A Pixy in Petticoats by John Trevena

It was high noon, and the day was the first of the week. Willum Cobbledick walked out of the church and into the "Plume of Feathers. " He was wearing an old cassock, short in front and dragging behind, like a maid-of-all-work's frock; and upon his bristling hair rested at a military angle a distinctly clerical hat. Willum always exchanged church for alehouse at the earliest opportunity, not so much because sawdust and beer-barrels were preferable to harmonium and lectern as because in the "Plume of Feathers" he could feel himself an instructor of the villagers who were wont to foregather there as often as the law allowed. Willum was a churchwarden. He was also organist, bell-ringer in moderation, and sexton. He collected the offertory and read the lessons. He intoned the psalms and sang the hymns. He was in effect the spiritual pastor and master of the village, as the vicar was too infirm and witless to perform his duty, and had almost lost the faculty of intelligent speech. Everybody who came to Lew went to hear Willum read the lessons. He rendered them in broad dialect, disregarding stops, gasping for breath in the middle of a word, sometimes turning over two pages and reading on unconscious of his error; while Mrs. Cobbledick listened with tearful pride and would have applauded had she dared. Service over, Willum would hurry to the "Plume of Feathers" for his well-earned beer. His fellow-villagers patronised the local Zion, which offered no attraction in the morning, nor indeed at any time when the house of good cheer was open. They recognised Willum as a superior. He was the local representative of learning. When an election was impending it was Willum who controlled the votes. When the rural dean made his visitation it was Willum who appeared armed with registers and misstatements. "Willum be the sinecure of all eyes," Mrs. Cobbledick frequently explained to newly-arrived visitors.

Griffey, the preacher, sat on a bench, clutching a blue and white mug. Upon the table by his side sat his favourite disciple, Wollacott of the game leg, who was too miserly to buy refreshments for himself, and so far had not been offered any. Other worthies lounged in picturesque attitudes about the room. They were listening to Griffey, who had been discoursing upon the uncertainty of life, and the necessity of doing good to one's neighbours. As the preacher confined his attentions to his neighbours by removing the boundary stone of one and diverting the water supply of another, his remarks were not received with that attention which the subject deserved.