came to take a dish of tea with him and his gentle wife.  Once, when Ramsay was ill, the grief in the parish was universal; but he used to say that the greatest proof of attachment was given by Captain Balne, who happened to be enjoying his dinner when the news of his friend’s illness reached him, upon which he laid down his knife and fork, and declared he could not take another mouthful.  Captain Balne had a peculiar phraseology.  One phrase, in particular, was, “If I may be allowed the language,” which came readily on all occasions.  If he was asked “How is Mrs. Balne to-day?” the Captain would reply, “She is quite well, I thank you, Mr. Ramsay, if I may be allowed the language;” or ask him, “Have you a good crop of apples this year?” “Pretty middling, sir, if I may be allowed the language.”  The constant recurrence of the phrase struck Mr. Ramsay, who quoted it long after in his letters to his Frome friends—­“I am glad to say my congregation at St John’s continues good—­if I may be allowed the language.”

Buckland is a larger village than Rodden, containing nearly 500 inhabitants.  The two places are five miles apart.  Buckland is on the brow and slope of a steep hill, the church being on the summit, and the irregular street descending from it on the Frome side, with many cottages scattered about among orchards and meadows.  So the curate of Buckland, living at the Pear-tree Cottage in Rodden, required a pony for locomotion, which he showed with some pride to his neighbours on first buying it.  It was an iron-gray, and a sedate clerical pony enough, to which he gave the name of Rumplestiltskin, after one of Grimm’s popular stories; and whenever he spoke of him or to him, he gave him his name at full length.  The country and some of the places round Buckland are very interesting.  On the west is one of the entrances to Vallis, a grassy valley bordered by limestone rocks, and trees and copse, with a trout-stream winding through it.  There, when the labours of the day were done, the Sheppards and he would spend a summer afternoon sketching and botanising, whilst tea was prepared at a neighbouring farm.

Vallis opened into several other vales, and on the heights above were the picturesque villages of Elm and Skells, and the ruined nunnery and massive old castle, the old seat of Delameres, renowned for a defence in the Cromwellian wars.  Mr. Ramsay proposed in jest to fit up the castle as a dwelling, and bring all his friends to live there.  Another time he was for fitting it up as a museum.  It would make, he said, a splendid place for a hortus siccus—­a “great ornament to our ponds and ditches[4].”  The writer of these trifles excuses herself for collecting them, because she knew the value which is attached to the least of the sayings and doings of a departed friend; but we are assured, that even in those Arcadian regions life was not always holiday.  There was some serious work.  The curate took great pains on the future interests as well as the characters of his little flock.