The parish must have been an uncivilized place in former times; there was an accusing record beneath the west window of the tower, in the shape of a blocked up entrance. I was told that the ringers, not wishing to enter or leave the tower through the church door during service, and also to facilitate the smuggling in of unlimited cider had, after strenuous efforts, cut an opening through the ancient wall and base some feet in thickness, and that the achievement was announced to the village by uproarious cheering when at last they succeeded. A door was afterwards fitted to the aperture, but the entrance was abolished later by a more reverent Vicar.

The belfry was decorated with various bones of legs of mutton and of joints of beef, hung up to commemorate notable weddings of prominent parishioners—perhaps, too, as a hint to future aspirants to the state of matrimony—when the ringers had enjoyed a substantial meal and gallons of cider at the expense of the bridegroom. There seems to have been a traditional connection between church bell-ringing and thirst, for Gilbert White relates that when the bells of Selborne Church were recast and a new one presented in 1735, "The day of the arrival of this tuneable peal was observed as an high festival by the village, and rendered more joyous by an order from the donor that the treble bell should be fixed bottom upward in the ground and filled with punch, of which all present were permitted to partake."

The Vicar of Badsey told me that at the neighbouring church of Wickhamford, then also in his jurisdiction, that when he first came, in the early fifties, it was customary, as the men entered the church by the chancel door, to pitch their hats in a heap on the altar. Also that on his home-coming with his bride, he was, the same evening, requisitioned to put a stop to a fight between two drunken reprobates outside the vicarage gate. Badsey people can in these modern times point with pride to a much higher standard of civilization, and they fully recognize that "'Eave 'alf a brick at his 'ead; Bill," is a method of welcome to a stranger not considered precisely etiquette at the present day.

There was no vestry before the restoration of Badsey Church; the Vicar's surplice might be seen hanging over the side of one of the square pews which obstructed the chancel, and when the Vicar appeared he was followed by the clerk, who assisted at the public ceremony of robing. Church decorations at Christmas consisted at that time of sprigs of holly stuck upright in holes bored along the tops of the pew partitions at regular intervals, and at the harvest thanksgiving an historic miniature rick of corn annually made its appearance on the altar. In those days, however, flowers, which are scarcely suitable for a festival where the decorations should proclaim the abundance of the matured season of growth, by corn and fruit, were not included. I have seen too many of these, to the exclusion of corn, in modern town churches, and even wild oats, which, though very pretty, are not exactly typical of thanksgiving.

It is surprising how much damage may be done to valuable old woodwork by an enthusiastic band of decorators, assisted by an indiscriminating curate, and how inharmonious may be the general effect of individual labours—though charming taken separately—where a comprehensive scheme is neglected. I have counted fourteen differing reds—not tones or shades of the same colour—including the hood of the officiating clergyman, in one chancel at the same time, bewildering to the eye and distracting to the mind. And I once saw a beautiful and priceless old Elizabethan table in a vestry, covered with a mouldy piece of purple velvet secured with tin-tacks driven into the tortured oak. There are, or were, two lovely old Chippendale chairs with the characteristic backs and legs inside the altar-rails of Badsey Church; they are valuable and no doubt duly appreciated, not only for their own sake, but because they were the gift of dear old Barnard, the clerk, who spent fifty years of his life in the service of the church.

I once heard a curate preaching to an agricultural congregation at a harvest thanksgiving after a disastrous season, when the earth had not yielded much by way of increase, remarking that in such a time of scarcity we might be thankful that plenty of foreign corn would be available; good theology, perhaps, but scarcely expedient under the circumstances.

We found Sir Thomas Graham Jackson a purist in the matter of church restoration, and in my capacity as churchwarden and treasurer, I was fortunate in having to confer with a man of such pre-eminent good taste. He would not allow some new oak panels, with which we had to supplement the old linen-pattern panels of the pulpit, to be coloured to match the old work. "Time," he said, "will bring them all together." Possibly the lapse of two hundred years may do so, but I saw at once that he was right in the principle that no sham should be tolerated in honest work, more especially in a sacred building. We objected also to a new chimney which surmounted the junction of the nave and choir exteriorly: it seemed to smack of domestic detail; but here again he satisfied us by saying that, as heating the building was a modern necessity, there was no reason to be ashamed of such an indispensable addition. As a matter of fact, this chimney long ago became nicely toned down by its native soot, and is practically unnoticeable.

There is much American oak, I believe, now used in new churches and public buildings; it appears to resemble chestnut much more than English oak, and I doubt whether it will ever acquire the beautiful tone which time confers upon the latter. It should, however, be recognized that much of the depth of colour of old oak panelling is really nothing but dirt, though the true dark brown tint of old age can be found underneath, and right to the centre of each piece. Spring-cleaning of the past consisted very much in polishing with beeswax and turpentine, without removing the dirt produced by smoky fires and constant handling, so that extraneous matter became coated with the polish and preserved beneath it. I have had occasion, when restoring old woodwork, to wash off this outside accretion, and when removed, the tone of the wood remained still dark, though lighter than before it lost its black and somewhat sticky appearance.

The fakers of sham old furniture produce the intense darkness by stains of various kinds. I once found myself at an inn in Devonshire which contained a quantity of "delft" and "antique oak" furniture for sale. While the attendant was bringing me some refreshment, I tested the genuineness of the oak by a small chip with my pocket-knife, and, as I anticipated, found perfectly white wood under the surface, and, I believe, American oak. The irony of the transaction is striking; here was a piece of wood imported from the States only a few months before, converted in this country into Elizabethan, Jacobean, and Stuart furniture, and then, it may be, bought by American visitors and taken back to their own country.

Some years before the church restoration could be taken in hand, a piece of land, bordering the west side of the churchyard, and between it and the highroad, and another similar piece on the east side of the churchyard, were offered for sale by auction. They belonged to the old Badsey Manor property and of course occupied important positions lying in each case just between the churchyard and the adjoining roads. An individual who had fallen out with the Vicar announced his intention of purchasing these pieces and building cottages and a public-house upon them, presumably "to spite the parson."

The Vicar at once saw the absolute necessity of acquiring the land for the church and enclosing it with suitable walls, as an addition to the churchyard. It would have been a terrible eyesore from the village street if ugly brick and blue-slated buildings were erected in front of the beautiful old grey church, and the idea of an inn in such a place was intolerable. He consulted the patrons of the living, who agreed to help, and simultaneously a good old aunt gave him leave to bid up to a certain sum on her behalf as a gift to the parish.

The patrons sent a representative to the sale with an undisclosed price, at which he was empowered to make the purchase. Absolute secrecy was preserved, and, except the Vicar, no one knew the man or whom he represented; he was to leave the train from Oxford at Honeybourne Station so as not even to come through Evesham to Badsey. The Vicar had arranged that the patrons' representative should also bid on behalf of the aunt, but did not disclose the limit. The man was not to bid until the Vicar himself stopped, and he was to go on bidding until the Vicar removed a rose from his button-hole, which would signify that the aunt's limit was reached. Whether the patrons' representative could go any further or not, the Vicar did not know.

Before the auction the two did not meet, and they sat apart during the proceedings. The village malcontent was in great form, making certain of success, and was delighted when the Vicar apparently gave up bidding as if beaten. The rose was still in his button-hole, but before long the aunt's limit was reached, and it had to be removed; he was however relieved to find that the patrons' representative continued to bid. His opponent was getting very fidgety as the price rose, hesitating for some moments every time the bidding was against him. Just as the hammer was about to fall he would arrest it with, "Try 'im again," but the stranger instantly capped his reluctant bid, always leaving him to consider a further advance in great discomfort. At last in despair but quite certain that the Vicar at any rate was knocked out he gave up, exclaiming, "'E med 'ave it, 'e med 'ave it"; and the hammer fell. All eyes were fixed upon the unknown bidder, and the auctioneer demanded "the name of the buyer"; very quietly came the announcement, "The Dean and Chapter of Christ Church." Horribly disgusted the malcontent fired a parting shot as he reached the door: "If I'd a-knowed the pairson was a goin' to 'ave it, I'd a made 'im pay a pretty penny more nor that."

