In other
parts of England the clergyman of the parish might help us out of
our difficulty; but here in South Wales, and in this latter half
of the nineteenth century, we have the old type parson of the
days of Fielding still in a state of perfect preservation. Our
local clergyman receives a stipend which is too paltry to bear
comparison with the wages of an ordinary mechanic. In dress,
manners, and tastes he is about on a level with the upper class
of agricultural laborer. When attempts have been made by
well-meaning gentlefolks to recognize the claims of his
profession by asking him to their houses, he has been known, on
more than one occasion, to leave his plowman's pair of shoes in
the hall, and enter the drawing-room respectfully in his
stockings. Where he preaches, miles and miles away from us and
from the poor cottage in which he lives, if he sees any of the
company in the squire's pew yawn or fidget in their places, he
takes it as a hint that they are tired of listening, and closes
his sermon instantly at the end of the sentence. Can we ask this
most irreverend and unclerical of men to meet a young lady? I
doubt, even if we made the attempt, whether we should succeed, by
fair means, in getting him beyond the servants' hall.
Dismissing, therefore, all idea of inviting visitors to entertain
our guest, and feeling, at the same time, more than doubtful of
her chance of discovering any attraction in the sober society of
the inmates of the house, I finish my dressing and go down to
breakfast, secretly veering round to the housekeeper's opinion
that Miss Jessie will really bring matters to an abrupt
conclusion by running away.
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