Grain and Chaff from an English Manor
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Title: Grain and Chaff from an English Manor
Author: Arthur Herbert Savory
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Most recently updated: October 28, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAIN AND CHAFF FROM AN ENGLISH MANOR ***
GRAIN AND CHAFF FROM AN ENGLISH MANOR
By ARTHUR H. SAVORY
OXFORD
BASIL BLACKWELL
1920
PREFACE
As a result of increased facilities within the last quarter of a
century for the exploration of formerly inaccessible parts of the
country, interest concerning our ancient villages has been largely
awakened. Most of these places have some unwritten history and
peculiarities worthy of attention, and an extensive literary field is
thus open to residents with opportunities for observation and
research.
Such records have rarely been undertaken in the past, possibly because
those capable of doing so have not recognized that what are the
trivial features of everyday life in one generation may become
exceptional in the next, and later still will have disappeared
altogether.
Gilbert White, who a hundred and thirty years ago published his
_Natural History of Selborne_, was the first, and I suppose the most
eminent, historian of any obscure village, and it is surprising, as
his book has for so long been regarded as a classic, that so few have
attempted a similar record. His great work remains an inspiring ideal
which village historians can keep in view, not without some hope of
producing a useful description of country life as they have seen it
themselves.
It is a pleasure to acknowledge with grateful thanks the kind help of
friends and correspondents which I have received in writing this book.
Mr. Warde Fowler was good enough to look through the chapters while
still in manuscript, and I have also received great help from Mr.
Herbert A. Evans, who has read through the proofs. The help of
others--besides those whose names I give in the text--has been less
general and mostly confined to some details in the historical part of
the first chapter, and to portions of the subject-matter of the last.
Mr. Hugh Last, Fellow of St. John's College, Oxford, most kindly gave
much valuable time to the examination of the Roman coins and assigning
them to their respective reigns; he contributed also the notes on the
Emperors, with special reference to the events in Britain which
occurred during their reigns. Mr. Dudley F. Nevill of Burley helped me
in a variety of ways, and Mr. C.A. Binyon of Badsey supplied some of
the historical details and information about the ancient roads.
Looking back over the years I spent at Aldington, I see much more
sunshine and blue sky than cloud and storm, notwithstanding the
difficulties of the times. It is a continual source of pleasure to go
over the familiar fields in imagination and to recall the kindly faces
of my loyal and willing labourers. I trust that what I have written of
them will make plain my grateful remembrance of their unfailing
sympathy and ready help.--ARTHUR H. SAVORY.
BURLEY, HANTS.
_January_, 1920.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. ALDINGTON VILLAGE--THE MANOR HOUSE--THE FARM.......... 1
II. THE FARM BAILIFF...................................... 11
III. THE HOP FOREMAN AND THE HOP DRIER..................... 23
IV. THE HEAD CARTER--THE CARPENTER........................ 35
V. AN OLD-FASHIONED SHEPHERD--OLD THICKER--A
GARDENER--MY SECOND HEAD CARTER--A LABOURER......... 46
VI. CHARACTERISTICS OF AGRICULTURAL LABOURERS AND
VILLAGERS........................................... 57
VII. MACHINERY--VILLAGE POLITICS--ASPARAGUS................ 80
VIII. MY THREE VICARS--CHURCH RESTORATION--CHURCHWARDEN
EXPERIENCES--CLERICAL AND OTHER STORIES............. 89
IX. THE SCHOOL BOARD--RELIGIOUS INSTRUCTION--SCHOOL
INSPECTORS--DEAN FARHAR--COMPULSORY EDUCATION....... 106
X. VILLAGE INSTITUTIONS: CRICKET--FOOTBALL--FLOWER-SHOW
--BAND--POSTMAN--CONCERTS........................... 119
XI. DEALERS--LUCK MONEY--FAIRS--SALES--EFFECT OF
CLIMATE ON CATTLE AND SHEEP--AGRICULTURAL SHOWS..... 126
XII. FARM SPECIALISTS...................................... 141
XIII. THE DAIRY--CATTLE--SHEEP--LAMBS--PIGS--POULTRY........ 153
XIV. ORCHARDS--APPLES--CIDER--PERRY........................ 167
XV. PLUMS--CHERRIES....................................... 182
XVI. TREES: ELM--OAK--BEECH--WILLOW--SCOTS-FIR............. 187
XVII. CORN--WHEAT--RIDGE AND FURROW--BARLEY--FARMERS
NEWSTYLE AND OLDSTYLE............................... 207
XVIII. HOPS--INSECT ATTACKS--HOP FAIRS....................... 220
XIX. METEOROLOGY--ETON AND HARROW AT LORD'S--"RUS IN
URBE"............................................... 230
XX. CHANGING COURSE OF STREAMS--DEWPONDS--A WET
HARVEST--WEATHER PHENOMENA--WILL-O'-THE-
WISP--VARIOUS....................................... 239
XXI. BIRDS: PEACOCKS--A WHITE PHEASANT--ROOKS' ARITHMETIC.. 253
XXII. PETS: SUSIE--COCKY--TRUMP--CHIPS--WENDY--TAFFY........ 264
XXIII. BUTTERFLIES--MOTHS--WASPS............................. 271
XXIV. CYCLING--PAGEANTS OF THE ROADS--ROADSIDE
CREATURES--HARMONIOUS BUILDING--COLLECTING OLD
FURNITURE AND CHINA................................. 278
XXV. DIALECT--LOCAL PHRASEOLOGY IN SHAKESPEARE--NAMES
--STUPID PLACES..................................... 288
XXVI. Is ALDINGTON THE ROMAN ANTONA?........................ 294
INDEX....................................................... 306
"Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy
To kings that fear their subjects' treachery!"
_3 King Henry VI_.
"When I paused to lean on my hoe, these sounds and sights
I heard and saw anywhere in the row, a part of the inexhaustible
entertainment which the country offers."
--THOREAU.
"Life is sweet, brother.... There's night and day, brother,
both sweet things; sun, moon and stars, brother, all sweet
things; there's likewise the wind on the heath. Life is very
sweet, brother; who would wish to die?"
--BORROW: _Jasper Petulengro_.
GRAIN AND CHAFF FROM AN ENGLISH MANOR
CHAPTER I.
ALDINGTON VILLAGE--THE MANOR HOUSE--THE FARM.
"There's a divinity that shapes our ends."
--_Hamlet_.
"Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns."
--_Morte d'Arthur_.
In recalling my earliest impressions of the village of Aldington, near
Evesham, Worcestershire, the first picture that presents itself is of
two chestnut-trees in full bloom in front of the Manor House which
became my home, and their welcome was so gracious on that sunny May
morning that it inclined me to take a hopeful view of the inspection
of the house and land which was the object of my visit.
The village took its name from the Celtic _Alne_, white river; the
Anglo-Saxon, _ing_, children or clan; and _ton_, the enclosed place.
The whole name, therefore, signified "the enclosed place of the
children, or clan, of the Alne." There are many other Alnes in England
and Scotland, also Allens and Ellens as river names, probably
corruptions of Alne, and we have many instances of the combination of
a river name with _ing_ and _ton_, such as Lymington and Dartington.
The Celtic _Alne_ points to the antiquity of the place, and there were
extensive traces of Roman occupation to which I shall refer later.
The village was really no more than a hamlet ecclesiastically attached
to the much larger village of Badsey. In addition to Celtic, Roman,
and Anglo-Saxon associations, it figured before the Norman Conquest in
connection with the Monastery and Abbey of Evesham, the Manor and the
mill being mentioned in the Abbey records; and they were afterwards
set down in Domesday Survey.
The Vale of Evesham, in which Aldington is situated, lies at the foot
of the Cotswold Hills, and when approached from them a remarkable
change in climate and appearance is at once noticeable. Descending
from Broadway or Chipping Campden--that is, from an altitude of about
1,000 feet to one of 150 or less--on a mid-April day, one exchanges,
within a few miles, the grip of winter, grey stone walls and bare
trees, for the hopeful greenery of opening leaves and thickening
hedges, and the withered grass of the Hill pastures for the luxuriance
of the Vale meadows.
The earliness of the climate and the natural richness of the land is
the secret of the intensive cultivation which the Vale presents, and
year by year more and more acres pass out of the category of farming
into that of market-gardening and fruit-growing. The climate, however,
though invaluable for early vegetable crops, is a source of danger to
the fruit. After a few days of the warm, moist greenhouse temperature
which, influenced by the Gulf Stream, comes from the south-west up the
Severn and Avon valleys, between the Malverns and the Cotswolds, and
which brings out the plum blossom on thousands of acres, a bitter
frost sometimes occurs, when the destruction of the tender bloom is a
tragedy in the Vale, while the Hills escape owing to their more
backward development.