This Vicar was a very impressive reader, especially of dramatic stories from the Old Testament. As he read the account of the discomfiture of the priests of Baal by the Prophet Elijah one could visualize the scene. Elijah's dripping sacrifice blazing to the skies, the priests of Baal, mutilated by their own knives and lancets, in vain imploring their god to send the fire to vindicate himself. The heavens were black, and one could hear the rush of Ahab's chariot, the roar of the thunder and the hissing torrent of rain, and see the prophet running swiftly before him. The Vicar, however, was not an actor like a clergyman I was told of, who got so excited over Agag and his delicate approach to Samuel that he could not resist an illustration to intensify the action by taking a mincing step or two aside from the lectern.

No village is complete without its curmudgeon or self-appointed grumbler, just as every village has its special imbecile. The curmudgeon originates in a class above the idiot; very often he is an ex-churchwarden, guardian, way-warden, or other official, who has resigned in dudgeon or been ousted from his post for some neglect or failure. He is a man with whom the world has gone wrong, a sufferer, perhaps, from some disaster which has become an obsession. He views everything with distorted eyesight; nothing pleases him, and he wants to put everybody right. He cherishes a perpetual grievance against some individual or clique for a fancied slight, and goes about trying to stir up ill-feeling among the ignorant by malicious insinuations. In former times he was an adept at "parson-baiting" at the annual Easter vestry meeting, when he would air his grievance against the Vicar of the parish or any person in authority.

At these vestries the Vicar is wise if he declares the curmudgeon to be "out of order," and declines to hear him, for, legally, the business does not include any matter which does not appear upon the notice convening the meeting, signed by the Vicar and churchwardens. This usually announces that churchwardens will be elected and the accounts produced; the latter, since church rates were abolished, is not obligatory, and only subscribers have a right to question them. The proceedings are not legal unless three full days have elapsed since the publication of the notice on a Sunday before morning service, the following Thursday being thus the earliest day on which the meeting can take place. It is important to remember that no churchwarden has a legal status before he has been formally admitted by the Archdeacon.

In former times, before the creation of Parish, District and County Councils, the curmudgeon, after the reaction of the winter months, became very prominent towards the time of the Easter vestry, when he would appear, having enlisted a small band of supporters, with a number of grievances relating to rates, parish officials, rights of way, footpaths, and such-like debatable subjects. Of course, he should have been promptly squashed by the chairman, but too often an indulgent Vicar would allow him to have his fling.

Now, however, the curmudgeon can easily get himself elected upon one of the numerous councils; having mismanaged his own affairs until he has none left to manage, he appears to regard himself as a fit and proper person to mismanage the business of other people, and the brief authority which his position confers gives him a welcome opportunity of letting off superfluous steam.

Parishioners sometimes combined and elected an unpopular person to a troublesome post which nobody wanted. Such was the office of way-warden, under whose jurisdiction came the management and repair of parish roads, superintending and paying the roadmen, and keeping the necessary records and accounts. A market-gardener, a canny Scot, who had fallen into disfavour, had this office thrust upon him much against his will. Once elected, the victim had no choice in the matter, and, being a very busy man, he was thoroughly annoyed. He soon discovered a weapon wherewith to avenge the wrong—one which his opponents had put into his hands themselves; during his year of office he restricted the road repairs to a lane adjoining his own land, leading to the railway-station, which his carts traversed many times daily. He gave it a thorough good coat of stones, and all the available labour, as well as the cash chargeable on the rates of the parish, was in this way expended, chiefly for his own benefit, though the parish shared to the extent of the use they made of this particular piece of road. Great was the outcry, but nothing could be done till the year of office expired, and, naturally, he was never elected again.

The purchase of the land adjoining the churchyard had a remarkable sequel; it was conveyed to the Vicar and churchwardens for the time being, these original churchwardens having been long out of the office before my appointment. After the restoration of the church my co-warden and I, with the Vicar's consent, levelled the rough places in the neglected churchyard, sowed it with grass seeds, and planted various ornamental shrubs; we had the untidy southern boundary carefully dug over, and set a man to plant a yew-hedge. He was thus employed when a parishioner appeared in some excitement, and objected to the planting of yew on account of possible damage to sheep grazing in the churchyard, claiming the right—which, as a matter of fact, belonged to the Vicar alone, though never exercised—to such grazing, jointly with the Vicar. He proceeded to pull up some of the young yews as a protest, and threw them uprooted on the ground. The man employed reported the matter to my co-warden, living near, who was very soon at my house.

We decided to prosecute the offender, and obtained the Vicar's consent, he being the legal prosecutor. The case was heard by a bench of magistrates composed entirely of clergy and churchwarden squires, who naturally sympathized with us, and, quite logically, convicted the defendant in a fine, I think, of about 25s. and costs, or a term in Worcester Gaol in default. The defendant refused to pay a farthing and was removed in custody; but later our dear old Vicar, very generously, came forward and paid the amount himself.

Shortly before the church restoration I had a notice to attend an archidiaconal visitation, and duly appeared at the church at the time arranged. The Archdeacon made a careful inspection of the fabric and property of the church, not too well pleased with its dilapidated appearance. Nothing much was said till we reached the fourteenth-century font, showing signs of long use. The Archdeacon motioned to the clerk to remove the oak cover, and the old man, with the air of an officious waiter, lifted it with a flourish, disclosing, inside the cracked font, a white pudding-basin, inside which, again, reposed a species of beetle known as a "devil's coach-horse." The Archdeacon, peering in and evidently recognizing the insect and its popular designation, and looking much shocked, exclaimed with some warmth: "Dear me! I should scarcely have expected to find that thing in a font!"

This story reminds me of a similar visitation depicted in Punch. The Archdeacon was seen at the lych-gate of a country church in company with a churchwarden farmer, the Vicar being unable to attend. The contrast was well delineated—the Archdeacon tall, thin, and ascetic, in a long black coat and archidiaconal hat; and the farmer of the John Bull type, in ample breeches and gaiters. The churchyard presented a magnificent crop of exuberant wheat:

Archdeacon. I don't like this at all; I shall really have to speak to the Vicar about it.

Churchwarden (thinking of the rotation of crops). Just what I told un, sir—just what I told 'un. "You keeps on a-wheating of it and a-wheating of it," I says; "why don't you tater it?" says I.

At Badsey objections were soon heard to the innovation of the surpliced choir and improved music in the restored church; one old villager, living close by, expressed himself as follows concerning the entry of the Vicar and choir, in procession, from the new vestry:

"They come in with them boys all dressed up like a lot of little parsons, and the parson behind 'em just like the old Pope hisself. But there ain't no call for me to go to church now, for I can set at home and hear 'em a baarlin' [noise like a calf] and a harmenin [amening] in me own house."

On a similar occasion, in another parish where more elaborate music had been introduced, an old coachman, given to much devotional musical energy, told me as a sore grievance: "You know, sir, I'd used to like singin' a bit myself, but now, as soon as I've worked myself up to a tidy old pitch, all of a sudden they leaves off, and I be left a bawlin'!"

Among various special weekday services I remember a Confirmation when an elderly Aldington parishioner had courageously decided to participate in the rite. She was missing from the ceremony, and told my wife afterwards, in answer to inquiries, that a bad headache had prevented her from attending, adding: "But there, you can't stand agin your 'ead!"

I was at the house of a neighbouring Vicar where the Bishop of the diocese had been lunching shortly before, when there was a dish of very fine oranges on the table and another of Blenheim orange apples. The Bishop was offered a Blenheim orange by the Vicar, who remarked that they came from his own garden. The Bishop had probably never heard of a Blenheim orange, and the latter word directed his attention to the dish of oranges. He examined them with great surprise, and exclaimed: "Dear me! I had no idea that oranges would come to such perfection out of doors in this climate."

A capital story was told by a Bishop of Worcester, in connection with the efforts of the Church in that part of the country to alleviate the lot of the hop-pickers, who flock into Worcestershire in September by the thousand. One of the mission workers, who had gone down to the hopyards, met a dilapidated individual in a country lane, who said he was "a picker." Pressed for further particulars, the man responded:

"In the summer I picks peas and fruit; when autumn comes I picks hops; in the winter I picks pockets; and when I'm caught I picks oakum. I'm kept nice and warm during the cold months, and when the fine days come round once more I starts pea-picking again."

