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 St. Padarn and St. 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 one instance out of many of the manner in which the vicar delighted in hoaxing visitors. The yellow vestment in question was a poncho. It came into use in the following manner:— Mr. Martyn, a neighbour, was in conversation one day with Mr. Hawker, when the latter complained that he could not get a greatcoat to his fancy. “Why not wear a poncho?” asked Mr. Martyn. “Poncho! what is that?” inquired the vicar. “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 my poncho, and you can try it on.” The poncho was brought: it was a dark blue one, and the vicar was delighted with it. There was no trouble in putting it on. It suited his fancy amazingly; and next time he went to Bideford he bought a yellowish-brown blanket, 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 well can picture to themselves the sly twinkle in his eye as he informed his credulous visitor that he was invested in the habit of St. Padarn and St. Teilo. After a few years at Morwenstow in a hired house, the vicar set to work to build himself a vicarage near the church. He chose a spot where he saw lambs take shelter from storm; not so much because he thought the spot a “lew” one (that is, a sheltered one), as from the fancy that the refuge of the lambs should typify the vicarage, the sheltering-place of his flock.