The Manor House had been added to and largely altered, but many years
had brought it into harmony with its surroundings, while Nature had
dealt kindly with its colouring, so that it carried the charm of long
use and continuous human habitation. Behind the house an old walled
garden, with flower-bordered grass walks under arches of honeysuckle
and roses, gave vistas of an ample mill-pond at the lower end, forming
one of the garden boundaries. The pond was almost surrounded by tall
black poplars which stretched protecting arms over the water, forming
a wide and lofty avenue extending to the faded red-brick mill itself,
and whispering continuously on the stillest summer day. The mill-wheel
could be seen revolving and glittering in the sunlight, and the hum of
distant machinery inside the mill could be heard. The brook, which fed
the pond, was fringed by ancient pollard willows; it wound through
luxuriant meadows with ploughed land or cornfields still farther back.
The whole formed a peaceful picture almost to the verge of drowsiness,
and reminded one of the "land in which it seemèd always afternoon."
The space below the house and the upper part of the garden immediately
behind it was occupied by the rickyard, reaching to the mill and pond,
and a long range of mossy-roofed barns divided it from the farmyard
with its stables and cattle-sheds.
The village occupied one side only of the street, as it was
called--the street consisting of two arms at a right angle, with the
Manor House near its apex. The cottages were built, mostly in pairs,
of old brick, and tiled, having dormer windows, and gardens in front
and at the sides, well stocked with fruit-trees and fruit-bushes, and
this helped the cottagers towards the payment of their very moderate
rents, which had remained the same, I believe, for the best part of
half a century.
Throughout all the available space not so occupied, on either side of
the two arms of the street, and again behind the cottages themselves,
beautiful old orchards, chiefly of apple-trees, formed an unsurpassed
setting both when the blossom was out in pink and white, or the fruit
was ripening in gold and crimson, and even in winter, when the grey
limbs and twisted trunks of the bare trees admitted the level rays of
the sun.
The farm consisted of about 300 acres of mixed arable and grass land
on either side of two shallow valleys, along which wandered the main
brook and its tributary, uniting, where the valleys joined, into one
larger stream, so that all the grass land was abundantly supplied with
water for the stock. These irregular brooks, bordered throughout their
whole course with pollard willows, made a charming feature and gave
great character to the picture.
In the records of Evesham Abbey we find the Manor, including the lands
comprised therein, among the earliest property granted for its
endowment. The erection of the Abbey commenced about 701, and William
of Malmesbury, writing of the loneliness of the spot, tells us that a
small church, probably built by the Britons, had from an early date
existed there. In 709 sixty-five manses were given by Kenred, King of
Mercia, leagued with Offa, King of the East Angles, including one in
Aldinton _(sic)_, and Domesday Survey mentions one hide of land
(varying from 80 to 120 acres in different counties) in Aldintone
_(sic)_ as among the Abbey possessions at the time of the Norman
Conquest.
Abbot Randulf, who died in 1229, built a grange at Aldington, and
bought Aldington mill, in the reign of Henry III., when the hamlet was
a _berewic_ or corn farm held by the Abbey; and at the time of the
Dissolution it was granted to Sir Philip Hoby, who appears to have
been an intimate of Henry VIII., together with the Abbey buildings
themselves and much of its other landed property. The Manor remained
in the hands of the Hoby family for many years, and was one of Sir
Philip's principal seats. Freestone from the Abbey ruins seems to have
been largely used for additions probably made in the reign of Queen
Elizabeth, for in some alterations I made about 1888, I found many
carved and moulded stones, built into the walls, evidently the remains
of arches from an ecclesiastical building, and Sir Philip Hoby is
known to have treated the Abbey ruins as if they were nothing better
than a stone quarry.
Leland, who by command of Henry VIII. visited Evesham very soon after
the Dissolution, says that there was "noe towene" at Evesham before
the foundation of the Abbey, and the earliest mention of a bridge
there is recorded in monastic chronicles in 1159.
There is a notice of a Mr. Richard Hoby, youngest brother of Sir
Philip, as churchwarden in 1602, and a monument, much dilapidated, is
to be seen in the chancel of Badsey Church, erected to the memory of
his wife and that of her first husband by Margaret Newman, their
daughter, who married Richard Delabere of Southam, Warwickshire, in
1608. Aldington afterwards became the property of Sir Peter Courtene,
who was created a baronet in 1622.
Another explanation of the origin of the carved and moulded stones
mentioned above may be found in the former existence of a chapel at
Aldington, for there is evidence that a chapel existed there
immediately before the Dissolution. In an article in Badsey Parish
Magazine by Mr. E.A.B. Barnard, F.S.A., brought to my notice by the
editor, the Rev. W.C. Allsebrook, Vicar, details are given of the will
of Richard Yardley of Awnton (Aldington), dated January 22, 1531, in
which the following bequests are made:
To the Mother Church of Evesham, 2s.
To the Church of Badsey, a strike of wheat.
To the Church of Wykamford, one strike of barley.
To the Chappell at Awnton, one hog, one strike of wheat, and
one strike of barley.
The chapel, however, disappeared, and seems to have been superseded by
the assignment of the transept of Badsey Church as the Aldington
Chapel, and in 1561-62 the first churchwarden for Aldington was
elected at Badsey. The assignment may, however, have been only a
return to a much earlier similar arrangement when the transept was
added to Badsey Church about the end of the thirteenth century,
possibly expressly as a chapel for Aldington.
That it was an addition is proved by the remains of the arch over a
small Norman window in the north wall of the nave, which had to be cut
into to allow of the opening into the new transept. A shelf or ledge
is still to be seen in the east wall of the transept, probably the
remains of a super-altar, and, to the right of it, a piscina on the
north side of the chancel arch, and therefore inside the transept.
A large square pew and a smaller one behind it in the transept were
for centuries the recognized seats of the Aldington Manor family and
their servants, and so remained until the restoration of the church in
1885, when the pews were taken down and a row of chairs as near as
possible to the old position was allotted for the use of the same
occupants.
In 1685 the Jarrett monument was placed immediately over the larger
pew in the east wall of the transept, bearing the following
inscription:
Near this place lies interred in hope
of a joyful Resurrection the bodies of
WILLIAM JARRETT
of Aldington in this Parish Gent, aged 73
years, who died Anno Domini 1681
and of Jane his wife the daughter of William
Wattson of Bengeworth Gent, who died
Anno Domini 1683, aged 73 years,
by whom he had Issue three Sons
and two Daughters. Thomas Augustin and
Jane ley buried here with them and
Mary the youngest Daughter Married
Humphrey Mayo of hope in the County
of Herreford Gent, and William
the Eldest Son Marchant in London
set this Monument in a dutiful
and affectionate memory of them 1685.
It is pleasant to think of William, the eldest son, "marchant,"
returning in his prosperity to the quiet old village, braving the
dangers and inconveniences of unenclosed and miry roads, and riding
the 100 odd miles on horseback, to revisit the scenes of his
childhood, in order to do honour to the memories of his father and
mother. What a contrast to the crowded streets of London the old place
must have presented, and one has an idea that perhaps he regretted, in
spite of his success in commerce, that he had not elected in his
younger days to pursue the simple life.
The monument is a somewhat elaborate white marble tablet with a plump
cherub on guard, and with many of the scrolls and convolutions typical
of the Carolean and later Jacobean taste. This monument was removed to
the north wall of the nave two centuries later, in 1885, when the
church was restored, to allow of access to the new vestry then added.
William Jarrett, senr., and his wife lived through the very stirring
times of the Civil War in the reign of Charles I., about twenty miles
only from Edgehill, where, in 1642, twelve hundred men are reported to
have fallen. It is said that on the night of the anniversary of the
battle, October 23, in each succeeding year the uneasy ghosts of the
combatants resume the unfinished struggle, and that the clash of arms
is still to be heard rising and falling between hill and vale. The
worthy couple must have almost heard the echoes of the Battle of
Worcester in 1651, only eighteen miles distant, and have been well
acquainted with the details of the flight of Charles II., who, after
he left Boscobel, passed very near Aldington on his way to the old
house at Long Marston, where he spent a night, and, to complete his
disguise, turned the kitchen spit. This old house is still standing,
and is regarded with reverence.
The cherub on the Jarrett tablet bears a strong resemblance to two
similar cherubs which support a royal crown carved on the back of an
old walnut chair which I bought in the village in a cottage near the
Manor House. The design is well known as commemorating the restoration
of Charles II. in 1660, and I like to think that in bringing it back I
restored it to its old home, and that William Jarrett, senr., who was
doubtless a Royalist, enjoyed a peaceful pipe on many a winter's night
therein enthroned. I noticed, lately, in a description of a similar
chair in the _Connoisseur_, that the cherubs are spoken of as
_amorini_; I have always understood that they are angelic beings
supporting or guarding the sacred crown of the martyred King, though
possibly the appellation is not unsuitable if they are to be regarded
in connection with Charles II. alone.
There is a story of a hosiery factory established by refugee Huguenots
at the date of the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, 1685, and the
Jacobean building adjoining the east end of the Manor House is
probably the place referred to. Later it became a malthouse, and later
still was converted into hop-kilns by me. Being of Huguenot descent
myself, I take a special interest in this tradition.
