“It was on a solemn occasion that we first saw Morwenstow. The sea was still surly and troubled, with wild lights breaking over it and torn clouds driving through the sky. Up from the shore, along a narrow path between jagged rocks and steep banks tufted with thrift, came the vicar, wearing cassock and surplice, and conducting a sad procession, which bore along with it the bodies of two seamen flung up the same morning on the sands. The office used by Mr. Hawker at such times had been arranged by himself, not without reference to certain peculiarities which, as he conceived, were features of the primitive Cornish Church, the same which had had its bishops and its traditions long before the conference of Augustine with its leaders under the great oak by the Severn. Indeed, at one time he carried his adhesion to these Cornish traditions to some unusual lengths. There was, we remember, a peculiar yellow vestment, in which he appeared much like a Lama of Thibet, which he wore in his house and about his parish, and which he insisted was an exact copy of a priestly robe worn by S. Padarn and S. Teilo. We have seen him in this attire proceeding through the lanes on the back of a well-groomed mule--the only fitting beast, as he remarked, for a churchman.” We have here an instance out of many of the manner in which he delighted in hoaxing visitors. The yellow vestment was a poncho. It came into use in the following manner:-- Mr. Martyn, of Tonnacombe, was in conversation one day with Mr. Hawker, when the latter complained that he could not get a greatcoat to his fancy, and one that would keep him dry against the rainstorms. “Why not have a poncho?” asked his neighbour. “Poncho! what is that?” “Nothing but a blanket with a hole in the middle.” “Do you put your legs through the hole and tie the four corners over your head?” “No,” answered Mr. Martyn. “I will fetch you mine, and you shall try it on.” The poncho was produced; it was dark blue, and the vicar was delighted with it. Next time he went to Bideford he bought a yellowish brown rug, and had a hole cut in the middle through which to thrust his head. “I wouldn’t wear your livery, Martyn,” said he, “nor your political colours, so I have got a yellow poncho.” Those who knew him can picture to themselves the sly twinkle in his eye as he informed his credulous visitor that he was invested in the habit of S. Padarn and S. Teilo. But his dress was extraordinary enough without the poncho. He was wont to wear a knitted blue sailor’s jersey, sea-boots above his knees, and a claret-coloured coat and a clerical wide-awake of the same colour. He had a great aversion to black. “Why should we parsons be like crows--birds of ill-luck?” he would say. “Black--black--are we children of darkness? Black is the colour of devils only.”