"Well, Parson," said Mr.
Hazeldean, with a smile which he meant to be pleasant and easy, but which was exceedingly bitter and grim, "I wish you joy of your flock,--you see they have just hanged me in effigy!" The parson stared, and though greatly shocked, smothered his emotion; and attempted, with the wisdom of the serpent and the mildness of the dove, to find another original for the effigy.
"It is very bad," quoth he, "but not so bad as all that, Squire; that's not the shape of your bat.

It is evidently meant for Mr.Stirn." "Do you think so ?" said the squire, softened.

"Yet the top-boots--Stirn never wears top-boots." "No more do you, except in the hunting-field.

If you look again, those are not tops, they are leggings,--Stirn wears leggings.

Besides, that flourish, which is meant for a nose, is a kind of hook, like Stirn's; whereas your nose--though by no means a snub--rather turns up than not, as the Apollo's does, according to the plaster cast in Riccabocca's parlour." "Poor Stirn!" said the squire, in a tone that evinced complacency, not unmingled with compassion, "that's what a man gets in this world by being a faithful servant, and doing his duty with zeal for his employer.
But you see things have come to a strange pass, and the question now is, what course to pursue.