Finally Mr. Sleeman removed to Whitchurch, a family living, to which he succeeded on the death of his father, and Bishop Phillpotts had to swallow the bitter pill of instituting him to it. I remember Mr. Sleeman as rector, hunting, shooting, dancing at every ball, and differing from a layman by his white tie, a capital judge of horses, and possessor of an excellent cellar.
When Parson Jack Russell was over eighty he started keeping a pack of harriers. The then Bishop of Exeter sent for him.
"Mr. Russell, I hear you have got a pack of hounds. Is it so?"
"It is. I won't deny it, my lord."
"Well, Mr. Russell, it seems to me rather unsuitable for a clergyman to keep a pack. I do not ask you to give up hunting, for I know it would not be possible for you to exist without that. But will you, to oblige me, give up the pack?"
"Do y' ask it as a personal favour, my lord?"
"Yes, Mr. Russell, as a personal favour."
"Very well, then, my lord, I will."
"Thank you, thank you." The Bishop, moved by his readiness, held out his hand. "Give me your hand, Mr. Russell; you are—you really are—a good fellow."
Jack Russell gave his great fist to the Bishop, who pressed it warmly. As they thus stood hand in hand, Jack said—
"I won't deceive you—not for the world, my lord. I'll give up the pack sure enough—but Mrs. Russell will keep it instead of me."
The Bishop dropped his hand.
On one occasion Bishop Phillpotts met Froude, vicar of Knowstone. "I hear, Mr. Froude, that you keep a pack of harriers."