In 1715 Aldington took its part in preparing to resist the Jacobites,
and the following record is copied from an old manuscript:
A BILL FOR Y^e CONSTABLE OF ANTON DUN BY ME WM. PHIPPS.
_£ s. d._
1 musket and bayonet.................................. 0 0
1 cartridg box at..................................... 0 3 6
1 belt at............................................. 0 5 0
for 1 scabard and cleaning y^e blad and
blaking y^e hilt.................................... 0 3 6
-------
1 12 0
(_On the back_.)
Three days pay........................................ 0 7 6
half A pound of pouder................................ 0 0 8
for y^e muster master ................................ 0 0 6
for listing money..................................... 0 1 0
for drums and cullers................................. 0 3 0
-------
2 4 8
Thos Rock Con^{ble} 0 12 8
(IN) A TRUE ACCOUNT OF Y^e CONS^{BL} OF ALDINGTON CHARGES FOR Y^e
YEARE 1716/5 NOV. Y^e 7 & 8 1715 Y^e CHARGES FOR ATENDING AS
CONS^{BL}
_s. d._
bringing in y^e Train souldiers....................... 3 0
spent when y^e soulders whent to Worcester............ 1 6
One can picture the scene in the little hamlet as Thomas Rock
collected his forces at the gossip corner; the little crowd of
admiring villagers and the martial bearing of the one recruit, as
with "cullers" flying and drums beating he marched away, followed by
the village children to the end of the lane.
William Tindal, in his _History of Evesham_, 1794, records the fact
that in 1790 Aldington belonged to Lord Foley, but history is silent
as to local events from that date until modern times, when, in the
first half of the next century, the Manor became the property of an
ancestor of the present owner. There is a tradition that the Manor
House was a small but beautiful old building, with a high-pitched
stone-slate roof and three gables in line at the front; but these
disappeared, the pitch of the roof was reduced, and about 1850 the
modern part of the house was added at the southern extremity of the
old structure.
As the neighbouring parish of Wickhamford is referred to in connection
with Badsey and Aldington several times in these pages, it may not be
out of place to give the following inscription on the tombstone of a
member of the Washington family. It is particularly of interest at the
present time, more especially to Americans, and it has not, as far as
I am aware, previously appeared in any other book.
INSCRIPTION
ON THE TOMBSTONE LYING ON THE NORTH
SIDE OF THE ALTAR, IN THE PARISH CHURCH
OF WICKHAMFORD, NEAR EVESHAM, IN THE
COUNTY OF WORCESTER, ENGLAND.
M.S.
_PENELOPES_
Filiæ perillustris & militari virtute clarissimi
Henrici Washington, collonelli,
Gulielmo Washington ex agro Northampton
Milite prognati;
ob res bellicosas tam Angl: quam Hiberniâ
fortiter, & feliciter gestas,
Illustrissimis Principib: & Regum optimis
Carolo primo et secundo charissimi:
Qui duxit uxorem Elizabetham ex antiquâ, et
Generosâ prosapiâ Packingtoniensium
De Westwood;
Familiâ intemeratae fidei in principes,
et amoris in patriam.
Ex praeclaris hisce natalibus Penelope oriunda,
Divini Numinis summâ cum religione
Cultrix assidua;
Genetricis (parentum solæ superstitis)
Ingens Solatium;
Aegrotantib. et egentib. mirâ promptitudine
Liberalis et benefica;
Humilis & casta, et soli Christo nupta;
Ex hac vitâ caducâ ad sponsum migravit
Febr. 27 An. Dom. 1697.
[_Translation_]
INSCRIPTION
ON THE TOMBSTONE LYING ON THE NORTH
SIDE OF THE ALTAR, IN THE PARISH CHURCH
OF WICKHAMFORD, NEAR EVESHAM, IN THE
COUNTY OF WORCESTER, ENGLAND.
M.S.
Sacred to the memory of
PENELOPE,
daughter of that renowned and distinguished
soldier, Colonel Henry Washington. He was
descended from Sir William Washington,
Knight, of the county of Northampton, who
was highly esteemed by those most illustrious
Princes and best of Kings, Charles the First
and Second, for his valiant and successful warlike
deeds both in England and in Ireland:
he married ELIZABETH, of the ancient and
noble stock of the _Packingtons_ of Westwood,
a family of untarnished fidelity to its Prince
and love to its country. Sprung from such
illustrious ancestry, PENELOPE was a diligent
and pious worshipper of her Heavenly Father.
She was the consolation of her mother, her
only surviving parent; a prompt and liberal
benefactress of the sick and poor; humble and
pure in spirit, and wedded to Christ alone.
From this fleeting life she migrated
to her Spouse,
_February 27, Anno Domini. 1697_.
CHAPTER II.
THE FARM BAILIFF.
"If a job _has_ to be done you may as well do it first as last."
--WILLIAM BELL.
The labourers born and bred in the Vale of Evesham are mostly tall and
powerful men, and mine were no exception; where the land is good the
men compare favourably in size and strength with those in less
favoured localities, and the same applies to the horses, cattle, and
sheep; but the Vale, with its moist climate, does not produce such
ruddy complexions as the clear air of the Hills, and even the apples
tell the same story in their less brilliant colouring, except after an
unusually sunny summer. In the days of the Whitsuntide gatherings for
games of various kinds, sports, and contests of strength, the Vale men
excelled, and certain parishes, famous for the growth of the best
wheat, are still remembered as conspicuously successful.
My men, though grown up before education became compulsory, could all
read and write, and they were in no way inferior to the young men of
the present day. They were highly skilled in all the more difficult
agricultural operations, and it was easy to find among them good
thatchers, drainers, hedgers, ploughmen, and stockmen; they were,
mostly, married, with families of young children, and they lived close
to their work in the cottages that went with the farm. They exhibited
the variations, usual in all communities, of character and
disposition, and though somewhat prejudiced and wedded to old methods
and customs they were open to reason, loyal, and anxious to see the
land better farmed and restored to the condition in which the late
tenant found it, when entering upon his occupation seven years
previously.
The late tenant, my predecessor, though a gentleman and a pleasant man
to deal with, was no farmer for such strong and heavy land as the farm
presented; it was no fault of his, for the farmer, like the poet, is
born, not made, and, as I was often told, he was "nobody's enemy but
his own." His wife came of a good old stock of shorthorn breeders
whose name is known and honoured, not only at home, but throughout the
United States of America, our Dominions, and wherever the shorthorn
has established a reputation; and my men were satisfied that she was
the better farmer of the two.
I had scarcely bargained for the foul condition of the stubbles,
disclosed when the corn was harvested shortly before I took possession
at Michaelmas; they were overrun with couch grass--locally called
"squitch"--and the following summer I had 40 acres of bare-fallow,
repeatedly ploughed, harrowed, and cultivated throughout the whole
season, which, of course, produced nothing by way of return. My
predecessor had found that his arable land was approaching a condition
in which it was difficult to continue the usual course of cropping,
and had expressed his wish to one of the men that all the arable was
grass. He was answered, I was told:
"If you goes on as you be a-going it very soon will be!" I
heard, moreover, that a farming relative of his, on
inspecting the farm, shortly before he gave it up, had
pronounced his opinion that it was "all going to the devil
in a gale of wind!"
I soon recognized that I had a splendid staff of workers, and, under
advice from the late tenant, I selected one to be foreman or bailiff.
Blue-eyed, dark-haired, tall, lean, and muscular, he was the picture
of energy, in the prime of life. Straightforward, unselfish, a natural
leader of men, courageous and untiring, he immediately became devoted
to me, and remained my right hand, my dear friend, and adviser in the
practical working of the farm, throughout the twenty years that
followed. Like many of the agricultural labourers, his remote
ancestors belonged to a class higher in the social scale, and there
were traditions of a property in the county and a family vault in
Pershore Abbey Church. However this might be, William Bell was one of
Nature's gentlemen, and it was apparent in a variety of ways in his
daily life.
Shortly before my coming to Aldington he had received a legacy of
£150, which, without any legal necessity or outside suggestion, he had
in fairness, as he considered it, divided equally between his brother,
his sister and himself--each--and his share was on deposit at a bank.
Seeing that I was young--I was then twenty-two--and imagining that
some additional capital would be useful after all my outlay in
stocking the farm and furnishing the house, he, greatly to my surprise
and delight, offered in a little speech of much delicacy to lend me
his £50. I was immensely touched at such a practical mark of sympathy
and confidence, but was able to assure him gratefully that, for the
present at any rate, I could manage without it. On another occasion,
after a bad season, he voluntarily asked me to reduce his wages, to
which of course I did not see my way to agree.
Bell was always ready with a smart reply to anyone inclined to rally
him, or whom he thought inclined to do so; but his method was
inoffensive, though from most men it would have appeared impertinent.
