morning and evening alternately with Landkey—whereas now, I am thankful to say, we have four services every Sunday in Swymbridge alone."
This shows that Parson Jack was not a mere mighty hunter before the Lord. He was a sincerely good man up to his lights, and never neglected a duty for the sake of a gallop after his hounds.
When he lost Mr. Sleeman he advertised for another curate in the North Devon Journal. "Wanted a curate for Swymbridge; must be a gentleman of moderate and orthodox views."
Mr. Hooker, vicar of Buckerell, was standing in a shop door in Barnstaple shortly after the appearance of this advertisement, when he was accosted by Will Chappie, the parish clerk of Swymbridge, who entered the grocer's shop. "Hav'ee got a coorate yet for Swymbridge, Mr. Chappie?" inquired the grocer in Mr. Hooker's hearing. "No, not yet, sir," replied the sexton, "Master's 'nation particler, and the man must be orthodox."
"What does that mean?" inquired the grocer.
"Well, I recken it means he must be a purty good rider."
And Mr. Chappie was not far out. A curate did apply and breakfasted with Russell. The meal over, two likely-looking hunters were brought round ready to be mounted. "I'm going to take 'ee to Landkey," explained Russell. Off they rode. The young cleric presently remarked, "How bare of trees your estate is," as they crossed the lands belonging to Russell.
"Ah!" responded the sportsman, "the hounds eat 'em." Coming to a stiff gate, Russell, with his hand in his pocket, cleared it like a bird, but looking round, saw the curate on the other side crawling over the gate, and crying out, "It won't open."