My second Vicar was a scholar, an excellent preacher of very condensed sermons; he conducted the services with great dignity, but his manner to the villagers was a little alarming. He found the old clerk somewhat officious, I think. One evening, after service, when some strangers from Evesham attended—for Badsey was a pleasant walk on a summer evening—the clerk announced to the Vicar, with great jubilation, that "the gentleman with the party from Evesham expressed himself as very well satisfied with the service." No doubt the clerk had received a practical proof of the satisfaction. The clerk imagined, I believe, that he was as much responsible for the conduct of the services as the Vicar, and thought the latter would be equally pleased with the stranger's commendation. He was disappointed, I fear, for the Vicar did not seem in the least impressed, showing, too, some annoyance at what doubtless appeared to him great presumption.

At the time of the Boer War, followed by the Boxers' revolt in China and the Siege of Peking, when telegrams were exhibited in the post-office every Sunday morning, I saw one day, on my way to church, that Peking had been relieved. The Vicar—my third—preached on the subject of the terrors of the siege—his sermon having been written on the previous day—and drew a harrowing picture of the fate of the defenders. After service I asked if he had not seen the telegram, and told him the good news. "Good gracious!" said he; "I am glad I didn't know that before the service; what should I have done about my sermon?" I was a little surprised that the delivery of a sermon which was no longer to the point should appear more important than the announcement of the happy event; but perhaps the position would have been somewhat undignified had he been obliged to explain, and dismiss the congregation with apologies.

An elderly Vicar, in a parish in the adjoining county, Gloucestershire, found the morning service with a sermon very fatiguing, and the patron, the Squire, suggested that the ante-Communion service would be less tiring in place of the latter. He was not a very interesting preacher, and the Squire was quite as well pleased as the Vicar when he agreed. There was never a sermon at the morning service thereafter.

Other denominations besides the Church, of course, existed in the parish and neighbourhood; we did not hear much about them, but the following story was related as occurring in a neighbouring village. To see the point it is necessary to introduce the actors; they consisted of Daniel S. and Jim H., rival hedgers in the art of "pleaching," of which Joseph Arch was such a notable exponent. Daniel had lately been employed upon a job of this kind for a farmer, Mr. (locally Master) R. The scene was the room that did duty for a chapel in the village.

Daniel S. advanced to the reading-desk, and, turning over the leaves of the Bible to find the Book of Daniel, announced sententiously: "Let's see what Dannel done in his dai (day)." Up jumped Jim H. at the back of the room: "Oh, I can tell tha (thee) what Dannel done in his dai—cut a yedge (hedge) for Master R., and took whome all the best of the 'ood (wood)!"

A story was current too—nearer home this time—of a grand fete given to the children. They marched in procession from one village to another, in which the tea was to take place, under the leadership of an ancient parishioner. Of this person it was said that he had violated every article of the Decalogue, and that had the number been twenty instead of ten he would have treated them with equal indifference! As the children entered the second village with beaming faces and banners waving, as he gave the word of command, they sang in sweet trebles and in perfect innocence, "See the mighty host advancing, Satan leading on!"



CHAPTER IX.



THE SCHOOL BOARD—RELIGIOUS INSTRUCTION—SCHOOL INSPECTIONS—DEAN FARRAR—COMPULSORY EDUCATION.

"Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much; Wisdom is humble that he knows no more." —COWPER.

When I came to Aldington I found that by the energy of the Vicar an elementary school had been built and equipped, and was working well under the voluntary system. I accepted the post of treasurer at his invitation, but as time went on financial difficulties arose, as the Education Department increased their requirements. The large farmers were being gradually ruined by foreign competition, and the small market-gardeners, in occupation of the land as it fell vacant, could not be induced to subscribe, although their own children were the sole beneficiaries. A voluntary rate was suggested, but met with no general response, one old parishioner announcing that she didn't intend "to pay no voluntary rate until she was obliged"!

Matters were getting desperate when Vicar No. 2 arrived, and it soon became evident that the voluntary system had completely broken down. A School Board was the only alternative, and, as all the old managers refused to become members and no one else would undertake the responsibility, a deadlock ensued. We were threatened by the Education Department that, failing a Board of parishioners, they would appoint for the post any outsiders, non-ratepayers, who could be induced to volunteer. The prospect was not a pleasant one, and on the invitation of a deputation of working men, I agreed to stand (chiefly, perhaps, in my own interests, as the largest ratepayer in the parish, with the exception of the Great Western Railway Company), and others eventually came forward.

The Board was constituted, and we were rather a three-cornered lot: my co-warden; a boot and shoemaker in Evesham, with land in Badsey; a carpenter and small builder; three small market-gardeners and myself. I was elected chairman, and we obtained the services of an excellent clerk, who held the same office for the Evesham Board of Guardians—a capable man, and well up in the forms and idiosyncrasies of the Board of Education. Our designation was "the United District School Board of Badsey, Aldington, and Wickhamford." It was not easy to discover the qualifications of all the members from an educational point of view; some at least represented the village malcontent section, now getting rather nervous as to School Board rates. And there was a talkative section who illustrated the truth of the old proverb, "It is not the loudest cackling hen that lays the biggest egg," and of, perhaps, the still more expressive, "It's the worst wheel of the waggon that makes the most noise." One, at any rate, was definitely qualified—"He knowed summat about draining!" The majority were conspicuous as economists in the matter of probable school expenditure, and it appeared later that two, if not three, of the members were unable to write their own names, so that sometimes we could not get the necessary number of signatures to the cheques, when some of the more efficient members happened to be absent.

Early in our existence as a United Board, one of the economists made a little speech in which he propounded the theory that "our first duty is to the ratepayers"; but I could not help suggesting that, as a legally appointed body, we were bound to obey the law beyond all other considerations, and corrected his dictum, with all respect, by substituting that "our first duty is to the children." I must do him the justice to say that he accepted my suggestion in a complimentary manner.

It soon became evident that it is not always desirable to belong to a parish grouped with others under a United District School Board. Aldington possessed the largest rateable value with the lowest population, which was about equal to Wickhamford with the lowest rateable value; and Badsey, with by far the largest population, came between Aldington and Wickhamford as to rateable value—the obvious result being that Aldington was called upon to pay an excessive and unfair share of the cost of educating Badsey's children. We did not, however, want a school in our quiet village; it is something to get rid of children when inclined to be noisy, so we did not grumble at a little extra expense.

We carried on the school at first in the old building, but very soon the Department began to press for a larger and better-equipped establishment. Many of their requirements we considered unnecessary in a country village, and put off the evil day as long as possible, with such phrases as, "The matter is under consideration," or, "Will shortly be brought to the notice of the Board." Like "retribution," however, the Education Department, "though leaden-footed, comes iron-handed," and when all other methods failed they always put forward as a final inducement to comply with their demands the threat of withholding the Government grant; so that, in spite of the shoemaker's encomium, that "Our chairman has plenty of combativeness," we had eventually to give way.

At the outset it was decided to admit the Press; our meetings were generally expected to afford some spicy copy for readers of the local papers, but I am pleased to think that both reporters and readers were disappointed. Some of our neighbours had given us specially lively specimens of the personalities indulged in at the meetings of their local bodies, Boards of Guardians, and Councils—notably, at that time, those of Winchcombe and Stow-on-the-Wold, where these exhibitions appeared to form a favourite diversion. It is a mistake for such a Board as ours to admit reporters; the noisy members are apt to monopolize the speaking, to the exclusion of the more useful and more thoughtful; the former play to the gallery to the extent of visibly addressing themselves to the reporters instead of to the chairman, as is proper.

The first point we had to consider was the acquisition of a suitable site for the new buildings, the old site not affording space to enlarge the premises or for the addition of a master's house. We were lucky to get the offer of an excellent position, allowing not only space for all the buildings in contemplation, but ample room for future enlargements, which it was evident would be needed before many more years. I was requested, with another member, to interview the vendor's solicitors, and we were empowered to make the best bargain we could arrange for the site.

