When invited to sit down at our dinner-table, he invariably took the precaution to place his basket of valuables between his legs for safe keeping.

"Never mind thy basket, Jonathan," said my father; "we sha'n't steal thy verses."-- "I'm not sure of that," returned the suspicious guest.

"It is written, 'Trust ye not in any brother.'" Thou too, O Parson B------, with thy pale student's brow and rubicund nose, with thy rusty and tattered black coat overswept by white flowing locks, with thy professional white neckcloth scrupulously preserved when even a shirt to thy back was problematical,--art by no means to be overlooked in the muster-roll of vagrant gentlemen possessing the entree of our farm-house.

Well do we remember with what grave and dignified courtesy he used to step over its threshold, saluting its inmates with the same air of gracious condescension and patronage with which in better days he had delighted the hearts of his parishioners.

Poor old man! He had once been the admired and almost worshipped minister of the largest church in the town where he afterwards found support in the winter season as a pauper.