tered about the
park and woods always assembled. The Lady Annabel, whose lot it had
been in life to find her best consolation in religion, and who was
influenced by not only a sincere but even a severe piety, had no other
alternative, therefore, but engaging a chaplain; but this, after much
consideration, she had resolved not to do. She was indeed her own
chaplain, herself performing each day such parts of our morning and
evening service whose celebration becomes a laic, and reading portions
from the writings of those eminent divines who, from the Restoration
to the conclusion of the last reign, have so eminently distinguished
the communion of our national Church.

Each Sunday, after the performance of divine service, the Rev. Dr.
Masham dined with the family, and he was the only guest at Cherbury
Venetia ever remembered seeing. The Doctor was a regular orthodox
divine of the eighteenth century; with a large cauliflower wig,
shovel-hat, and huge knee-buckles, barely covered by his top-boots;
learned, jovial, humorous, and somewhat courtly; truly pious, but not
enthusiastic; not forgetful of his tithes, but generous and charitable
when they were once paid; never neglecting the sick, yet occasionally
following a fox; a fine scholar, an active magistrate, and a good
shot; dreading the Pope, and hating the Presbyterians.

The Doctor was attached to the Herbert family not merely because they
had given him a good living. He had a great reverence for an old
English race, and turned up his nose at the Walpolian loanmongers.
Lady Annabel, too, so beautiful, so dignified, so amiable, and highly
bred, and, above all, so pious, had won his regard. He was not a
little proud, too, that he was the only person in the county who had
the honour of her acquaintance, and yet was disinterested enough to
regret that he led so secluded a life, and often lamented that nothing
would induce her to show her elegant person on a racecourse, or to
attend an assize ball, an assembly which was then becoming much the
fashion. The little Venetia was a charming child, and the kind-hearted
Doctor, though a bachelor, loved children.

O! matre pulchra, filia pulchrior,

was the Rev. Dr. Masham's apposite and favourite quotation after his
weekly visit to Cherbury.

Divine service was concluded; the Doctor had preached a capital
sermon; for he had been one of the shining lights of his university
until his rich but isolating preferment had apparently c