In the very earliest days of my occupation the weather was so dry for
the time of year--October and November--that fallowing operations,
generally only possible in summer, could be successfully carried on, a
very unusual circumstance on such wet and heavy land. Meeting the
Vicar, a genial soul with a pleasant word for everyone, the latter
remarked that it was "rare weather for the new farmers." Bell, highly
sensitive, fancied he scented a quizzing reference to himself and to
me, and knowing that the Vicar's own land--he was then farming the
glebe with a somewhat unskilful bailiff--was getting out of hand,
replied: "Yes, sir; and not so bad for some of the old uns." Bell
happened to pass one day when I was talking to the Vicar at my gate.
"Hullo! Bell," said he, "hard at work as usual; nothing like hard
work, is there?" "No, sir," said Bell; "I suppose that's why you chose
the one-day-a-week job!"
Labourers have great contempt for the work of parsons, lawyers, and
indoor workers generally; a farmer who spends much time indoors over
correspondence and comes round his land late in the day is regarded as
an "afternoon" or "armchair" farmer, and a tradesman who runs a small
farm in addition to his other business is an "apron-string" farmer.
With some hours daily employed on letter-writing, accounts and labour
records, which a farm and the employment of many hands entails, and
with frequent calls from buyers and sellers, I was sometimes unable to
visit men working on distant fields until twelve o'clock or after, and
I was told that it had been said of me by some new hands, "why don't
'e come out and do some on it?"
It was remarked of the late tenant, "I reckon there was a good parson
spoiled when 'e was made a farmer." And of a lawyer, who combined
legal practice with the hobby of a small farm, that there was no doubt
that "Lawyer G----s kept farmer G----s."
Bell's favourite saying was, "If a job _has_ to be done you may as
well do it first as last," and it was so strongly impressed upon me by
his example that I think I have been under its influence, more or
less, all my life. He was certain to be to the fore in any emergency
when promptitude, courage, and resource were called for; he it was who
dashed into the pool below the mill and rescued a child, and when I
asked if he had no sense of the danger simply said that he never
thought about it. It was Bell who tackled a savage bull which, by a
mistaken order, was loose in the yard, and which, in the exuberance of
unwonted liberty, had smashed up two cow-cribs, and was beginning the
destruction of a pair of new barn doors, left open, and offering
temptation for further activity. The bull, secured under Bell's
leadership and manacled with a cart-rope, was induced to return to its
home in peace. When felling a tall poplar overhanging the mill-pond,
it was necessary to secure the tree with a rope fixed high up the
trunk and with a stout stake driven into the meadow, to prevent the
tree falling into the pond. Bell was the volunteer who climbed the
tree with one end of the rope tied round his body and fixed it in
position. He was always ready to undertake any specially difficult,
dirty, or hazardous duty, and in giving orders it was never "Go and do
it," but "Come on, let's do it." An example of this sort was not lost
upon the men; they could never say they were set to work that nobody
else would do, and their willing service acknowledged his tact.
One day a widow tenant asked me to read the will at the funeral of an
old woman lying dead at the cottage next her own. I consented, and
reached the cottage at the appointed time. It was the custom among the
villagers, when there was a will, to read it before, not after, the
ceremony, as, I believe, is the usual course. I found the coffin in
the living-room and the funeral party assembled, and the will, on a
sheet of notepaper, signed and witnessed in legal form, was put into
my hands. Looking it through, I could see that there would be trouble,
as all the money and effects were left to one person to the exclusion
of the other members of the family, all of whom were present. It was
quite simply expressed, and, after reading it slowly, I inquired if
they all understood its provisions. "Oh yes," they understood it "well
enough." I could see that the tone of the reply suggested some kind of
reservation; I asked if I could do anything more for them. The reply
was, "No," with their grateful thanks for my attendance; so, not being
expected to accompany the funeral, I retired. I was no sooner gone
than the trouble I had anticipated began, and the disappointed
relatives expressed their disapproval of the terms of the will, some
going so far as to decline to remain for the ceremony. Bell was not
among the guests or the bearers, but, hearing raised voices at the
cottage and guessing the cause, he boldly went to the spot, and in a
few moments had, with the approval of the sole legatee, arranged an
equal division of the money and goods; whereupon the whole party
proceeded in procession to the church. I think no one else in the
village could so easily have persuaded the favoured individual to
forgo the legal claim; but Bell was no ordinary man, and his simple
sincerity of purpose was so apparent, that his influence was not to be
resisted. Later in the evening a plain, but very useful, old oak chest
was sent to me, when the division of the furniture was arranged, as an
acknowledgment of my services and in recognition of the saving of a
lawyer's attendance and fee, with the thanks of the persons concerned.
I was loath to accept it, but it was of course impossible to refuse
such a delicate attention.
Bell's cheerfulness and his habit of making light of difficulties were
very contagious. I had early recognized the seriousness of the problem
presented by the foul condition of the land, but, as we gradually
began to reduce it to better order, I remarked that the prospect was
not so alarming after all. His reply was that when once the land was
clean, and in regular cropping, "a man might farm it with all the
playsure in life."
Though no "scholard," his wonderful memory stood him in good stead,
and was most valuable to me. He came in for a talk every evening, to
report the events of the day and arrange the work for the morrow.
After a long day spent with one of the carters delivering such things
as faggots--locally "kids"--of wood, he would recall the names of the
recipients, and the exact quantities delivered at each house without
the slightest effort. His only memoranda for approximate land
measurements would be produced on a stick with a notch denoting each
score yards or paces. This primitive method is particularly
interesting, the numeral a _score_ being derived from the Anglo-Saxon
_sciran_, to divide. Similar words are plough _share, shire, shears_,
and _shard_. He could keep the daily labour record when I was away
from home; but though I could always decipher his writing, he found it
difficult to read himself. A letter was a sore trial, and he often
told me that he would sooner walk to "Broddy" (Broadway) and back, ten
or eleven miles, than write to the veterinary surgeon there, whose
services we sometimes required.
We had a simple method of disposing of small pigs; it was an
understood thing that no pig was to be sold for less than a pound. I
had a good breed, always in demand by the cottagers, who never failed
to apply, sometimes, perhaps, before the pound size was quite reached,
as it was a case of first come first served, and there was the danger
that the best would be snapped up before an intending buyer could have
his choice. Bell's face was wreathed in smiles when he came in and
unloaded a pocketful of sovereigns on my study table, saying, when
trade was brisk, "I could sell myself if I was little pigs!"
Many and anxious were the deliberations we held in the early days of
my farming; the whole system of the late tenant was condemned by my
theoretical and Bell's practical knowledge, but they did not
invariably coincide, and, after a long discussion on some particular
point, he would yield, though I could see that he was not convinced,
with, "Well, I allows you to know best."
When, a few years later, I introduced hop-growing as a complete
novelty on the farm, he regarded it at first as an extravagant and
unprofitable hobby, akin to the hunters my predecessor kept. He
"reckoned," he said, that my hop-gardens were my "hunting horse," and
I heard that my neighbours quoted the old saw about "a fool and his
money." Bell was not so enlightened as to be quite proof against local
superstitions; I had to consult his almanac and find out when the
"moon southed," and when certain planets were in favourable
conjunction, before he would undertake some quite ordinary farm
operations.
He was a clever and courageous bee-master, and "took" all my
neighbours' swarms as well as my own, my gardener not being _persona
grata_ to bees. The job is not a popular one, and he would, when
accompanied by the owner, always ask, "Will you hold the ladder or
hive 'em?" The invariable answer was, "Hold the ladder." He firmly
believed in the necessity of telling the bees in cases where the owner
had died, the superstition being that unless the hive was tapped after
dark, when all were at home, and a set form of announcement repeated,
the bees would desert their quarters. I had an alarming experience
once with bees when cycling between Ringwood and Burley in the New
Forest, my present home. As I passed a house close to the road, a
swarm crossed my path, rising from their hive just as I reached the
hedge before the garden. There was a mighty humming, and I felt the
bees, with which I was colliding, striking my hands and face with some
violence. I expected a sting each moment, but my greatest fear was
lest the queen should have settled on my coat amongst the bees it had
collected, and that presently I should have the whole swarm in
possession. It was dangerous to stop, so I raced on some distance,
dismounted, discarded my coat, shaking off my unwelcome
fellow-travellers, and I was much surprised to find that none of them
retaliated.
Bell was an excellent brewer, and with good malt and some of our own
hops could produce a nice light bitter beer at a very moderate cost.
In years when cider was scarce we supplemented the men's short
allowance with beer, 4 bushels of malt to 100 gallons; and for years
he brewed a superior drink for the household, which, consumed in much
smaller quantities and requiring to be kept longer, was double the
strength. His methods were not scientific, and he scorned the use of a
"theometer," his rule being that the hot water was cool enough for the
addition of the malt when the steam was sufficiently gone off to allow
him "to see his face" on the surface.
