tracked the hero to his bedchamber, where he found “a remarkably tall large man; his eyebrows were quite grey, his shoulders somewhat bent by age, and his bones nearly twice the size of those of an ordinary man. He wore a brown wig, a blue coat with black cuffs, the breast of which was covered over with snuff, black velvet waistcoat and breeches, yarn stockings made of black wool, and small silver buckles on his shoes." Thus the man is brought before you in a few lines, with the added note that "his countenance showed he had been handsome in his youth." Skelton instantly saw the man with whom he dealt, and rallied him incontinent. "You're finely dressed," said he, "with your fine bright buttons. I thought you were a man of sense and a scholar, but I have been deceived, I find; I believe you are but an indifferent sort of a body; I always judge a man by his buttons. However, the brilliantly bedecked Burdy was not easily subdued. Despite his finery, he put the old man, then past seventy, into a good temper, and, as he ingenuously declares, changed his buttons the very next day.

Henceforth Burdy's task was designed for him. He frequented the company of Skelton assiduously, and has left us the best portrait of a bullying, wrangling parson that exists. Philip Skelton, we learn, was born near Lisburne in 1706, the son of a "decent and honest country

man.

He was roughly nurtured, but his early hardships did but increase the vigour and

"At

insolence of his character. his father's they always got beef on Sundays," he said, "but not regularly during the week." So in the midst of poverty he grew up, dividing his time between the fields and the grammar-school. When he did not relish his books, his father put coarse brogues on his feet, a frieze coat on his back, and sent him to toil with the common labourers, and when the day's work was done sat him down to feed with the lowest servants. Then, as the boy began to relent, "Sirrah," said his father, "I'll make this proposal to you: Whether do you choose to drudge and toil all your life, as you have these few days past, living on coarse food, clad in frieze clothes, and with brogues on your feet, or to apply to your books, and eat, drink, and be dressed like your brothers here?" pointing to his brothers, who had just come down from the University, decked out in Dublin finery. Poor Philip, whose bones ached with the hand-barrow, said he would readily go to school, and be attentive to his studies. And so attentive was he that he made himself a scholar in spite of obstacles. Candles failing him he used furze, which he gathered for the purpose, and throwing it piece by piece on the fire, read by the glimmering light. But though he became a scholar, he would never make the smallest claim to be a gentleman. "He only is a gentleman," said he, "who has riches derived from ancestors, that possessed them from time imme

morial; and on another occasion when a friend insisted that all clergymen were gentlemen, he turned upon him with a kind of fierceness-"Our Saviour was no gentleman," he cried; "the apostles were no gentlemen either."

But, gentleman or no gentleman, he would endure insolence from no man, and the spirit of combat showed itself early within him. His career at Trinity College, Dublin, was disturbed by brawls of all kinds, and though he distinguished himself in scholarship, he regarded the authorities as his natural foes. With Dr Baldwin, the Provost, he had a lasting feud, and that stiffnecked Whig, using the worst insult he knew, denounced his pupil for a Jacobite. The result was that Skelton left the university two years before his scholarship expired. But his conduct was never marked by the priggishness of the student. His mighty strength and his aptitude for sports of all kinds gave him an early superiority among his fellows, while his irascible temper made him ever prompt to quarrel. Once, indeed, he was only saved from a duel on St Stephen's Green by the diplomacy of his friends; and on another occasion he raised a riot in the streets, and a man was unfortunately killed by some of the party. "This," says Burdy, with his usual imperturbability, "had a serious effect upon him." However, he was not always thus bloodthirsty, and at the the common games of skill and strength he was always an adept. Though

he was a fine boxer, and most dexterous at the small-sword, the back-sword was his favourite weapon, and once at Donnybrook Fair he won a hat set up as a prize for the best cudgel-player. But having gained the victory he made a bow to the girls, and told them he fought just to please them, and returned the hat that they might have the more amusement. "A hero in romance," says the faithful biographer, "could not have been more complaisant to the fair sex." So complaisant was he, indeed, that he perfected himself also in the art of dancing. "He could both dance gracefully and dance long "— again we quote Burdy"two rare qualities united." And all the while he was resolutely preparing to enter the Church.

But his strangest prank of all was so near to swindling, and it is described by the biographer with so cold a humour, that not a word of it should be lost. It is the more interesting, too, because it has been repeated unconsciously a thousand times, and was gravely reported not six months ago in a French newspaper. Thus it is brought within the domain of folklore, and is the best possible proof that Samuel Burdy modelled his style on the pedlar's wares. "The following trick of his " (we quote textually), "which has since been practised by some others, is not unsuitable to the character of a young man in the college. He and twelve more, dining at an inn near Dublin, when the reckoning was to be paid, they discovered there was no money

in the company. invented the scheme of blindfolding the waiter, that the first he might catch should pay the reckoning, and thus It was they all escaped." a wonderful invention truly, and rather befitting the hero of a jest-book than an orthodox divine. But that is the strength of Philip Skelton: though his orthodoxy was impregnable, he always remained a man of infinite humour and fierce passion.

