e is the man whom nobody ever sees. Although he has
lived in robust health for the past twenty years in the very centre of
the hamlet, his face is unknown to half the inhabitants. Twice only has
the writer set eyes on him. When a political contest is proceeding, he
becomes comparatively bold; at such times he has even been met with in
the bar of the village "public," where he has been known to sit
discussing the chances of the candidates like any ordinary being. But an
election is absolutely necessary if this strange individual is to be
drawn out of his hiding-place. The only other occasion on which we have
set eyes on him was on a lovely summer's evening, just after sunset: we
observed him peeping at us over a hedge, for all the world like the
"Spectator" when he was staying with Sir Roger de Coverley. He is
supposed to come out at sunset, like the foxes and the bats, and has
been seen in the distance on bright moonlight nights striding over the
Cotswold uplands. If any one approach him, he hurries away in the
opposite direction; yet he is not queer in the head, but strong and in
the prime of life.

Then there is that very common character "the village impostor." After
having been turned away by half a dozen different farmers, because he
never did a stroke of work, he manages to get on the sick-list at the
"great house." Long after his ailment has been cured he will be seen
daily going up to the manor house for his allowance of meat; somehow or
other he "can't get a job nohow." The fact is, he has got the name of
being an idle scoundrel, and no farmer will take him on. It is some time
before you are able to find him out; for as he goes decidedly lame as he
passes you in the village street, he generally manages to persuade you
that he is very ill. Like a fool, you take compassion on him, and give
him an ounce of "baccy" and half a crown. For some months he hangs about
where he thinks you will be passing, craving a pipe of tobacco; until
one day, when you are having a talk with some other honest toiler, he
will give you a hint that you are being imposed on.

When a loafer of this sort finds that he can get nothing more out of
you, he moves his family and goods to some other part of the country; he
then begins the old game with somebody else, borrowing a sovereign off
you for the expense of moving. As for gratitude, he never thinks of it.
The other day a man with a "game leg," who was, in spite of his
lameness, a good ex