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greet the Resurrection Morn, but with his head to the east and his feet to the west, that in the Resurrection Day he may face those for whom he must give an account.

Here the gifted and eccentric Vicar read his lessons and offered his sacrifices and preached his sermons. At the altar he was attended by nine cats who walked with him from the vicarage, and sometimes by a dog as well. One of the cats was excommunicated and suffered expulsion from the holy place because she devoured a mouse during a service. In his ministrations Hawker wore blood-red gloves. He had to pass from the chancel into the pulpit by a very narrow gate, through which he could just manage to squeeze himself. He likened it to the camel going through the eye of the needle. With all his symbolism and ritualism, questions must have suggested themselves to his parishioners when they saw him scratching the neck of one of the cats when reading the prayers, or heard him call out to the sexton who was ringing the bell during service, “Now, Tom, three for the Trinity and one for the Blessed Virgin!" But this must be considered together with the fact that he quite frequently knocked the hat off the head of a visitor who happened to put that article on before reaching the door.

Hawker had a marriage service all his own. Before blessing the ring he tossed it three times into the air. The symbolism of this was never made clear; but one of his biographers has suggested that he meant by it to express the idea that marriage was a toss-up.

In preaching, he would read a verse or two of the lesson, and then with a pencil hanging to his buttons, would mark the place and begin to speak. He must have read his sermons occasionally, for he speaks of having given twelve manuscripts for a young boar. At another time, very anxious to secure a good crop of turnips, he sowed the garden with the ashes of burned sermons. The crop was a total failure. He attributed it to the admixture of the ashes of a few of his grandfather's sermons, they being heterodox.

His deep voice was well suited to vie with the roar of the sea, and he could talk from one farm to another, His dress was as

peculiar as his speech and manner. Black he abhorred, and the only black articles he wore were his socks. His dress was as unlike the formal habit of his brethren as he could make it, for he said, “I don't make myself look like a waiter out of place, or an unemployed undertaker." His coat was a long-tailed affair of claret color, his boots like a seaman's; for a cassock he wore a blue-knitted jersey, decorated with medallions, and with stitches to represent the piercings of the spear that wounded the side of Jesus. All this was surmounted by a brimless hat, like that of a Cossack, the hat, he said, conforming to the style of a Greek bishop.

Hawker had a more than local reputation for story-telling and repartee. During a heated political campaign, a candidate speaking at one of the meetings in Cornwall declared with vehemence, “I will never be priest-ridden!" Hawker was in the crowd, and hastily writing a few lines on a piece of paper, handed them up to the speaker. The lines were as follows:

Thou ridden! No! That shall not be,

By prophet or by priest!
Balaam is dead, and none but he

Could choose thee for his beast.

At a clerical gathering Hawker was once compelled to sit through a sermon by a Low Churchman. In the midst of the sermon, a cock crew in a nearby barnyard, whereupon Hawker nudged his neighbor and whispered, “This fellow is denying his Lord.”

In his early days he was famed as a practical joker. At Bude on moonlight nights, he would swim out to the rocks and with seaweed draped around his head and falling down his back, and his legs wrapped in oil-skins, would sit combing his locks, and with his mirror flash the moonlight in the faces of the gaping crowd on the shore. The crowd continued to grow in numbers and wonder, until one night Hawker ended his performance with an unmistakable "God save the Queen !" and dived into the sea.

In 1848 Tennyson paid a visit to Morwenstow. "I hear," he said, “that there are larger waves there than on any other part of the British coast, and must go thither and be alone with God.”

He cannot have been disappointed either in the magnitude of the waves or the solitude of that coast. Hawker was in some doubt as to his visitor, until he heard him quote, after seeing the Tonacombe fall over the cliffs into the sea, the line—“Falling like a broken purpose !"

As they walked along the cliffs, they talked together about the legends of King Arthur, for Tennyson was then gathering material for the “Idyls of the King.” In his most ambitious poem, the “Quest of the Sangreal,” Hawker traversed the ground of Tennyson's "Holy Grail.” It may be that “The Sangreal” would have been better known and appreciated if Tennyson had not written on the same theme.