Owing to his having lived so long in such a quiet place, and the
limited outlook which his surroundings had so far afforded, Bell was
somewhat wanting in the sense of proportion, and when I had a field of
10 acres planted with potatoes, he told me quite seriously that he
doubted if the crop could ever be sold, as he didn't think there were
enough people in the country to eat them! I remember a parallel
incident at the first auction sale of stock ever held at Chipping
Campden, a lovely old town and, for centuries now long past, a leading
centre of the Cotswold wool trade. The pens, in the wide spaces
between the road and the footways, were, as I stood watching, rapidly
filling with fat sheep, and, I suppose, the scene being so novel and
so animated, the interest of the inhabitants was greatly excited, as
they stood in little groups at the house doors looking on. I heard an
ancient dame marvelling at the numbers of sheep collected--probably
only 1,000 or 1,200 all told--and expressing her certainty of the
impossibility of rinding mouths enough to consume such a mass of
mutton. As a matter of fact, there were, I suppose, four or five large
dealers present, any one of whom would have bought every sheep, could
he have seen a fair chance of a possible profit of threepence a head;
to say nothing of innumerable smaller dealers and retail butchers,
good for a score or two apiece. What I may call the parochial horizon
is well illustrated, too, by the announcement of a domestic economist:
"Farmer Jones lost two calves last week; I reckon we shall have beef a
lot dearer." And again by the recommendation of a shrewd and ancient
husbandman of my acquaintance that it was desirable for any young
farmer to get away from home and visit the county town sometimes, at
any rate on market days, and attend the "ordinary" dinner, even if it
cost him a few shillings--"for there," he added, "you med stick and
stick and stick at home until you knows nothin' at all." Shakespeare
puts the matter more tersely, if less forcibly, "Home-keeping youth
have ever homely wits." I cannot forbear, too, the temptation to
recall _Punch's_ picture at the time of King George's coronation. The
scene depicted two rustics gossiping at the parish pump, as to the
forthcoming village festivities, and the squire's carriage with the
squire and his family, followed by the luggage cart, on their way to
the railway station:
_First Rustic_. Where be them folks a-goin' to; I wonder?
_Second Rustic_. Off to Lunnon, I reckon, but they'll be back for the
Cor-o-nation.
Soon after the reopening of the church I overtook Bell as we were
returning from Sunday morning service. It was a dark day, and the
pulpit, having been moved from the south to the north side of the
nave--farther from the windows--the clerk lighted the desk candles
before the Vicar began his sermon. I asked Bell how he liked the
service, referring to the new choir and music; he hesitated, not
wanting, as I was the Vicar's churchwarden, to appear critical, but
being too conscientious to disguise his feelings. I could see that he
was troubled, and asked what was the matter. Then it came out; it was
"them candles!" which he took to be part of the ritual, and he added,
"But you ain't a-goin' to make a Papist of me!"
Bell was proof against attempted bribery, and often came chuckling to
me over his refusals of dishonest proposals. A man from whom I used to
buy large quantities of hop-poles required some withy "bonds" for
tying faggots; they are sold at a price per bundle of 100, and the
applicant suggested that 120 should be placed in each bundle. Bell was
to receive a recognition for his complicity in the fraud, and he
agreed on condition that in my next deal for hop-poles 100 should be
represented by 120 in like manner. The bargain did not materialize.
I found Bell a very amusing companion in walks and excursions we took
to fairs and sales for the purchase of stock. He knew the histories
and peculiarities of all the farmers and country people whose land or
houses we passed, and his stories made the miles very short. I often
helped with driving sheep and cattle home, and their persistence in
taking all the wrong turnings or in doubling back was surprising; but
two drovers are much more efficient than one, and we got to know
exactly where they would need circumventing. When we visited a town I
always took him to an inn or restaurant and gave him a good dinner.
Visiting what was then a much-frequented dining-place--Mountford's, at
Worcester, near the cathedral--we sat next to a well-known hon. and
rev. scholar of eccentric habits. He would read abstractedly,
forgetting his food for several minutes, then suddenly would make a
noisy dash for knife and fork, resuming the meal with great energy for
a while, and as suddenly relinquish the implements and return to his
reading, and so on continuously. I noticed Bell watching with great
surprise, much shocked at such unusual table manners, and presently he
could not forbear very gently nudging my elbow to draw my attention to
the performance.
Mountford's was celebrated for succulent veal cutlets with fried bacon
and tomato sauce, also for Severn salmon and lamperns; visitors to the
cathedral and china works generally refreshed themselves there, and it
was amusing to watch their exhausted and grim looks when entering and
waiting, in comparison with their beaming smiles when confessing their
indulgences on leaving; for no bills were rendered, and guests were
trusted to remember the details consumed. You will always find the
best eating-houses near the cathedrals; vergers' recitals are apt to
be long-winded, and visitors require speedy refreshment after a
complete round.
It was a popular village belief that bad luck follows if a woman was
the first to enter a house on Christmas morning, and Bell always made
a point of being the first over my threshold, shouting loudly his
greetings up the staircase.
Bell's wife survived him, living on in the same cottage in which he
was born and had passed his life. She was a hard-working woman, and
came over to my house once a week for some years to bake the bread,
made from my own wheat ground at the village mill. It was somewhat
dark in colour, owing to the most nutritious parts of the grain being
retained in the flour, but it was deliciously sweet and kept fresh for
the whole week. I only wish everyone could enjoy the same sort; the
modern bread is poor stuff by comparison, and its lack of nutritive
value is undoubtedly the cause of much of the poor physique of our
rural and urban population at the present time.
I had a very human dog, Viper, partly fox-terrier; though not very
"well bred," his manners were unexceptionable and his cleverness
extraordinary. One summer afternoon Mrs. Bell was greatly surprised by
Viper coming to her house much distressed and trying to tell her the
reason; he was not to be put off or comforted, and, seizing her
skirts, he dragged her to the door and outside. She guessed at once
that her two boys were in some danger, and she followed the dog. He
kept turning round to make sure that she was close behind, and led her
down a lane, for perhaps 300 yards, to a gate leading into a 12-acre
pasture. They pursued the footpath across the field, through another
gate and over the bridge which spanned the brook, into a meadow
beyond. There she found the children in fear of their lives from the
antics of two mischievous colts which were capering round them with
many snorts and much upturning of heels. It was really only play, but
the boys were alarmed, and Viper, who had accompanied them, had
evidently concluded that they were in danger.
Before the days of the safety bicycle an excellent tricycle, called
the "omnicycle," was put on the market; and the villagers were greatly
excited over one I purchased, of course only for road work, expecting
me to use it on my farming rounds; and Mrs. Bell was heard to say, "I
knows I shall laugh when I sees the master a-coming round the farm on
that thing."
Bell always spoke of her as "my 'ooman," and, referring to the
depletion of their exchequer on her returns from marketing in Evesham,
often said, "I don't care who robs my 'ooman this side of the elm"--a
notable tree about halfway between the town and the village--knowing
that she would then have very little change left.
CHAPTER III.
THE HOP FOREMAN AND THE HOP DRIER.
"Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
* * * * *
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke."
--GRAY'S _Elegy_.
Jarge was one of the most prominent characters among my men. He was
not a native of the Vale, coming from the Lynches, a hilly district to
the north of Evesham. He was a sturdy and very excellent workman. He
did with his might whatsoever his hand found to do, and everything he
undertook was a success. The beautifully trimmed hedge in front of his
cottage-garden proclaimed his method and love of order at a glance.
Jarge was a wag; he was the man who, like Shakespeare's clowns,
stepped on to the stage at the critical moment and saved a serious
situation with a quaint or epigrammatic expression.
He was very scornful of the condition of the farm when I came, and it
was he, whose reply to the late tenant that his arable land would soon
be all grass, I have already quoted. In speaking to me, at almost our
first interview, he could not refrain from an allusion to the foulness
of the land; some peewits were circling over those neglected fields,
and it was far from reassuring to be told--though he did not intend to
discourage me--that "folks say, when you sees them things on the land,
the farm's broke!"
From the natural history point of view he was perfectly correct, as
peewits generally frequent wild and uncultivated places where the
ploughman and the labourer are rarely seen.
Owing to the somewhat unconvincing fact of his wife's brother being a
gamekeeper on the Marquis's estate near Jarge's native village, he had
acquired, and retained through all the years of my farming, a sporting
reputation; he was always the man selected for trapping any evil beast
or bird that might be worrying us; and when the cherries were
beginning to show ruddy complexions in the sunshine, and the starlings
and blackbirds were becoming troublesome, armed with an old
muzzle-loader of mine, he made incessant warfare against them, and his
gun could be heard as early as five o'clock in the morning, while the
shots would often come pattering down harmlessly on my greenhouse.
There came a time when some thieving carrion crows were robbing my
half-tame wild duck's nests of their eggs, and Jarge was, of course,
detailed to tackle them. Weeks elapsed without any result; the
depredations continued, and the men began to chaff him; finally Bell
"put the lid on," as people say nowadays, by the following sally: "Ah,
Jarge, if ever thee catches a craw 'twill be one as was hatched from
an addled egg!"