We concluded the purchase, and congratulated ourselves upon the acquisition of a central and in every way desirable site, with a long road frontage, for the very moderate sum of, I think, L90. On reporting to the Board at our next meeting, the sum appeared large to some of the more simple members, and they were inclined to be dissatisfied, until I told them that I was prepared to appropriate the bargain myself, and they could find another for the school. This settled the matter, and, I suppose, at the present time the site would fetch two or three times what it cost us.

Plans and specifications were now necessary, and from inquiries I had made I was able to suggest an architect with much experience in school buildings. He appeared before the Board later, and was subjected to many questions from the members, of which I only remember one that appealed to me as original: "Do you pose before this Board as an economical architect?" We soon had the work in train, but, of course, before any active steps were taken, all our proposals were submitted to, and approved by the Education Department.

The question of religious instruction became urgent, and I was pleased and surprised at carrying a unanimous resolution through the Board—although it included some Nonconformists—that the Vicar (No. 2), who had declined to be nominated as a candidate for election, should be invited to undertake the religious instruction of the school. The Vicar consented, and the arrangement worked smoothly for some years. One day, later, a member rose, and inquired if the children were receiving religious instruction. "Yes," I said. "Are the children taught science?" "Yes," again. "Well," said he, "how do you reconcile the fact, when religion and science are not in agreement?" Fortunately, I had been lately taking a course of Darwin, and I was able to refer him to the concluding lines of the Origin of Species. We debated the matter with some energy, but having made his protest, the member was satisfied to let the matter drop.

All went well thereafter until we were settled in the new building, and Vicar No. 3 was in possession of the living. He was young and inexperienced in the conduct of a parish, and was imbued with ideas of what he considered a more ornate and elaborate form of worship. Innovations followed—lighted candles over the altar and the appointment of a Server at the Communion Service. Almost immediately I heard objections from the villagers; they could not understand the necessity for a couple of dim candles in a church on a summer day, when the whole world outside was ablaze with the glory of the sun.

A member arose at a Board meeting, and began: "Mr. Chairman, I wish to draw the attention of the Board to the question of religious instruction in the school, for I reckon that our children are being taught a lot of Popery." I could see that he had been in consultation with other members of the Board, and that he had a majority behind him. I tried hard to smooth matters over, but they had made up their minds, and he carried his resolution that, in future, the new Vicar should be authorized to enter the school for the purpose of religious instruction only one day a week! I think this small indulgence was accorded only as a result of my efforts in his favour, though I was by no means pleased with the innovations myself.

I put the matter before the Vicar, asking him if he thought his novelties were worth while in the face of the opposition of the village and the loss of his religious influence with the children. He would not go back from what, he said, he regarded as a matter of principle, and could not see that he was throwing away a unique opportunity, but he agreed to withdraw the unwelcome Server.

In spite of the fact that every detail of the new school building had been submitted to, and approved by, the Education Department, trouble began with an officious inspector, who on his first visit complained of the ventilation. An elementary school is never exactly a bed of roses, but we had a lofty building and classrooms, with plenty of windows, which could be adjusted to admit as much or as little fresh air as was requisite. We protested without result, and we had eventually to pull the new walls about and spend L20 on what we considered an uncalled-for alteration.

Our inspectors of schools varied greatly: some were quiet with the children and considerate with the teachers; others vindicated their authority by unnecessary fault-finding, upsetting the teachers and alarming the children. In the days of our voluntary school I have seen a room full of children in a state of nervous tension, and the mistress and pupil-teachers in tears, as the result of inconsiderate reprimands and irritable speech. My sympathies have been strongly aroused on such occasions with a child's terror of being made an exhibition before the others. As a boy at Harrow, in the form of the Rev. F.W. Farrar, afterwards Dean of Canterbury, I had an unpleasant experience, though it was no fault of his and quite unintentional. The Russian Government had sent a deputation of two learned professors to England, to inquire into the educational system of the Public Schools, with the view of sending a member of the Royal family for education in this country. Among other schools, they visited Harrow, and Mr. Farrar's form was one of those selected for inspection. It was the evening of a winter's day, when, at the four o'clock school, we found two very formidable-looking old gentlemen in spectacles and many furs seated near the master's desk. Great was the consternation, but Mr. Farrar was careful not to call upon any boy who would be likely to exhibit himself as a failure. I was seated near Mr. Farrar, at one end of a bench. He had a habit, when wanting to change his position, of moving quite unconsciously across the intervening space between his desk and this bench, and placing one foot on the bench close to the nearest boy, he would, with one hand, play with the boy's hair, while he held his book in the other. With horror, I found him approaching, and shortly his hand was on my head, rubbing my hair round and round, and ruffling it in a fashion very trying to any boy who was neat and careful of his personal appearance. I could see the Russians staring through their spectacles at these proceedings; possibly they thought it a form of punishment unknown in Russia, and my feelings of humiliation can be imagined. Finally he gave me a smack on the cheek and retired to his desk, leaving my hair in a state of chaos, though he had not the least idea of having done anything which might appear unusual to the foreigners.

Dear "old Farrar"!—as we irreverently called him—it was an education in itself to be in his form. I had the uncommon privilege of moving upwards in the School at very much the same rate as he did as a master, though I fear for my school reputation none too quickly. He first kindled my admiration for the classic giants of English literature, more especially the poets, taught me to appreciate the rolling periods of Homer, and even the beauty of the characters of the Greek alphabet. He was a voluminous student of the best in every form of ancient and modern literature. He always kept a copy of Milton, his favourite poet I think, on his desk, and, whenever a passage in the Greek or Latin classics occurred, for which he could produce a parallel, quoted pages without reference to the book.

I recall my delight and pride when I was sent on two occasions to the headmaster, Dr. Butler, the late Master of Trinity, with copies of original verses; and the honour I felt it to inscribe them, at Mr. Farrar's request, in a MS. book he kept for the purpose of collecting approved original efforts in the author's own writing. For it was his habit once a week to give us subjects for verses or composition. A unique effort of the Captain of the School cricket eleven, C.F. Buller, comes back to me as I write; it did not however appear in the MS. book. The School Chapel was the subject, full of interest and stirring to the imagination, if only for the aisle to the memory of Harrow officers who fell in the Crimea. Buller's flight of imagination was as absurd as it was impertinent:

"The things in the Chapel nonsense are, Don't you think so dear Farrar!"

Mr. Farrar, however, never took offence at such sallies. I remember, when he was denouncing the old "yellow back" novels, murmurs becoming audible, which were intended to reach him, of "Eric! Eric!"—the title of his early school-boy story—he only smiled in acknowledgment. And on an April 1st several boys who had plotted beforehand gazed simultaneously and persistently at a spot on the ceiling, until his eyes followed theirs unthinkingly in the same direction, when it occurred to him, as nothing unusual was visible, that it was All Fools' Day. He was very playful and indulgent; he kept a "squash" racquet ball on his desk, and could throw it with accurate aim if he noticed a boy dreaming or inattentive. He would never when scoring the marks enter a 0, even after an abject failure, always saying, "Give him a charity 1!"

Boys are quick judges of sermons: if interested, they listen without an effort; if not interested, they cannot listen. Whenever Mr. Farrar's turn came as preacher in the School Chapel there was a subtle stir and whisper of appreciation, "It's Farrar to-day." He was a natural orator. I can still hear his magnificent voice swelling in tones of passionate denunciation decreasing to gentle appeal, and dying away in tender pathos. This was education in the true sense of the word, and though I have wandered a long way from my immediate subject, I feel that the digression is not irrelevant in contrast with the mechanical instruction that goes by the name of education in the Board Schools. I cannot help recalling too that in the ancient IVth Form Room at Harrow, the roughest of old benches were, and I believe still are, considered good enough for future bishops, judges, and statesmen; while in the Board Schools expensive polished desks and seats have to be provided at the cost of the ratepayers to be shortly kicked to pieces by hobnailed shoes.