Hawker was highly esteemed by Longfellow and asked the assistance of Longfellow in finding a sale for his poetry in America. Although seeking Longfellow's aid, Hawker did not scruple to speak slightingly of him as a poet. Writing at the time of the Trent affair, he says: “Certain it is that there is something naturally narrow and meagre in the American mind. There is not, it is said, one original book among their publications; not a single master mind as an orator or a poet (Longfellow is tuneful but mediocre) or statesman or divine. They copy England with a second rate power.” The Cornish Bard would leave us less even than Sidney Smith. When we read of atrocities and barbarities in war to-day, we may temper our judgment when we recall that the same reports went forth concerning our Civil War. This is what Hawker has to say:

“And what can equal in horror their mode of savage warfare? They offer rewards for the head of conspicuous enemies—Maury the Hydraulic Officer to wit. Their light infantry, the Zouaves, carry ropes with a running noose to hang their prisoners.”

At the time of Lincoln's assassination, he wrote: "No one can fail to be shocked at the foul assassination that has made Mrs. Lincoln a widow, but in the judgment after death, it will be remembered that there are 21,000 widows in New York and that 20,000 of them were made so by the war which Lincoln himself carried on, and for which he must answer in the Great Day.'

With all his eccentric ways, his crude and ignorant opinions of

things beyond the boundaries of Cornwall, his unchristian attitude towards those who differed with him in religious polity and worship, Hawker's heart was warm and the hand a man's. Over the door of the vicarage, there are cut in the stone the lines

"A House, a Glebe, a Pound a Day;
A Pleasant Place to Watch and Pray.
Be true to Church-Be kind to Poor,
O Minister! for evermore."

Whatever he was not, Hawker was "kind to poor.” As I stepped over the stone stile into the churchyard, I saw the figurehead of a ship placed upright in the ground. It was from the ship "Caledonia," wrecked on the rocks below the church, and marked the grave of the captain and some of his crew. In those days of poor lighthouse service, ships were constantly being driven on that iron-walled coast. Before Hawker's day in Morwenstow, although the wreckers were no more, the people looked upon a wreck as a piece of good fortune. Many a child in his bedside prayer at night said, "God bless father and mother, an' zenda ship to shore 'vore mornin'.” But with the advent of Hawker, a new spirit arose. Much of his time was spent searching among the massive boulders along the shore for the bodies of those who had perished in the sea, and many a service did he read for the sailor-dead, as Morwenstow's bells tolled them to their resting-place, until the sea give up her dead. His “Death Song” tells how he cared for the victims of the sea,

There lies a cold corpse upon the sands,

Down by the rolling sea;
Close up the eyes and straighten the hands,

As a Christian man's should be.

Bury it deep, for the good of my soul,

Six feet below the ground;
Let the sexton come and the death-bell toll,

And good men stand around.

Lay it among the churchyard stones,

Where the priest hath blest the clay;
I cannot leave the unburied bones,

And I fain would go my way.

In the face of the cliff below the church, Hawker built a rude shelter out of boards from the wreckage of ships. There he would sit smoking his pipe, looking out over the stormy Atlantic, and composing his songs and ballads. As years passed hy, life became harder for him and the sea wrought and was tempestuous. His wife, for whom he had singular attachment, died and left him in utter loneliness. “Sangreal” was composed in the days after the death of his wife, and here and there Hawker and his sorrows speak,—“Mid all things fierce, and wild, and strangeAlone!” And here,

"Ah! native Cornwall! throned upon the hills,
Thy moorland pathways worn by angels' feet,
Thy streams that march in music to the sea
'Mid Ocean's merry noise, his billowy laugh!
Ah me! A gloom falls heavy on my soul,
The birds that sang to me in youth are dead."

The lonely Vicar chose for a second wife, a young Polish woman, who bore him several daughters, and added both to his joys and his cares. When he was dying during a visit to Plymouth, in 1875, his wife called in the Roman Catholic Canon, Mansfield, and the last rites of the Roman Church were administered to him. He was buried in Plymouth. Thus Morwenstow is not the keeper of the dust of him who made her famous. When he was leaving on that final trip to Plymouth, Hawker, standing by the grave of his wife, said to his sexton, “I am very old, and am going away from home, and I do not know what may befall me. But promise me most solemnly that, should I die anywhere away from Morwenstow, you will fetch my body and lay me here beside my first wife.” In striking contradiction to this wish, there has been carved on his grave in the Roman Catholic Cemetery in Plymouth the prayer of Augustine's mother, Monica : “Lay this body anywhere; be not concerned about that. The only thing I ask of you is that you make remembrance of me before the altar of the Lord wheresoever you are." About the base of the cross that stands on his grave are the words from “Sangreal," “I would not be forgotten in this land." That wish, at least, has been granted him.

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