For weeks before harvest Jarge patrolled my wheatfields, crowds of
sparrows rising and dispersing for a time after every shot, only, I
fear, to foregather again very soon on another field, perhaps half a
mile distant. No doubt he sent some to my neighbours in return for
those which they sent to me.
Jarge was an instance of superior descent; his surname was that of an
ancient and prominent county family in former days; he carried himself
with dignity and was generally respected; he possessed the power of
very minute observation, and was of all others the man to find coins
or other small leavings of Roman and former occupiers of my land. His
eldest daughter was a charming girl, and, when Jarge became a widower,
she made a most efficient mistress of his household. She showed, too,
quite unmistakably her descent from distinguished ancestry. Tall,
clear-complexioned, graceful, dignified, and rather serious, but with
a sweet smile, she was a daughter of whom any man might have been
proud. To my thinking, she was the belle of the village, and she made
a very pretty picture in her sun-bonnet, among the green and golden
tracery of the hop-bine in the hopping season accompanied by the
smaller members of the family. At the "crib" into which the hops are
picked, many bushels proved their industry, and there were no leaves
or rubbish to call for rebuke at the midday and evening measurings.
I selected Jarge for foreman of the hop-picking as a most responsible
and trustworthy man; it was then that his sense of humour was most
conspicuous, a very important and valuable trait when 300 women and
children, and the men who supplied them with hops on the poles, have
to be kept cheerful and good-tempered every day and all day for three
weeks or a month, sometimes under trying conditions. For though
hop-picking is a fascinating occupation when the sun shines and the
sky is blue, it is otherwise when the mornings are damp or the hops
dripping with dew, and when heavy thunder-rains have left the ground
wet and cold.
He had a cheery word for all who were working steadily, and a
semi-sarcastic remark for the careless and unmethodical; a keen eye
for hops wasted and trodden into the ground, or for poles of
undersized hops, unwelcome to the pickers and hidden beneath those
from which the hops had been picked. He acted as buffer between
capital and labour, smoothing troubles over, telling me of the
pickers' difficulties, and explaining my side to the pickers when the
quality was poor and prices discouraging, so that the work went with a
swing and with happy faces and good-humoured chaff.
I was always pleased to hear the pickers singing, for I knew then that
all was well. Sometimes, after a trying day, when Jarge had been
called upon to expostulate, or "to talk" more than usual, the corners
of his mouth would take a downward turn, and he complained, perhaps,
of gipsies or tramps whom I was obliged to employ when the crop was
heavy, though they were kept in a gang apart from the villagers; but
he always came up happy again next morning, the mouth corners tending
upwards, and his broad and beaming smile with a radiance like the
rising sun on a midsummer morning.
Jarge was a man of discrimination. When we were forced to inaugurate a
School Board on account of the growing difficulty, owing to the bad
times, of collecting voluntary subscriptions, all the old school
managers, including my second Vicar--I served under three Vicars as
church-warden--refused to join the Board. Jarge, who was much
exercised in his mind as to the possibility of future bad management,
came to me, and referring to a proposal to place working-men on the
Board, said: "We wants men like you, sir, for members; what's the good
of sending we dunderyeads there?"
Going round the farm on his daughter's wedding-day, I was surprised to
find him at work; and when I asked him why he was not at the ceremony,
"Well," he replied, "I don't think much of weddings--the fittel
(victuals) ain't good enough; give me a jolly good fu-ner-ral!"
Jarge wore a brown velveteen coat on high-days and holidays by virtue
of his sporting reputation, and looked exceedingly smart with special
corduroy breeches and gaiters and a wide-awake felt hat. He was much
annoyed in Birmingham, whither I had sent all the men to an
agricultural show, at hearing a man say to a companion, "There's
another of them Country Johnnies." When I told him what a swell he
looked, he replied somewhat ruefully, "No! that's what I never could
be," as though he felt that his appearance was disappointingly rustic.
Though a most industrious man, he had dreams of the enjoyment of
complete leisure; he told me that if ever he possessed as much as
fifty pounds he would never do another day's work as long as he lived.
I answered that when that ideal was reached he would postpone his
projected ease until he had made it a hundred, and so on ad infinitum;
and this proved a correct forecast, for in time, by the aid of a
well-managed allotment and regular wages, he saved a good bit of
money. When I sold my fruit crops by auction, on the trees, for the
buyers to pick, just before I gave up my land, as I should not be
present to harvest the late apples and cider fruit after Michaelmas,
he came forward with a bid of one hundred pounds for one of the
orchards, though it was sold eventually for a higher price.
He was not well versed in finance, however, for when the owner of his
cottage offered, at his request, to build a new pigsty if he would pay
a rent of 5 per cent, annually on the cost--a very fair
proposal--Jarge declined with scorn, being, I think, under the
impression that the owner was demanding the complete sum of five
pounds annually, and I found it impossible to disabuse his mind of the
idea. He felt aggrieved also by the fact that, having paid rent for
twenty-five or thirty years, he was no nearer ownership of his cottage
than when he began. His argument was that, as he had paid more than
the value of the cottage, it should be his property; the details of
interest on capital and all rates and repairs paid by the owner did
not appeal to him.
On the occasion of a concert at Malvern, which my wife and her sister
organized for the benefit of our church restoration fund, I gave all
my men a holiday, and sent them off by train at an early hour; they
were to climb the Worcestershire Beacon--the highest point of the
Malvern range--in the morning, and attend the concert in the
afternoon. It was a lovely day, and the programme was duly carried
out. Next morning I found Jarge and another man, who had been detailed
for the day's work to sow nitrate of soda on a distant wheat-field,
sitting peacefully under the hedge; they told me that the excitement
and the climb had completely tired them out, but that they would stop
and complete the job, no matter how late at night that might be. It
was the hill-climbing, I think, that had brought into play muscles not
generally used in our flat country. I sympathized, and left them
resting, but the work was honourably concluded before they left the
field.
When there was illness in Jarge's house and somebody told him that the
doctor had been seen leaving, he answered that he "Would sooner see
the butcher there any day"--not, perhaps, a very happy expression in
the circumstances, but intended to convey that a butcher's bill, for
good meat supplied, was more satisfactory than a doctor's account,
which represented nothing in the way of commissariat.
Among the annual trips to which I treated my men, I sent them for a
long summer day to London, and one of my pupils kindly volunteered to
act as conductor to the sights. They had a very successful day, and
the principal streets and shows were visited; among the latter the
Great Wheel, then very popular, was the one that seemed to interest
them most.
Next morning some of the travellers were hoeing beans in one of my
fields; I interviewed them on my round, and inquired what they thought
of London. They had much enjoyed the day, and were greatly struck by
the fact that the barmaid, at the place where they had eaten the lunch
they took with them, had recognized them as "Oostershire men"; they
had demanded their beer in three or four quart jugs, which could be
handed round so that each man could take a pull in turn, instead of
the usual fashion of separate glasses, and it appeared that this
indicated the locality from whence they came. Probably she had noticed
their accent, and, being a native of Worcestershire, remembered their
intimate drinking custom as a county peculiarity. The men proceeded to
describe the sights of London, and one of them added that there was
one thing they could not find there, stopping suddenly in some
confusion. I pressed him to explain. He still hesitated, and, turning
to the others, said: "_You_ tell the master, Bill." Bill was not so
diffident. "Well," he said, "we couldn't see a good-looking 'ooman in
Lunnon; for Jarge here, 'e was judge over 'em for a bit, and then Tom
'e took it, nor 'e couldn't see one neither!"
Jarge was somewhat of a _bon vivant_, and much appreciated my annual
present of a piece of Christmas beef. When thanking me and descanting
upon its tenderness and acceptability, on one occasion, he continued,
"It ain't like the sort of biff we folks has to put up with, that
tough you has to set in the middle of the room at dinner, for fear you
might daish your brains out agen the wall a-tuggin' at it with your
teeth!"
Jarge had one song and only one that I ever heard, and he was always
called upon for it at harvest suppers and other jollifications; it was
not a classic, but he rendered it with characteristic drollery, and
always brought down the house. I conclude my sketch of him by
mentioning it because it is almost my last impression of his vivid
personality, trotted out with great energy at my farewell supper, a
day or two before I left Aldington.
Among the men who were bequeathed to me, so to speak, by my
predecessor, Tom was one of whom I always had a high opinion. Tall,
vigorous, and well made, one recognized at once his possibilities as a
valuable man. He was somewhat cautious, taciturn, very sensitive and
reserved, but would open out in conversation when alone with me. As
quite a young man he had worked at the building of the branch line
from Oxford to Wolverhampton, via Worcester, the "O.W. and W.," or
"Old Wusser and Wusser," as it was called, until taken over by the
Great Western Railway. The latter, extending from London to Oxford,
was, I believe, one of Brunell's masterly conceptions, being without a
tunnel the whole way. But the new line had to pierce the Cotswolds
before reaching the Vale of Evesham, and Tom had many yarns about the
construction of the long Mickleton tunnel. Among them was a tradition
of the cost, so great that guineas laid edgeways throughout its length
would not pay for it.