I was present at some amusing incidents in examinations at our village school. A small boy was commanded by an inspector to read aloud, and began in the usual child's high-keyed, expressionless, and unpunctuated monotone: "I-have-six-little-pigs-two-of-them-are-white-two-of-them-are-black-an d-two-of-them-are-spotted." "That's not the way to read," interposed the inspector. "Give me the book." He stood up, striking an attitude, head thrown well back, and reading with great deliberation and emphasis: "I have six LITTLE PIGS; two of them are white! Two of them are black! and (confidentially) two of them are spottered!"

I once picked up an elementary reading book in the school, and read as follows: "Tom said to Jack, 'There is a hayrick down in the meadow; shall we go and set it on fire?'" And so on, with an account of the conflagration, highly coloured. So much for town ideas of the education of country children; the suggestion was enough to bring about the catastrophe, given the opportunity and a box of matches.

Some of the inspectors were very agreeable men; they occasionally came to luncheon at my house, and I once asked where the best-managed schools were to be found. The reply was, "In parishes where the voluntary schools still exist, and the feudal system is mildly administered."

Our villagers, reading of the large sums that we were obliged to expend in response to the requirements of the Education Department, and finding the consequent rates a burden, began to think of economy and nothing but economy, so that though I had expected them to be only too anxious to provide the very best possible education for their own children, it came as a surprise that this was quite a subordinate aim to that of keeping down the cost. And this was the more unexpected, as the main cost fell upon the large ratepayers, like myself and the railway company and the owners of land and cottages rented rate-free. At the next election several of these economists became candidates, with the result that many of the original members including myself were not returned, in spite of the fact that our well-planned and well-built schools were erected at a lower cost per child than any in the neighbourhood. I was not sorry to escape from the monotony of listening to interminable debates as to whether a necessary broom or such-like trifle should be bought at one shilling or one and threepence. For this was the kind of subject that the Board could understand and liked to enlarge upon, while really important proposals were carried with little consideration. As a matter of fact, members of a School Board are no more than dummies in the hands of an inflexible Department, and are appointed to carry out orders and regulations without the power of modification, even when quite unsuitable for a country village school.

There was some little excitement at the election; one of the members of the old Board had been called "an ignoramus," in the stress of battle, and being much concerned and mystified asked a neighbour what the term signified, adding, no doubt thinking of a hippopotamus, that he believed it was some kind of animal! His knowledge of zoology was probably as limited as that disclosed by the following story:

A menagerie was on view at Evesham, to the great joy of many juveniles as well as older people, for such exhibitions were not very common in the town. Very early next morning, a farmer, living about two miles from Aldington, was awakened by a shower of small stones on his bedroom window. Looking out he saw his shepherd in much excitement and alarm. "Oh master, master, there's a beast with two tails, one in front and one behind, a-pullin' up the mangolds, and a-eatin' of 'em!" The farmer hurried to the spot and saw an African elephant which had escaped during the night; he was wondering how to proceed when two keepers appeared and the strange beast was led quietly back to the town.

As chairman of our School Board I early recognized among the members discoverers of mare's-nests, who lost no opportunity of exhibiting their own importance by intruding such matters into the already overflowing agenda, and my method of dealing with them was so successful, though I believe not original, that it may be found useful by those called upon to preside over any of the multitudinous councils now in existence. Whenever the member produced his cherished discovery—generally very shadowy as to detail—I proposed the appointment of a subcommittee, consisting of him and his sympathizers, to inquire into the matter, and report at the next Board meeting. In this way I shunted the bother of the investigation of usually some trifle or unsubstantiated opinion on to his own shoulders, so that, when he realized the time and trouble involved, he became much less interested, and we heard very little more of the subject.

I suppose that everybody living in a country parish, who can look back over the period of fifty years of compulsory education, would agree that the results are insignificant in comparison with the effort, and one cannot help wondering whether, after all, they justify the gigantic cost. We appear to have tried to build too quickly on an insecure foundation. Nature produces no permanent work in a hurry, and Art is a blind leader unless she submits to Nature's laws. The pace has been too great, and the fabric which we have reared is already showing the defects in its construction.

How otherwise can we account for the littleness of the men representing "the people," who have been rushed into the big positions, and for the vulgarity of the present age? Vulgarity in public worship; vulgarity in the manners, the speeches, and the ideals of the House of Commons; vulgarity in "literature," on the stage, in music, in the studio, and in a section of the Press; vulgarity in building and the desecration of beautiful places; vulgarity in form and colour of dress and decoration. We are far behind the design and construction of the domestic furniture of 150 years ago, and we have never equalled the architecture of the earliest periods, for stability and stateliness.

The skim milk seems to have come to the top and the cream has gone to the bottom, as the result of the contravention of the laws of evolution, and the failure to perceive the analogy between the simplest methods of agriculture, and the cultivation of mentality. We have expected fruit and flowers from waste and untilled soil; we sowed the seed of instruction without even ploughing the land, or eradicating the prominent weeds, and we are reaping a crop of thistles where we looked for figs, and thorns where we looked for grapes. The seed scattered so lavishly by the wayside was devoured by the fowls of the air; that which was sown upon the stony places, where there was not much earth, could not withstand the heat of summer; and that which fell among thorns was choked by the unconquered possessors of the field. A little, a very little, which "fell into good ground brought forth fruit, some an hundredfold, some sixtyfold, some thirtyfold"; and therein lies our only consolation.

The educational enthusiasts of 1870 forgot that the material they had to work upon did not come from inherited refinement and intelligence; that it was evolved from a parentage content with a vocabulary of some 500 words; that there was little nobility of home influence to assist in the process of development; they crammed it with matter which it could not assimilate, they took it from the open country air and the sunshine, confined it in close and crowded school-rooms, and produced what we see everywhere at the present time, at the cost of physical deterioration—a diseased and unsettled mentality.

I am aware that there are those who decline to admit any influence of mental heredity, and argue that environment is the only factor to be considered. In a clever and well-reasoned work on the subject I lately read, this proposition was substantiated by instances observable especially among birds brought up in unnatural conditions. The writer, however, entirely forgot the most conclusive piece of evidence in favour of mental heredity which it is possible to adduce—namely, that of the brood of ducklings, who, in spite of the unmistakable manifestations of alarm on the part of a frantic foster-mother hen, take to the water and enjoy it on the very first opportunity.



CHAPTER X.



VILLAGE INSTITUTIONS: CRICKET—FOOTBALL—FLOWERSHOW—BAND—POSTMAN— CONCERTS.

"There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass." The Lotus-Eaters.

Among village institutions a cricket club was started soon after I first came, and I was able to lend a meadow in which the members could play. I held the sinecure office of President. The members met, discussed ways and means, drew up regulations, and instituted fines for various delinquencies. Swearing was expensive at threepence each time, but there was no definition of what were to be considered "swear words." Locally, a usual expletive is, "daazz it," or, "I'll be daazzed," and it was not long before a member making use of this euphemism was accused of swearing. He protested that it was not recognized by philological authorities as coming under the category, but he had to pay up.

A village cricket match was regarded more as a contest than a pastime; each side feared the censure of his parish, if conquered, so nothing had to be given away likely to prove an advantage to an opposing team. I once saw a member snatch a bat belonging to his own club from one of the other side who was about to appropriate it for his innings with, "No you don't." How different is the feeling, and how ready to help, a member of a really sporting team would have been in similar circumstances! Referring to help or advice in cricket matters, a story is told of the late Dr. W.G. Grace. The incident happened in an adjoining county to Worcestershire. The great batsman, crossing Clifton Down, came upon some boys at cricket. Three sticks represented the wickets, arranged so wide apart that the ball could pass through without disturbing them. Ever ready to help, Dr. Grace pointed out the fault and readjusted the sticks; as he turned away he heard, "What does 'e know about it, I wonder!"

This carries me to a parallel happening at Stratford-on-Avon. The late Sir Henry Irving and a friend fell in with a native on the outskirts of the town, and being anxious to test the local reputation of the poet asked the man if he had heard of a person named Shakespeare. The man assented and volunteered the information that he was a writer. Did he "know what Shakespeare had written?" Their informant could not say, but, a moment after they had parted, he called back that he believed he had written "part of the Bible."

