no frtngs of tbe 1Rofc, raffle, an& 6un 



Dorset, who went cub-hunting on Sunday mornings, 

 and rode up breathless to the church door just in time 

 for Matins, who fought mains of cocks at the Rectory 

 directly divine service was over, and trotted about 

 on his old nag with a retriever at his heels, poaching 

 his neighbours' pheasants in a way which I can only 

 call blackguardly. Parson Griff Lloyd, Fellow of All 

 Souls' and rector of Christleton, was not very much 

 better, though the " Druid " has thrown the aegis of 

 his eulogy over him. Griff would put off christening, 

 marriage, or burial rather than miss his favourite 

 sport, when 



A southerly wind and a cloudy sky 

 Proclaimed it a hunting morning; 



and if the meet were a distant one on a Monday 

 morning, he would calmly dispense with evening 

 service on the Sunday. The best one can say of him 

 is that he was a good sportsman but a bad parson. 



But it is men like " Jack " Russell, of Devon, that 

 reconcile us to the idea of the sporting parson. For 

 that great " king of the hunting-field " was ever mindful 

 of the claims of his calling and never let his sport 

 interfere with his duty. No one ever heard an oath 

 pass his lips, nor any expression at variance with his 

 sacred vocation. He set a grand example of manners 

 morals, and religion to his parishioners, and showed the 

 world at large how it was possible for a beneficed 

 clergyman to be an enthusiastic follower of sport 

 without compromising his character as a devout and 

 zealous Christian minister. 



