Attached to the button-hole of his coat was invariably a pencil suspended by a piece of string. He was a well-built man, tall, broad, with a face full of manly beauty, a nobly cut profile, dark, full eyes, and long, snowy hair. His expression was rapidly changing, like the sea as seen from his cliffs; now flashing and rippling with smiles, and anon overcast and sad, sometimes stormy. Mr. Hawker, some short time after his induction into Morwenstow, adopted an alb and cope which he wore throughout his ministrations at matins, litany and communion service. But he left off wearing the cope about ten or twelve years ago, and the reason he gave for doing so was his disapproval of the extravagances of the Ritualist party. Till the year before he died he had no personal knowledge of their proceedings, and related as facts the most ridiculous and preposterous fables concerning them which had been told him, and which he sincerely believed in. The ceremonial he employed in his church was entirely of his own devising. When he baptised a child he raised it in his arms, carried it up the church in his waving purple cope, thundering forth, with his rich, powerful voice, the words: “We receive this child into the congregation of Christ’s flock,” etc. His administration of this sacrament was most solemn and impressive; and I know of parents who have gone to Morwenstow for the purpose of having their children baptised by him. In celebrating marriage it was his wont to take the ring and toss it in the air before restoring it to the bridegroom. What was symbolised by this proceeding I have been unable to ascertain, unless it were to point out that marriage is always more or less of a toss-up. After abandoning the cope for the reasons stated, his appearance in girdled alb was not a little peculiar. The alb, to any one not accustomed to see it, has much the look of a nightgown. Over his shoulders he wore a stole of which he was very fond. It was copied for him from one found at Durham, which had been placed in the shrine of St. Cuthbert, on the body. Mr. Hawker bore a special reverence for the memory of St. Cuthbert, who, living on his islet of Farne, the haunt of sea-mews, taming the wild birds, praying, meditating amidst the roar of the North Sea, he thought occupied a position not unlike his own. The week before he died, Mr. Hawker sent to Morwenstow for this stole, and was photographed in it. “We are much taken with the old church,” wrote a well-known public man a few years ago to a friend, “to say nothing of the vicar thereof, who reminds me immensely of Cardinal Wiseman. He is a sight to see, as well as a preacher to hear, as he stands in his quaint garb and quaint pulpit, and looks as if he belonged to the days of Morwenna Abbatissa herself.”