An ancient villager, who was secretary of our Club and always acted as umpire, gave me "out," incorrectly, for accidentally touching the wicket when the ball was "dead." I retired without contesting his decision, as I had been taught. Next time we met he apologized, having discovered his mistake, but he was greatly impressed by my practical example of "playing the game."

Cricket, though popular in my first years at Aldington, gradually became difficult to arrange. As the market-garden industry superseded farming, the young men found full employment for the long summer evenings on their allotments and those of their parents. In the winter, when horticultural work is not so pressing, they had plenty of time on their hands, and a football club was formed. It flourished exceedingly, and Badsey became almost invincible among the neighbouring villages and even against the towns. They distinguished themselves in the local League matches, and on one occasion, something like two thousand spectators assembled to witness a final which Badsey won, in the meadow I lent them; and I had the honour of presiding at a grand dinner to celebrate the event. I notice in the local papers that in spite of the interruption of the war they are now again thriving and earning new laurels.

Our most important fete day was that upon which the Badsey, Aldington, and Wickhamford Flower Show was held. The credit, for the original inception and organization of this popular festival, is almost entirely due, I think, to the public spirit and determination of my old friend and co-churchwarden, Mr. Julius Sladden, of Badsey, and it gives me much pleasure to record the debt of gratitude which the three villages still owe him.

The Show is held as nearly as possible on the day of the ancient Badsey wake, in most parishes still celebrated on the day of the patron saint. In the case of Badsey the anniversary of the wake is the 25th of July (St. James's day). As a wake Badsey's observance is a thing of the past; it was formerly a time of much cider-drinking, a meeting-day for friends and relations, and for various trials of strength and skill, though I believe the carousals outlasted the sports by many years.

Nothing happier, in the way of a revival, and more civilized enjoyment, could have been devised than a flower show, and it is now one of the most popular fixtures of the neighbourhood with exceedingly keen competition. Besides fruit, flowers, and vegetables, the exhibits include such produce as butter and eggs, and my wife was very successful with these, but on one occasion was rather disappointed to find a beautiful dish of Langshan eggs, almost preternaturally brown and rich-looking, disqualified. The judges were not acquainted with the peculiarities of the breed—then a new one—and the reason for disqualification, as we afterwards discovered, was "artificially coloured." I believe exhibitors have been known to use coffee for this purpose, and the judges, who had not the exhibitors' names before them, fancied this to be an instance.

The children's exhibits of wild flower bouquets I always considered at this and similar shows far the most interesting and beautiful among the flowers; but, unfortunately, they very soon droop in a hot tent and look rather unhappy.

Aldington Band was the outcome of a desire for musical expression on the part of a few parishioners with some skill and experience in such matters; it included performers on wind instruments and a big drum. The Band was unfortunate at first in purchasing instruments of differing pitch, as was discovered by my wife on attending a practice at the request of the members. She pointed out the fault, and found an instructor from Evesham to give them a course of lessons, so that with a new set of instruments they soon improved. It was difficult, at first, to find a suitable place for practice. A neighbour, a little doubtful as to their attainments, suggested the railway arch in one of my meadows as a nice airy spot under cover, but later expressed doubts as to the safety of the trains running overhead on account of the violence of the commotion beneath! This, of course, was mere chaff, for they soon became so efficient that a large room was found for them in the village, and eventually they were annually engaged to perform the musical programme at the Badsey, Aldington, and Wickhamford Flower Show. My gardener was the leading spirit of the Band, a great optimist and the most willing man of any who ever reigned in my garden. There was nothing he would not cheerfully undertake, and when we had a difficulty in finding a sweep as required, he volunteered for the work and became quite an adept, with the set of rods and brushes I bought for the purpose.

Our postman, though not a villager, was quite an institution; he walked a matter of ten miles a day from Evesham to Bretforton, taking Aldington and Badsey on the way, and back at night. He filled up the interval between the incoming and outgoing posts at Bretforton, working at his trade as tailor. Entering our village each evening, he announced his arrival by three blasts on his tin horn; he was very shy of being observed in this performance, and the people had to catch him as he passed and hand him their letters. He must have walked nearly 100,000 miles in the many years he was our postman, and he told me before I left that more letters were addressed to the Manor when I first came, than to all the rest of the houses in the village together. When correspondence became more general a pillar-box was erected, but I always regretted the loss of the familiar notes of the tin horn.

Among Aldington's amusements no account would be complete without a reference to the numerous concerts and entertainments for charitable objects which my wife organized, and in which her musical talent enabled her to take a prominent part; and although I feel some hesitation in dealing with so personal a matter, I am certain that many of those who co-operated with her in the organization and the performance of these affairs will be pleased to have their recollections of her own part in them revived.

She possessed a natural soprano voice of great sweetness and flexibility, in combination with the sympathetic ability and clear enunciation which add so much to the charm of vocal expression. She was not allowed to begin singing, in earnest, before she was nineteen, for fear of straining so delicate a voice, and she then had the advantage of the tuition of Signor Caravoglia, one of the most celebrated teachers of the time.

His method included deliberation in taking breath, thorough opening of the mouth, practice before a mirror to produce a pleasing effect, and to avoid facial contortion; he would not allow any visible effort, the aim being to sing as naturally and spontaneously as a bird. His wife played the accompaniments, so that the master could give his whole attention to the attitude, production, and facial expression of the pupil.

Signer Caravoglia only consented to teach her on the express condition that she would not sing in choruses, on account of the danger of strain and overexertion. She practised regularly, chiefly exercises, two hours a day in separate half hours. Her talent was soon recognized at Malvern, where she lived before her marriage, and her assistance was in great demand for amateur charity concerts.

I have a book full of newspaper reports of my wife's performances, containing notices of concerts at Malvern repeatedly, Kidderminster, Worcester, at Birmingham under the auspices of the Musical Section of the Midland Institute—a very great honour before a highly critical audience—Alcester, Pershore, Moreton-in-the-Marsh, Evesham, Broadway, Badsey, Wallingford, and a great many villages in the Evesham district. At Moreton she sang for the local Choral Society, taking the soprano solos in the first part of Haydn's Spring, and the local paper reported that her "birdlike voice added much to the beauty of the cantata." In the second part of the concert she gave The Bird that came in Spring, by Sterndale Bennett. I was always a little nervous during this song in anticipation of the upper C towards the finale, but it never failed to come true and brilliant. As we were leaving by train the following morning we met a dear old musician who had taken part in the chorus of the cantata. He begged to be introduced to her, and said in his hearty congratulations on her performance, that never before had such a note been heard in Moreton.

At one of the Broadway concerts my wife had the pleasure of meeting Miss Maude Valerie White, who was playing the accompaniments for performers of her own compositions, including The Devout Lover, which, she told Miss White, she considered one of the best songs in the English language, at the same time asking for her autograph. Miss White was kind enough to write her signature with the MS. music of the first phrase—notes and words—of the song in a book which my wife kept for the autographs of distinguished musicians and celebrated people.

While at Malvern my wife once heard Jenny Lind in public, and she describes it as a most memorable occasion.

Jenny Lind had for some years retired from public performance, but consented to reappear at the request of a deputation of railway employees anxious to arrange a concert in aid of the widows and orphans of officials killed in a recent railway accident. She stipulated that she should sing in two duets only, choosing the other voice herself, and she selected Miss Hilda Wilson, the well-known contralto of that time.

They sang two duets by Rubinstein, one being The Song of the Summer Birds, full of elaborate execution. Her voice was so true, sweet and flexible, trilling and warbling like a bird, and taking the A flat as a climax of delight at the conclusion with the greatest ease, that with closed eyes it might have been taken for the effort of a young girl.

Jenny Lind was over seventy at the time; she was erect, tall, and graceful; she wore a black dress with a good deal of white lace, and a white lace cap. She was then Madame Otto Goldschmidt, living at the Wynd's Point on the Herefordshire Beacon of the Malvern Range, and had long been known as the "Swedish Nightingale."



CHAPTER XI.



DEALERS—LUCK MONEY—FAIRS—SALES—EFFECT OF CLIMATE ON CATTLE AND SHEEP—AGRICULTURAL SHOWS.

