filled with his favourite wine--“sound old Tory port”--to recall in whole volumes the events of his youth and manhood, and to dilate with emphatic gusto on the contrasts of the age and times. The personal aspect of my friend presented an imposing solemnity to the eye. Tall, even to the measure of six feet two inches, but slender withal as the bole of a poplar-tree, with small features and twinkling eye, and a round undersized head, and yet with a demeanour so pompous, such a frequency of condescending bows, and such a roll of words, that he took immediate rank as a gentleman of the old school. And as to his mental endowments, be it enough to record that there were few men as wise as he looked. His garb was that of a pluralized clergyman of the days of the Georges,--fine black broadcloth, that hung around him in festive moments like mourning on a Maypole. His vest was of rich silk with wide pockets, roomy enough to hold the inevitable snuff-box, the gold _étui_, and the small cock-fighter’s saw, which was used to cut away the natural spur of the bird when it was replaced with steel. This last was a common equipment of a country gentleman, lay or clerical, in those days. His apparel terminated in black silk stockings and nether garments, buckled with gold or silver at the knee. Buckles also clasped his shoes. Thus attired, he was no unfit representative of the clergy who ruled and reigned in their parochial domain in the west of England in the early part of the eighteenth century. His conversational powers were ample and amusing; but it was when he could be brought to dilate on his own adventures and history in earlier life that he most surely riveted and requited the attention of his auditors. At my table one day the topic of discourse was the marriage of the clergy. “The young curates,” said he, “should always marry, and that as soon as ever they are ordained. Nothing brightens up a parsonage like the ribbons of a merry wife. I, you know, have buried three Mrs. Vivians; and when I come to look back, I really can hardly decide which it was that made the happiest home. If I had to live my life over again, I should certainly marry all three. And yet I did not win my first love, after all. Her grumpy old father came between us and blighted our days, as the Psalmist puts it. Ah! the very sound of her name is like a charm to me still. Bridget Morrice! But ‘Biddy’ she was always called at home; and very soon she was ‘Biddy dear’ to me.