So Skelton left Dublin, where he had more acquaintances than any man in the college, to take orders in the Church. It was Bishop Sterne, of Clogher, who ordained him, and it is characteristic of the man that on the day of ordination he threw another deacon down - stairs. His first curacy was interrupted speedily by a brawl with the vicar's wife; but he had already discovered not only the splendid charity which dominated his life, but his talent for preaching. On the one hand, he was not a "dull drowsy lecturer," nor, on the other, was he one of "the smooth pretty preachers." His discourses were apt to draw tears

or to arouse laughter. On the subject of hell-fire he was peculiarly eloquent, and he could move the most cultured audience to terror. Once when he had preached before a too refined congregation he was told that a certain lady did not like his sermon. "Oh,' replied Skelton, "she has a good right not to like sermons about hell's fire, for she is mistress to the Archbishop of York, and all London knows it." But all

66

Appointed curate at Monaghan, this fighting Christian, who should have ruled others, wasted the best years of his life in futile subservience. Maybe it is not strange that promotion came slowly to one who cared not to conciliate his fellows; but promotion did come slowly, and Skelton freely attributed his failure to the treachery of his bishop. Nor did he accept the neglect in amiable silence. "God forgive me," ," he would say, "I railed against him most violently, but he did not regard it; his station placed him far above me, and what did he care for the censure of a poor curate?" However, Skelton neither forgot nor forgave: if the bishop slighted him, he ignored the bishop. He never attended a visitation during the rest of the bishop's life; and so far did he carry his rancour, as always to insult a bishop wherever he found him, and whoever he might be. Meanwhile, though he followed a serious profession, he did not neglect the prowess of his

morial;" and on another occasion when a friend insisted that all clergymen were gentlemen, he turned upon him with a kind of fierceness-"Our Saviour was no gentleman," he cried; "the apostles were no gentlemen either."

But, gentleman or no gentleman, he would endure insolence from no man, and the spirit of combat showed itself early within him. His career at Trinity College, Dublin, was disturbed by brawls of all kinds, and though he distinguished himself in scholarship, he regarded the authorities as his natural foes. With Dr Baldwin, the Provost, he had a lasting feud, and that stiffnecked Whig, using the worst insult he knew, denounced his pupil for a Jacobite. The result was that Skelton left the university two years before his scholarship expired. But his conduct was never marked by the priggishness of the student. His mighty strength and his aptitude for sports of all kinds gave him an early superiority among his fellows, while his irascible temper made him ever prompt to quarrel. Once, indeed, he was only saved from a duel on St Stephen's Green by the diplomacy of his friends; and on another occasion he raised a riot in the streets, and a man was unfortunately killed by some of the party. "This,' says Burdy, with his usual imperturbability, "had a serious effect upon him." However, he was not always thus bloodthirsty, and at the common games of skill and strength he was always an adept. Though

he was a fine boxer, and most dexterous at the small-sword, the back-sword was his favourite weapon, and once at Donnybrook Fair he won a hat set up as a prize for the best cudgel-player. But having gained the victory he made a bow to the girls, and told them he fought just to please them, and returned the hat that they might have the more amusement. "A hero in romance,' says the faithful biographer, "could not have been more complaisant to the fair sex.' So complaisant was he, indeed, that he perfected himself also in the art of dancing. "He could both dance gracefully and dance long "again we quote Burdy"two rare qualities united." And all the while he was resolutely preparing to enter the Church.

But his strangest prank of all was so near to swindling, and it is described by the biographer with so cold a humour, that not a word of it should be lost. It is the more interesting, too, because it has been repeated unconsciously a thousand times, and was gravely reported not six months ago in a French newspaper. Thus it is brought within the domain of folklore, and is the best possible proof that Samuel Burdy modelled his style on the pedlar's wares. "The following trick of his" (we quote textually), "which has since been practised by some others, is not unsuitable to the character of a young man in the college. He and twelve more, dining at an inn near Dublin, when the reckoning was to be paid, they discovered there was no money

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So Skelton left Dublin, where he had more acquaintances than any man in the college, to take orders in the Church. It was Bishop Sterne, of Clogher, who ordained him, and it is characteristic of the man that on the day of ordination he threw another deacon down - stairs. His first curacy was interrupted speedily by a brawl with the vicar's wife; but he had already discovered not only the splendid charity which dominated his life, but his talent for preaching. On the one hand, he was not a "dull drowsy lecturer," nor, on the other, was he one of "the smooth pretty preachers." His discourses were apt to draw tears or to arouse laughter. On the subject of hell-fire he was peculiarly eloquent, and he could move the most cultured audience to terror. Once when he had preached before a too refined congregation he was told that a certain lady did not like his sermon. "Oh," replied Skelton, "she has a good right not to like sermons about hell's fire, for she is mistress to the Archbishop of York, and all London knows it." But all

ergy. "Between and me,"

he said to a friend, "I'll pawn my salvation on the truth of the Trinity."

Appointed curate at Monaghan, this fighting Christian, who should have ruled others, wasted the best years of his life in futile subservience. Maybe it is not strange that promotion came slowly to one who cared not to conciliate his fellows; but promotion did come slowly, and Skelton freely attributed his failure to the treachery of his bishop. Nor did he accept the neglect in amiable silence. "God forgive me," he would say, "I railed against him most violently, but he did not regard it; his station placed him far above me, and what did he care for the censure of a poor curate?" However, Skelton neither forgot nor forgave: if the bishop slighted him, he ignored the bishop. He never attended a visitation during the rest of the bishop's life; and so far did he carry his rancour, as always to insult a bishop wherever he found him, and whoever he might be. Meanwhile, though he followed a serious profession, he did not neglect the prowess of his