"I'll give thrice so much land To any well-deserving friend; But in the way of bargain, mark ye me, I'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair." —1 Henry IV.

Dealers of all kinds were much more frequent callers at farm-houses in the early days of my farming, than latterly when auction sales, to some extent, superseded private negotiations, but the horse-dealer remained constant, because comparatively few horses were offered by auction. The horse-dealers appeared to conform to an understanding that it was a breach of etiquette to exceed certain well-marked boundaries in their search for purchases, or to interfere in each other's business. This principle was carried so far as to prevent dealers from one of these "countries" purchasing a horse at a fair coming from another dealer's "country," and the understanding of course minimized competition likely to raise the price. The dealers however I think, gave fair values, governed for the most part by the prices obtainable by them in the large towns.

Most of my horses, when for sale, were bought by a man in a considerable way of business, a well-known breeder, too, of shire horses, taking many prizes at the leading shows. A handsome man with a presence, and an excellent judge, shrewd but straight. He would ask the price after examining the animal, and make an offer which he would very seldom exceed if refused at first; but he would spend some time in conversation, apparently quite irrelevant and very amusing, though always returning to the point at intervals with arguments in favour of the acceptance of his bid. He was so genial and pleasant and such good company, for no man was ever better acquainted with the ways of the world, that he very rarely, I think, left the premises without a deal, though sometimes he was in his gig before the final bargain was struck. It is a custom of the trade for the seller to give something back to the buyer by way of "luck money," and the last time I did business with him I refused to give more than one shilling each on two horses, as I never received more than that sum when a buyer myself. He accepted cheerfully, telling me that a shilling each was quite worth taking, as he had a thousand horses through his hands in the course of every twelve months, and that a thousand shillings meant L50 a year.

The best piece of horse-dealing I ever did, was the purchase of a six months old colt for L26, winning L20 in prizes with him as a two-year-old, working him regularly at three and four on the farm, and selling him at five for eighty guineas to a large brewery firm. Eighty guineas in those days was a big price for a cart horse, though, of course, in modern times, owing to the war, much higher prices can be obtained.

I remember another dealer, who, a notable figure in a white top hat with a deep black band, and large coloured spectacles, was to be seen at all the fairs and principal sales. He, too, had an ingratiating manner, and would accost a young farmer with a hearty, "Good-morning, Squire," or some such flattering introduction. A wise dealer always knows how to keep up amicable relations with a possible seller or buyer, and never descends to abuse, or the assumption of a personal injury if he cannot persuade a seller to accept his price, as is the case with some dealers with less savoir faire.

A successful cattle dealer I knew had similar tactics of fraternity, always addressing his sellers as "Governor," with marked respect. But the best instance of this diplomatic spirit occurred in the case of a deal between an old Hampshire friend of mine and a well-known and historic sheep dealer from the same county. My friend had lately become the happy father of twins, the fact being widely known in the neighbourhood, for he was a very prominent man. He had 100 sheep for sale, and the dealer was inspecting them, in a pen near the house. As the bargain proceeded, the front door opened, and a nurse-maid appeared with the twins in their perambulator. The dealer noticed them immediately, and was not slow to turn the incident to his advantage. "There they be, there they be, the little darlings," he called out, "a sovereign apiece nurse, a sovereign apiece." Diving into a capacious pocket, he pulled out a handful of gold and silver, and selecting two sovereigns he handed them to the nurse for the children. "After that," my friend said, "what could I do but sell him the sheep, though he got them at two shillings a head less than I ought to have made." Now two shillings a head, on one hundred sheep, represents ten pounds, leaving eight pounds which the dealer earned by his keen insight into human nature.

This dealer carried on business with a brother, and they were to be seen for very many years at all the large Hampshire summer sheep fairs, where indeed, sometimes, when prices were rising, they owned nearly all the sheep offered for sale, having bought them up beforehand. As in a favourable summer when there was plenty of keep and a good prospect of abundant roots prices would rise as much as 10s. a head during the months of the big fairs, and as at a single fair as many as 30,000 sheep would be for sale, the chances of profit offered to the courageous dealer with capital are manifest.

Though risen from small beginnings, these brothers amassed considerable fortunes, all of which, it was said, they invested in real estate, so that they were known at one time to be worth at least L100,000; and, as they continued in business for some years after the time of which I am writing, they must have exceeded that sum considerably as a total, though the values of land began to fall away towards the end of their active existence.

The more energetic of the two used very original phrases, in which he extolled the physical virtues of flocks he had to sell; referring to their size, he would say, "Just look at their backs! look at their backs! they be as long as a wet Sunday!" Watching him, you could see that while giving full attention to his customer, and keeping him in a good humour with pleasant chat, while a bargain was proceeding, his glance perpetually wandered to the moving crowd around the pens, and that he had not only eyes, but ears, open to catch any impression bearing on the progress of the general trade. He knew everybody, and intuition told him upon what business they were present.

These two dealers combined money-lending with sheep-dealing; if a buyer had not the ready cash they would give credit for the purchase price, the sheep forming the security; it being understood that when they were again for sale the lenders should have the selling of them on commission.

Speaking of horse-dealers I referred to the custom of giving "luck money," otherwise called "chap money." The word "chap" takes its derivation from the Anglo-Saxon ceap price or bargain, and ceapean, to bargain, whence come the words "chop," to exchange; "cheap," "Cheapside," "Mealcheapen Street" in Worcester, "cheapjack," etc. Also, the prefix in the names of market towns, such as Chipping Campden, Chipping Norton, etc. There is a curious place-name here in Burley, New Forest, where I am now living, spelt "Shappen," which puzzled me until I chanced to meet with an ancient print of a village merry-making, with dancing and a May-pole and found that the name Shappen applied especially to the spot, and that not far away the Forest ponies and cattle were formerly penned for sale at an annual fair in a lane, still called Pound Lane "Pound" is from the Anglo-Saxon pund, a fold or inclosure. Shappen is evidently, therefore, derived from ceap (and possibly pund) as a place in which bargains were struck, and the name testifies to the extreme antiquity of the New Forest pony and cattle fair formerly held there.

There are several notable horse fairs still held near Evesham. Besides the one at Pershore, already mentioned, the most important fairs are held at Stow-on-the-Wold and Shipston-on-Stour, both very out-of-the-way places; and many stories of the wiles of horse-copers were related in connection therewith. I remember the following told as occurring at Stow-on-the-Wold. A man approached a simple-looking young farmer, and getting into conversation with him, pointed out a horse not far off, telling him that he had quarrelled with the owner who refused in consequence to sell him the horse which he wished to buy. He promised the farmer L2 if he would undertake the negotiation, and could buy the horse for L10. The farmer agreed, and after some apparent difficulty succeeded in effecting the purchase at the sum named, paid the money and returned with the horse to the place where he had left his acquaintance. The latter, however, had disappeared, and after searching the fair from one end to the other, the farmer took back the horse, to repudiate the bargain. The owner had also vanished, and the farmer found himself with an ancient screw, which eventually he was glad to get rid of at a pound a leg, losing L6 on the deal.

There are small pig-dealers, in almost every village, on the lookout for bargains, and very cute men they generally are. One of these well-known at Aldington, though nearly blind, could tell the points and value of any pig in a marvellous way almost by intuition; it was said of him that, "though blind, he was a better judge of a pig than most folks with their eyes open."

At farm and other auction sales there are always anxious buyers who make a practice of trying to depreciate ("crabbing," as it is called) any article or property they particularly wish to purchase, by making damaging statements or insinuations to anybody whom, they fear, is also a probable buyer. At a sale of cottage property adjoining a public-house, in a village not far from Aldington, a keen purchaser remarked that there was no water on the premises. The auctioneer, however, knowing that water was not his man's strong point, immediately replied, "Oh, never mind the water, sir, there's plenty of whisky to be had next door." At another property sale, the tenant of the house on offer, gratuitously informed me that the roof was in a very bad state; knowing my man, I was not surprised when the house was knocked down to him, but I never saw any repairs to the roof in progress afterwards.

