had got the staggers.

"Thee think'st thyself a vine feller, master Willum, I dare say. Tell thee what-thee bist a unbeliev'n jackanyeaps; and so here's to thee. As to Winchester Cathedral, aint it a sart'n vact that old Oliver Cromwell drives up and down there every night in a coach wi' twelve hosses without e'er a head?"

"Naw, naw," demurred some of the other interlocutors, for whose faith this legend was rather too improbable. "Naw, nawCome, that's rather too big a mossel to swaller."

"Well," interposed Farmer Frost, "that med be, and it medd'n't-I can't say noth'n about that matter; but there's zummut I could zay if I'd a mind to 't."

"What's that, naaighbour?" was the general exclamation. "Moor nor any o' you can zay. It zo happens that I have ben shut up in that are very pleace a whole night.'

"What didst zee then?" cried all again, with faces of gaping interest.

"Ah!" said the farmer, looking mysterious and very cunning.

"That's tell'ns."

"Why not tell it, then?" pertinently observed young Lovelock. "Oh! you'll only laaf at me if I do," returned Mr. Frost, with seeming indifference.

"No, we wun't-'Pon my sesso, we wun't. We wun't raaly," declared the hearers.

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Well, then, there; I zee they mice as I was a spake'n on just now; paasons as had a bin, changed into them there varmint." "But how com'dst to know they 'd ha' ben paasons?" inquired an auditor.

"How? They told me zo theirselves, to be sure." "What! mice spake?"

"Why shouldn't they? Didst

mouse ? argued the Socratic Frost.

never hear o' the zing'n

"'Sides, these here warn't

ar'nary mice; but sperruts in mice's shyaap. But there, if you dwooant choose to b'lave me, 'tis o' no use my goo'n on.'

"Ees, ees, goo on. Do 'ee. No 'fence in ax'n the question," pleaded the objector.

"You must know, then," continued Farmer Frost, "that beun' at Winchester one Zunday arternoon, thinks I, well now, as I be rather vond o' music, suppose I gooes to the Cathedral to hear the anthen. Zo I 'ool then, I sez to myself. 'Cord'nly off I walks, and in I gooes, along neaav', and up into quire. 'Stead o' stand'n to be stared at, in the middle o' church, I thought I'd zee and git a znug sate, zo I just shows one o' the clerks a shill'n; and he pops me into what they calls a stall, wi' a zoft cushion to zit upon, and another to knale down upon, where, have'n my gurt quoat on, I vound it as comfortable as a rabbit-hutch, thof 'twas but a little arter Christmas."

"Well, but what's that are got to do wi' thy story?" inquired Mr. Cowdry.

"I'll tell 'ee. Beun' winter time, o' course they was forced to ha' lights; zo as 'twas purty dimmish in that are gurt build'n, and a feller could goo off into a nap in a nook or karner on 't, and there bide when servus was over, without nobody mind'n on 'un, no moor nor a pig in a poke; if 'a didn't happ'n to znore.' What, then you mean to say that you fell asleep?" said Lovelock.

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"

The discoorse Ees, I did, 'long o' listen'n to the sarmunt. was too strong vor me; zummut like a drap too much o' parrygarrick."

"Hadn't you," queried the young farmer, "been taking a drop too much of something else? Where had you been to, Mr. Frost?"

"Ben to? Only to the Black Zwan. I hadn't had noth'n but a pot o' aaightp'ny, and a glass or zo o' brandy-and-water; and what's that? Well, howsomdever, off I went; but fust, vind'n I couldn't keep my eyes open, I draa'd a curtain athirt me, and vlung my ankecher over my veace, 'cause I shouldn't be zin, and by waay o' keep'n off the draaft."

"Theed'st best ha' kep' out the draaft afore thee wentest in, naaighbour," remarked Mr. Cowdry.

"Arter that, p'raps you'll vill my glass," replied Farmer Frost. "Well, how long I'd slep', darn me if I could tell; when at laast I woke up, and vound myself all in the dark, 'cept a glimmer o' moonlight, as come droo winder, and showd one o' they tombs up aloft, where the dead kings' bwooans is."

"Loramassy!" cried the audience simultaneously, shuddering. "Wastn't vrit? said one of them.

"Ah! I b'lieve ye, I was," answered the narrator. "Didstn't holler out?"

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Why, there," answered Mr. Frost, "'s the puzzle on 't. I couldn't. I tried. But vor all I could do, vor the life o' me I couldn't spake above a whisper."

"Well now, that are 's straange-yeant it?" remarked the hearers one to another.

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No," continued Mr. Frost, "I couldn't spake out; and moor, I couldn't wag. But what 's queer now, I could hear the laste zound. Rum noises I heer'd too, mind ye. Zumtimes come a zort o' rumble like thunder a good way off, simmunly runn'n 'long the galleries. Then, at times, I vancied I heer'd a faaint zound come vrom the organ; and every moment I expected to hear 'un growl out, and zee the lids o' the tombs lift up, and the dead a rise'n out on 'em. Once I thought I raly did zee the zeppulchres begin'n to heave. Lor! how the prespration run off me to be sure! When sudd'ntly there was a whirr'n all round me, like the runn'n down of a zmoke-jack, and then bang went the clock !" "Strik'n twelve?" interposed the company.

"No," said the farmer. "I counted 'un; and 'a struck THIRTEEN! 'A did, as I'm a liv'n zinner. No sooner had 'a done, than up struck sich a squeak'n, as thof for all the worlde a dozen whate-reeks was a-fire, and all the mice in 'em a beun' zinged. And then all the Cathedral seem'd alive wi' sparks, dart'n and cutt'n here and there, like you zee in a bit o' burnt p'haaper a goo'n out. 'Massy! Jamany! Crimany ho! thinks I, what 's all this? 'Massy on me! and I tried to zay the Belafe; when a couple o' the sparkles come a runn'n towards me, and stopp'd overright me on the pleace for the Praayer Book. Lo and behold ye! the sparks was a pair of eyes belong'n to a gurt mouse. I could meak 'un out by a sort of bluish light as glimmer'd all round 'un. Fear not, man,' says the creetur, speak'n quite plaain, only wi' a kind o' squake. Zatan,' I says, I defies thee. I baint Zatan,' says the mouse, and I wun't do you no harm; zo don't be afear'd.' Who bist, then?' sez I, as well as I could, in a whisper, I conjures thee, spake.' My neam,' a' sez, is Mitremouse. I wur once one o' the heads o' the church; but I thought moor o' the looaves and vishes than I did o' my vlock, and I used to zell zmall beer out o' my palace to the poor people; and now