Infallible be; but for making Call sure, and Election secure, Saint
Repeater's of Rum beats the See. With finger in ear to allay the
tickling sensation, JUDGE SWEENEY declares that this young man smelling
of cloves is a person of great intellectual attainments, and understands
the political genius of his country well enough to make an excellent
Judge of Election.

Walking slowly near the churchyard on this particular freezing December
evening, with his hands behind his bank, and his eyes intent for any
envious husband who may be "with a rush retiring," monumentally
counselled, after reading the Epitaph, Judge SWEENEY suddenly comes upon
Father DEAN conversing with SMYTHE, the sexton, and Mr. BUMSTEAD. Bowing
to these three, who, like himself, seem to find real luxury in open-air
strolling on a bitter night in midwinter, he notices that his model, the
Ritual Rector, is wearing a new hat, like Cardinal's, only black, and is
immediately lost in wondering where he can obtain one like it short of
Rome.

"You look so much like an author, Mr. BUMSTEAD, in having no overcoat,
wearing your paper collar upside down, and carrying a pen behind your
ear," Father DEAN is saying, "that I can almost fancy you are about to
write a book about us. Well, Bumsteadville is just the place to furnish
a nice, dry, inoffensive domestic novel in the sedative vein."

After two or three ineffectual efforts to seize the end of it, which he
seems to think is an inch or two higher than its actual position, Mr.
BUMSTEAD finally withdraws from between his right ear and head a long
and neatly cut hollow straw.

"This is not a pen, Holy Father," he answers, after a momentary glance