A friend of mine had a caretaker in an empty house, and, finding that no applications to view ever got beyond that stage, called at the house with his wife, ostensibly as intending tenants. He was not personally known to the caretaker, and on making the usual inquiries, found the man by no means enthusiastic as to the amenities of the place, and particularly doubtful as to the drainage, so much so as to make it plain that any otherwise likely tenant would be repelled. Knowing that all the sanitary arrangements were in perfect order, he disclosed his identity, much to the dismay of the caretaker who, of course, was dismissed.

The person who asks damaging questions of the auctioneer or solicitor at a property sale, though perhaps not declared the buyer on the fall of the hammer, not infrequently proves later to have been so, having employed an agent to bid for him.

At a sale of farm stock and implements I was examining a waggon practically new, though with no intention of buying, when I was surprised by a cousin of the vendor volunteering the statement that, having lately borrowed the waggon, he noticed one of the wheels giving out a suspicious noise when in use, as if something were wrong. This was a particularly bad case of "crabbing," as the man eventually became the purchaser at a high price.

It is an alarming sensation to see one's name on a waggon for the first time, especially when the vehicle has been wholly repainted in blue or yellow to represent the owner's supposed political tendencies, for such was the custom in Worcestershire; but perhaps one's name, address, and crest on a hop-pocket is more alarming still, when we remember that twenty or more of these pockets, all marked alike, will form each of several loads to be carted from a London railway station to the Borough, the seat of the hop-trade, on the way to the factor's warehouses, for all beholders to "read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest."

In the delightful and now somewhat rare book Talpa; or, The Chronicles of a Clay Farm, by Chandos Wren Hoskins, one of the few agricultural works ever written by a scholar, he refers to his first experience of this sort, when speaking of his difficulty in making up his mind as to whether he should let the property into which he had just come by inheritance, or occupy it himself, as follows:

"What was to be done? Apostatize from all the promises and vows made from my youth up, and take it in hand—that is, in a bailiff's hand, which certain foregone experiences had led me to conceive was of all things the most out of hand (if that may be called so, which empties the hand and the pocket too). Such seemed the only alternative! At first it was an impossibility—then an improbability—and then, as the ear of bearded corn wins its forbidden way up the schoolboy's sleeve, and gains a point in advance by every effort to stop or expel it, so did every determination, every reflection counteract the very purpose it was summoned to oppose, and, in short, one fine morning I almost jumped a yard backward at seeing—my own name on a waggon!"

The reference to a bailiff reminds me of my father's illustration, one evening at dessert, of the difference between a farmer selling his produce personally, or doing so through the medium of a bailiff. Taking three wine-glasses—No. 1 representing the farmer, No. 2 the bailiff, and No. 3 the purchaser—he filled No. 1 with port and poured the contents into No. 3; what few drops were left in No. 1 remained the property of the farmer. But if the wine were poured into No. 2, and from thence into No. 3, however much the complete transference was attempted, some small portion always remained for the benefit of the intermediary.

I always conducted my sales personally, except in small matters, and my experience in the latter proved an exception to the above rule, as I have previously related (pp. 17 and 20).

I commend Talpa, with George Cruikshank's clever illustrations, to the attention of all readers of the curiosities of agriculture, as well as to practical men; it is one of those uncommon books which enters into the humorous side of farming under disadvantages—as, for instance, prejudiced labourers who have long been employed upon such work as draining. The author found one of the men, after instructions to lay the pipes at a depth of three feet, cutting a drain about eighteen inches deep, laying in the tiles, one by one, and filling the earth in over them as he went. "I've been a-draining this forty year and more—I ought to know summat about it." The author adds, "Need I tell you who said this? or give you the whole of the colloquy to which it furnished the epilogue?" Talpa was published sixty-seven years ago, but it contains much that might well be taken to heart by our post-war amateur agricultural reconstructionists.

The tactics of a combination of buyers at a sale of household goods, with an arrangement for one man to buy everything they want, so as to avoid competition, is well known as "the knock out." I saw a most flagrant case at a sale of valuable books at an old Cotswold Manor House. The books were tied up, quite promiscuously, in parcels of half a dozen or more, and although the room was crowded with dealers who had been examining them with interest beforehand, practically only one bidder appeared, and nearly every lot was sold to him for a few shillings. I noticed several men taking notes of the prices made, and, immediately the book sale was finished, they removed them to the lawn, where they were resold by one of the gang at greatly enhanced prices. They would, of course, eventually deduct the original cost from the amount now realized and divide the difference amongst the buyers at the second sale, pro rata, according to the amount of each man's total purchases.

Cattle-dealers, with a reputation as judges of fat stock at auctions, have to be very careful not to let inexperienced butchers see them bidding, because the latter will bid on the strength of the dealer's estimate of value, arguing that the animal must be worth more to himself as a butcher, than to the dealer who has to sell again. I have often watched the crafty ways of such dealers not to give themselves away in this manner, and their methods of concealing their bids. One I particularly noticed, whose habit was to stand just below the auctioneer's rostrum, facing the animal in the ring, with his back to the auctioneer. When he wished to bid he raised his head very slightly, making a nod backwards to the auctioneer, who, knowing his man, was looking out for this method of attracting his attention.

Though the ordinary farm sale is by far the most amusing and picturesque, the sale of pedigree stock is much more sensational. When the shorthorn mania was at its height, and the merits of Bates and Booth blood were hotly debated, when such phrases as "the sea-otter touch," referring to the mossy coat of the red, white, or roan shorthorn, were heard, and the Americans were competing with our own breeders in purchasing the best stock they could find—prices were hoisted to an extravagant height. There is no forming a "knock-out" at a pedigree sale; sturdy competition is the only recognized method of purchase, and the sporting spirit is a strong incentive, especially when the vendor is known as a courageous buyer at the sales of the leading breeders.

I attended the dispersal of a herd where the owner had been for years one of these sporting buyers; he had, however, gone more for catalogue blue-blood than perceptible excellence, and the stock were brought into the ring scarcely up to the exhibition form which a pedigree sale demands. The American buyers were well represented, and the popularity of the vendor brought a great crowd of home buyers, so that the sale went off with spirit. I chanced to sit next to the veterinary surgeon who attended my own stock as well as the herd on offer, and it was amusing to hear his confidential communications as the animals were sold at huge prices. He knew their faults and weaknesses professionally, and it was no breach of confidence, when a cow had passed through the ring and extracted a big figure from an American buyer, to whisper them in my ear. I noticed that the Americans, no doubt with commissions to buy a particular strain of pedigree, appeared to pay more attention to the catalogue than to the cattle themselves, and I saw some sold at fancy prices, which I should really have been sorry to see in my own non-pedigree herd. The sale was a great success, from the vendor's point of view at any rate, and I think the average exceeded seventy guineas all round, including calves only a few months old.

Some years later I visited Shipston-on-Stour with two friends to attend a shorthorn sale in that neighbourhood. Mr. Thornton, the well-known pedigree salesman, was the auctioneer. He waited about for a long time after the hour fixed for the sale, until it became evident that something had gone wrong. It appeared that the sheriff's representative had served a writ on the vendor restraining the sale, and although it was stated that Thornton had offered a personal guarantee that the proceeds should be handed over to the sheriff, the representative could not exceed his instructions, and the sale was abandoned. A large company, including many foreign buyers, had assembled; it was difficult to get these together at a postponement, and when the sale was proceeded with some weeks later, I fear the result could scarcely have proved so satisfactory.

The Vale of Evesham is particularly suitable for pedigree shorthorn breeding, as the soil and climate are very favourable for their production according to exhibition type. It is otherwise with the Jersey, for they quickly adapt themselves to the difference in their environment as compared with the conditions in their native Channel Island. When I exchanged my shorthorns for Jerseys, owing to the foreign competition in the production of beef, which at sevenpence a pound compared unfavourably with butter at fifteenpence, I imported my cows direct from the Island, and afterwards bred from their descendants, selling the bull calves, and occasionally buying a young bull from Jersey. The blood was therefore kept absolutely pure, and, as I was a member of the English Jersey Society, all my stock were entered in the Herd Book.