Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England True to his Colours The Life that Wears Best By Reverend Theodore P Wilson ________________________________________________________________________ I cannot truthfully say that I enjoyed transcribing this book. That might be to say that Reverend Wilson would not approve of me, for I enjoy a beer or a glass of wine occasionally, but never to excess. But Wilson was, as ever, fulminating against the Demon Drink, that is to say, against the Demon that can take over people's lives, and bring misery to their wives and children, for this does happen, even to this day. There is a story behind all this, but the long sermons pervade, and do really make the book difficult to read. Perhaps you should read the book during some fasting and penitential period of the year, such as Advent or Lent, but then again it might bring on some other kind of sin, such as Sloth. NH ________________________________________________________________________ TRUE TO HIS COLOURS THE LIFE THAT WEARS BEST BY REVEREND THEODORE P WILSON CHAPTER ONE. A SCEPTIC'S HOME. Look back some forty years--there was not a quieter place then than the little village of Crossbourne. It was a snug spot, situated among hills, and looked as though it were hiding away out of the sight and notice of the bustling, roaring traffic that was going ceaselessly on all around it. A little fussy stream or brook flowed on restlessly day and night through the centre of the village, and seemed to be the only thing there that was ever in a hurry. Carts and carriages, but seldom many of the latter, had to drive through the stream when they wished to cross it; for there was no bridge except a very rude one for foot-passengers just before you came to the old mill, where the villagers had had their corn ground for generations. Then to the north of the stream the houses straggled up on either side of a long winding street, sometimes two or three together under one long thatched roof, and in other places singly, with a small bit of meagre garden round them; a wooden latch lifted by a string which dangled outside being the prevailing fastening to the outer doors. Right up at the top of the street, and a little to the left, was the old Saxon church, which had retained a considerable share of its original massive beauty, spite of the combined attacks of plaster, mildew, and a succession of destructive restorations which had lowered the roof, bricked up more than one fine old window, and thrust out a great iron chimney, which looked not unlike the mailed hand of some giant shaking its clenched fist at the solid tower which it was unable to destroy.