d was covered with snow. But the
church bells rang merrily over the dark moorland, for Oiel Verree was
peculiarly the people's service, and the ringers were ringing in the one
service of the year at which the parishioners supplanted the Vicar, and
appropriated the old parish church. In spite of the weather, the church
was crowded with a motley throng, chiefly of young folks, the young men
being in the nave, and the girls (if I remember rightly) in the little
loft at the west end. Most of the men carried tallow dips, tied
about with bits of ribbon in the shape of rosettes, duly lighted, and
guttering grease at intervals on to the book-ledge or the tawny fingers
of them that held them. It appeared that there had been an ordinary
service before we arrived, and the Vicar was still within the rails
of the communion. From there he addressed some parting words of solemn
warning to the noisy throng of candle-carriers. As nearly as I can
remember, the address was this: "My good people, you are about to
celebrate an old custom. For my part, I have no sympathy with such
customs, but since the hearts of my parishioners seem to be set on
this one, I have no wish to suppress it. But tumultuous and disgraceful
scenes have occurred on similar occasions in previous years, and I
beg you to remember that you are in God's house," &c. &c. The grave
injunction was listened to in silence, and when it ended, the Vicar, a
worthy but not very popular man, walked towards the vestry. To do so,
he passed the pew where I sat under the left arm of my companion, and he
stopped before him, for Billy had long been a notorious transgressor at
Oiel Verree.

"See that you do not disgrace my church to-night," said the Vicar. But
Billy had a biting tongue.

"Aw, well," said he, "I'm thinking the church is the people's."

"The people are as ignorant as goats," said the Vicar.

"Aw, then," said Billy, "you are the shepherd, so just make sheeps of
them."

At that the Vicar gave us the light of his countenance no more. The last
glimpse of his robe going through the vestry door was the signal for a
buzz of low gossip, and straightway the business of Oiel Verree began.

It must have been now approaching eleven o'clock, and two old greybeards
with tousled heads placed themselves abreast at the door of the west
porch. There they struck up a carol in a somewhat lofty key. It was a
most doleful ditty. Certainly I have never since heard the like of it.
I remembe