Charles departs from his Country Friends, who are Three divine Artists, born and educated in their own Village.

The Reverend Mr. Hamilton, the father of Charles, was a respected clergyman, the resident of above half a century in his own vicarage. His small parsonage house was adjacent to his church; it’s venerable air of antiquity resembled the genius of it’s inhabitant; and such was it’s domestic sanctity, that with greater propriety than the church itself, it might have been called ‘a house / of God.’ No emulation of modern taste disguised it’s character; it was a low building, the Gothic windows were luxuriantly encircled with the foliage of the vine, the hall was spacious, the parlours small, but the pannelled wainscotting was held by him in high reverence, for it had been removed there from one of Queen Elizabeth’s country palaces; and he would sometimes point with exultation at a carved chimneypiece, once appertaining to the above regal personage, and exclaim, ‘They worked on a different plan in those days; but I promise you, none of our chimney-pieces will be of any service to our posterity.’ Some of the juniors of this worthy parson, who were among the three hundred and ninety-nine chaplains of the Prince, ⁴² who doubled their livings ⁴³ and who tripled their tythes, adding likewise a few random chaplainships of several regiments, a pleasant / prebend, and a comfortable canonry, carried on a more lucrative trade, and were, by such clerical advantages, enabled to keep their stables in better repair than their churches. Mr. Hamilton never palsied the arm of industry with the iron mace of sacerdotal rapacity. He was not a weasel among the poultry, a rot among the sheep, and a mildew in the ear of corn. Every one cherished some pleasing recollection of his kindness; and the hearts of his parishioners were the concealed offering the Priest presented to his God.