In my time there was a splendid service of express trains running from
London to Worcester without a stop, and coming downhill into the Vale,
through the tunnel and towards Evesham, the speed approximated to a
mile a minute. I was talking to one of my men, a hedger, working near
the line which bounded a portion of my land, when one of the express
trains came dashing along and passed us with a roar in a few seconds.
"My word," said he, "I reckon that's a co-rider." I was puzzled, but
presently it came to me that he meant "corridor"; he had probably seen
the word in the local paper without having heard it pronounced.
It was a treat to watch Tom's magnificent physique when felling a big
tree, stripped to his shirt, with sleeves rolled up, and his gleaming
axe slowly raised and poised for a second above him before it fell
with the gathered impetus of its own weight and his powerful stress.
Biting time after time into the exact place aimed at, and at the most
effective angle possible, the clean chips would fly in all directions
until the necessary notch was cut and the basal outgrowths, close to
the ground around the sturdy column, were reduced, so that the
cross-cut saw could complete its downfall with a mighty crash. There
is always something sad about the felling of an ancient tree; one
feels it is a venerable creature that has passed long years of
unchallenged dominion on the spot occupied, and one can scarcely avoid
an idea of its intelligence and its silent record of passing
generations, who have welcomed its shade at blazing summer noontides,
or crept close to its warm touch for shelter from the winter's
chilling blast and the hissing hail.
Tom was always the leader of my team of mowers when the grass was cut,
for, with the large staff I employed on purpose for the all-important
hop-gardens, I never wanted, till towards the end of my time, to make
use of a machine. The steady swing of his scythe, with scarcely an
apparent effort, the swish, as the swathe fell beneath its keen edge,
and the final lift of the severed grasses at the end of the stroke,
all in regular rhythmic action, were very fascinating to watch. At
intervals came a halt for "whetting" the blade, and the musical sound
of rubber (sharpening stone) against steel, equally adroitly
accomplished, proved the artist at his work, with a delicacy of touch
which, perhaps in different circumstances, might have produced the
thrills with which Pachmann's velvet caress or Paderewski's refined
expression enchant a vast and rapturous audience.
As a land-drainer, too, I loved to watch him standing in the slippery
trench, with not an inch more soil moved than was necessary, lifting
out the decreasing "draws," and leaving a bottom nicely rounded
exactly to fit the pipes, and finally the methodical adjustment of
each pipe, with the concluding tap to bring it close to the last one
laid. Draining is an art which taxes the ability of the best of men,
for it must be remembered that, like the links of a chain, its
efficiency is no greater than that of its weakest part.
When I had to arrange for the harvesting of my first hop crop, it was
necessary to find a man who could be entrusted with the critical work
of drying the hops, and Tom was the man I chose. I had my kiln ready,
constructed in an old malthouse, on the latest principles, and in time
for the first crop. The kiln consisted of a space about 20 feet
square, walled off at one end of the old building, but with entrances
on the ground and first floors. Beneath, in the lower compartment, was
the fireplace, a yard square, and 16 feet above was the floor on which
the hops were dried. Anthracite coal was used for fuel, the fire being
maintained day and night throughout the picking--the morning's picking
drying between 1 p.m. and 12 midnight, and the afternoon's picking
between 1 a.m. and 12 o'clock noon. Tom was therefore on duty for the
whole twenty-four hours, with what snatches of sleep he could catch in
the initial stage of each drying and at odd moments.
The process requires great skill and attention; at first he and I,
with what little knowledge I had, puzzled it out together, he having
had no previous experience, and night after night I sat up with him
till the load came off the kiln at midnight. A slight excess of heat,
or an irregular application of it, will spoil the hops, the principle
being to raise the temperature, very gradually at first, to 30 or 40
degrees higher at the finish. Hops should be _blown_ dry by a blast of
hot air, not baked by heat alone. The drier, of course, has to keep a
watchful eye on the thermometer on the upper floor among the hops--Tom
always called it the "theometer"--regulating his fire accordingly and
the admission of cold air through adjustable ventilators on the
outside walls. This regulation varies according to the weather, the
moisture of the air, and the condition of the hops, and calls for
critical judgment and accuracy. Often, tired out with the previous
ordinary day's work, we had much ado to keep awake at night, and it
was fatal to arrange a too comfortable position with the warmth of the
glowing fire and the soporific scent of the hops. Then Tom would
announce that it was "time to get them little props out," which, in
imagination, were to support our wearied eyelids.
When we decided that the hops were ready to be cooled down, to prevent
breaking when being taken off the drying floor, all doors, windows,
and ventilators were thrown open and the fire banked up, and, while
they were cooling, he went to neighbouring cottages to rouse the men
who came nightly to unload and reload the kiln, and then I could
retire to bed.
Tom was devoted to duty, and was so successful as a hop-drier that he
soon became capable of managing two more kilns in the same building,
which I enlarged as I gradually increased my acreage. In a good season
he would often have £100 worth of hops through his hands in the
twenty-four hours, sometimes more. He was the only man I ever employed
at this particular work, and throughout those years he turned out hops
to the value of nearly £30,000 without a single mishap or spoiled
kiln-load--a better proof of his devotion to duty than anything else I
could say.
He was a very picturesque figure when, "crowned with the sickle and
the wheaten sheaf, Autumn comes jovial on," and he was cutting wheat,
his head covered with a coloured handkerchief, knotted at the corners,
to protect the back of his neck from the sun, which must have been
much cooler than the felt hat--a kind of "billycock" with a flat
top--which he habitually wore. I have noticed that the labourer's
style of hat is a matter of great conservatism, probably due to the
fancy that he would "look odd" in any other, and would be liable to
chaff from his fellow-workers.
Tom had a tremendous reach, and got through a big day's work in the
harvest-field, but nearly always knocked himself up after two or three
days in the broiling sun, developing what he called, "Tantiddy's fire
" in one forearm; this is the local equivalent of St. Anthony's fire,
an ailment termed professionally erysipelas, but I have never heard
how it is connected with the saint.
Harvesters often work in pairs, and they are then "butties"
(partners), but not infrequently a harvester will be accompanied by
his wife or daughter to tie up the sheaves; and their active figures
among the golden corn, backed by a horizon of blue sky, make a
charming picture. The mind goes back to the old Scripture references
to the time of harvest, and the idea impresses itself that one is
looking at almost exactly the same scene as it appeared to the old
writers, and which they described in all the dignity of their stately
language.
Tom was not much given to the epigrammatic expression of his thoughts,
like some of the other men, but he had a vein of humour. A relative of
his used to come over from Evesham to sing in our church choir, and I
remember a special occasion when the choir was somewhat _piano_ until
this singer's part came in; he had a strong and not very melodious
voice, and the effort and the effect alike were startling. Tom was in
church at the time, and had evidently been watching expectantly for
the _fortissimo_ climax; he told me afterwards that "when S. opened
his mouth I knew it was sure to come." It did!
I have mentioned Tom's cautiousness; he had a way of assenting to a
statement without committing himself to definite agreement. I once
asked him who the leaders had been in a disorderly incident, being
aware that he knew; I suggested the names, but the nearest approach to
assent which I could extract was, "If you spakes again you'll be
wrong."
CHAPTER IV.
THE HEAD CARTER--THE CARPENTER.
"There's a right way and a wrong way to do everything, and folks
most in general chooses the wrong un."
--TOM G.
Jim was my first head carter, and he dearly loved a horse. He had, as
the saying is, forgotten more about horses than most men ever knew,
and what he didn't know wasn't worth knowing.
He was a cheery man, and when I went to Aldington was about to be
married. Not being much of a "scholard," his first request was that I
would write out his name and that of his intended, for the publication
of the banns. A group of men was standing round at the time, and I
asked him how his somewhat unusual name was spelt. Seeing that he was
puzzled, I hazarded a guess myself, repeating the six letters in order
slowly. He was greatly surprised and pleased to recognize that my
attempt was correct, and, turning to the bystanders, remarked with the
utmost sincerity, "There ain't many as could have done that, mind
you!" I felt that my reputation for scholarship was established.
Jim was a fisherman, and was no representative of "a worm at one end
and a fool at the other." I gave him leave to fish in my brooks; he
was wily, patient, and successful, and one day brought me a nice
salmon-trout, by no means common in these streams. In thanking him, I
made him a standing offer of a shilling a pound for any more he could
catch, but he never got another. Writing of fishing, I cannot forbear
quoting Thomson's lines on the subject, under "Spring," the most vivid
description of the sport I have ever read:
"When with his lively ray the potent sun
Has pierced the streams, and roused the finny race,
Then, issuing cheerful, to thy sport repair;
Chief should the western breezes curling play,
And light o'er ether bear the shadowy clouds.
High to their fount, this day, amid the hills,
And woodlands warbling round, trace up the brooks;
The next, pursue their rocky-channel'd maze,
Down to the river, in whose ample wave
Their little naiads love to sport at large.
