erned, namely, the congregation, the customary worshippers at St.
Giles's Church.

Resuming the story of the benefice at the election of 1788, it is said
that Mr. Moreton having been elected, the then lords of the manor
declined to present him to the bishop on the ground that they did not
regard him as a fit and proper person. Litigation ensued, and the High
Court of Justice declared the election void, and ordered a new one.
Meanwhile, the income seems to have sequestrated, probably lying in the
hands of the churchwardens till the new minister should be properly
instituted.

The electors for a second time returned Moreton, and the lords of the
manor then took up the attitude that it was not part of their duty to
live in litigation, either with the electors or with Moreton; they had
expressed their opinion of the man in the strongest manner possible, and
this they considered relieved them from further responsibility; so now at
the electors' wish they nominated him to the bishop for induction, and in
due course he was formally inducted.

The new incumbent of Willenhall was popularly given out to be an
illegitimate "nephew" of George III.; he bore a strong facial likeness to
the Royal family, and had been at college with the Duke of York. But
whatever his origin or extraction, he was a typical sporting parson of
the old school, an enthusiastic cock-fighter, and "a three-bottle man."

It was not long before the old mocking doggerel was applied to
Willenhall:--

A tumble-down church--
A tottering steeple--
A drunken parson--
And a wicked people!

That this old rhyme fairly described the condition of things we may
venture to believe if we can also accept as true the rhyme oft quoted by
this Willenhall worthy, and which was said to embody his philosophy:--

Let back and sides and head go bare,
Let foot and hand go cold,
But God send belly good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

Of "Parson Moreton" innumerable tales are told, all of them racy, though
not a few of them apochryphal. There can be little doubt that in the
later years of his life he was a bon vivant, and indulged openly in the
less refined sports of the period, a cockfight above all things having a
strong fascination for him.

And yet, on the plea that "a merciful man is good to his beast," he
indulged his old grey pony, "Bob," on which he regularly ambled about,
with a share of every tankard of ale he