Just in the dubious point, where with the pool
Is mix'd the trembling stream, or where it boils
Around the stone, or from the hollow'd bank
Reverted plays in undulating flow,
There throw, nice-judging, the delusive fly;
And as you lead it round in artful curve,
With eye attentive mark the springing games
Straight as above the surface of the flood
They wanton rise, or urged by hunger leap,
Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook:
Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank,
And to the shelving shore slow-dragging some,
With various hand proportion'd to their force.
If yet too young, and easily deceived,
A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod,
Him, piteous of his youth and the short space
He has enjoy'd the vital light of heaven,
Soft disengage, and back into the stream
The speckled captive throw. But should you lure
From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots
Of pendant trees, the monarch of the brook,
Behoves you then to ply your finest art.
Long time he following cautious, scans the fly;
And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft
The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear.
At last, while haply yet the shaded sun
Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death,
With sullen plunge. At once he darts along,
Deep-struck, and runs out all the lengthen'd line;
Then seeks the furthest ooze, the sheltering weed,
The cavern'd bank, his old secure abode;
And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool,
Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand,
That feels him still, yet to his furious course
Gives way, you, now retiring, following now
Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage:
Till floating broad upon his breathless side,
And to his fate abandon'd, to the shore
You gaily drag your unresisting prize."
Horses were scarce and dear when I went to Aldington, and many French
animals were being imported. I got an old acquaintance in the South of
England to send me four or five; they were all greys, useful workers,
but wanting the spirit and stamina of the English horse; and they
would always wait for the Englishman to start a heavy standing load
before throwing their weight into the collar. Jim told me that they
were "desperate ongain" (very awkward), and, as foreigners, well they
might be, for I myself had some difficulty in understanding the local
words of command, more especially in ploughing, when, with a team of
four, he shouted his orders, addressing the new horses by names with
which they were quite unfamiliar.
I admired Jim's loyalty to his late master, if not his veracity, at
the valuation of the stock, which I took over as it stood. Being aware
that there was a lame one or two among the horses, I warned my valuer
beforehand. We entered the stable, and my valuer, thinking to catch
Jim off his guard, asked casually which they were. Jim was quite ready
for him, and answered without a moment's hesitation, "Nerrun, sir"
(never a one). They were, however, easily detected when trotted out on
the road.
Jim was a capital hand at "getting up" a horse for sale; an extra sack
or two of corn, constant grooming, and rest in the stable, with the
aid of some mysterious powders, which, I think, contained arsenic,
soon brought out the "dapples," which he called "crown-pieces," on
their coats, and in a couple of months' time one scarcely recognized
the somewhat angular beast upon which his labours had wrought a
miracle, and put a ten-pound note at least on the value. We had an
ancient and otherwise doubtful mare, "Bonny," ready for Pershore Fair,
and the previous day Jim wanted to know if I intended to be present. I
told him, "No! I should have to tell too many lies." "Oh!" said he,
"I'll do all that, sir!" He sold the mare to a big dealer for all she
was worth, I think, though not a large figure. Soon afterwards I had
to expostulate with him about some fault. He explained the
circumstances from his point of view, adding, "And that's the truth,
sir, and the truth _is_ the truth, and"--triumphantly--"that's what'll
carry a man through the world!" I could say no more, but could not
help remembering his willingness to testify to Sonny's doubtful merits
at Pershore Fair.
Jim became a widower, but eventually married again; a good woman, who
made a capital wife. Shortly before the wedding, when he came to see
me on some business, my wife happened to be present; she was very
anxious to find out the date in order that we might attend. Jim was
shy, not wishing it to be generally known, and nothing could be got
out of him. On leaving, however, he repented and, looking back over
his shoulder, made the announcement, "Our job comes off next
Thursday," then closing the door quickly, he was gone.
He got my permission to visit his mother and son, both ailing in
Birmingham, and on his return I made inquiries. The boy was better,
but about his mother he said, "I don't take so much notice of she, for
her be regular weared out"--not unkindly or undutifully intended, but
just a plain statement of fact, simply put; for she was a very old
woman, and could not in the course of nature be expected to live much
longer.
That Jim had a tender heart I know, for when we lost a very favourite
horse, one which "you could not put at the wrong job," I found him
weeping and much distressed. Later he said, "When you lose a horse I
reckon it's a double loss, for you haven't got the horse or the
money." My mind being dominated by the unanswerable accuracy of the
latter part of the statement, I did not, for a moment, see that the
first part was fallacious, because, of course, one could not have both
at one and the same time.
He was an excellent ploughman, and considerable skill is demanded to
manage the long wood plough, locally made, and still the best
implement of the sort on the adhesive land of the Vale of Evesham. It
has no wheels, like the ordinary iron plough has, to regulate the
depth and width of the furrow-slice, because in wet weather, if tried
on this almost stoneless land, the wheels become so clogged with mud
and refuse, such as stubble from the previous crop, that they will not
revolve, sliding helplessly involved along the ground. Even the
mould-board is wood, generally pear-tree, to which the mud does not
adhere, as happens with iron. As an old neighbour explained to me,
"You can cut the newest bread with a wooden knife, whereas the doughy
crumb of the bread would stick to a steel one." Pear-tree wood is used
because it wears "slick" (smooth), and does not splinter like wood
which is longer in the grain.
With these long wood ploughs the ploughman himself regulates the depth
and width of the furrow-slice--_i.e.,_ each strip that is severed and
turned over--by holding the handles firmly in the correct position as
the plough travels along, for it cannot be left for a moment to its
own inclination. This entails strict attention and much muscular
effort, and, of course, the latter comes into play also in turning at
each end of the field. The result is very effective; the flat
mould-board offers the least possible resistance to the inversion of
the soil, whereas the iron plough, with a curling mould-board, presses
the crest of the furrow-slice into regularity of form, and gives a
more finished appearance at the expense of much extra friction and
labour for the horses.
A carter-boy accompanies each team, as driver, to keep the horses up
to their work and turn them at the ends. A farmer I knew in Hampshire
would not, if possible, employ a boy unless he could whistle--of
course the ability and degree of excellence is a guide to character,
and indicates to some extent a harmonious disposition; he always said,
"Now whistle," when engaging a new boy.
There are few more pleasant agricultural operations to watch and to
follow than a lusty team, a skilful ploughman, and a whistling boy at
work, on a glowing autumn day, when the stubble is covered with
gossamers gleaming with iridescent colours in the sunshine. The
upturned earth is fragrant, the fresh soil looks rich and full of
promise, there is the feeling that old mistakes and disappointments
are being buried out of sight, and the hope and anticipation of the
future.
On a Lincolnshire farm where I was a pupil, an incident occurred
illustrating the anxiety of a carter for the welfare of his horses, in
combination with no small cunning. The owner, in the stable one Sunday
morning, noticed an open Bible in the manger; having doubts as to the
reliability of the carter, he regarded the Bible, so prominently
displayed, with some suspicion. Looking carefully all round he could
see nothing to find fault with, until he glanced upward at the floor
over the manger, where he discovered a protruding cork. He remembered
that a heap of oats was stored in the loft, from which the bailiff
gave out the rations for their teams to each man weekly. Getting the
key of the loft, he found that the cork was nicely adjusted to a hole
beneath the oats, so that the carter in question could exceed the
recognized ration whenever inclined. The fault was, of course, more
one of disobedience than of robbery, as the corn was consumed by his
master's horses, and the prominence of the Bible was perhaps the worst
feature, evidently a deceptive device to arrest suspicion, though it
proved to have exactly the opposite effect.
Very few of my men suffered from rheumatism, but Jim was an exception.
I think he applied horse embrocation to himself; he would extol its
efficacy, and would tell how, when the pain attacked his shoulder, the
remedy "druv it" to his back; applied to the latter, "it druv it" to
his legs; and so on indefinitely.
I kept about a dozen working horses besides colts; the latter are
broken at two years old, but only very lightly worked, and, when quiet
and handy, they are turned out again till a year older. Our method of
maintaining the full capacity of horse-power on the farm was to breed,
or buy at six months old, two colts, and sell off two of the oldest
horses every year. As two colts could be bought for forty or fifty
pounds at that age, and the two old horses sold for a hundred and
twenty pounds or thereabouts, a good balance was left on the
transaction, while the full strength of the teams was maintained.
Jim had sufficient foresight to view with alarm the gradual dispersion
of most of the oldest and best farmers in the neighbourhood, and the
conversion to grass of the arable land, owing to the unfair and
dangerous competition of American wheat. When we discussed the subject
and foretold the straits to which the country would be reduced in the
event of war with a great European Power, he concluded these
forebodings with the habitual remark, "Well, what I says is, them as
lives longest will see the most." A truism, no doubt, but, as time has
proved, by no means an incorrect view.
There was always plenty of employment for an estate carpenter on my
farms, as I had a vast number of buildings, including four separate
sets of barn, stable, sheds, and yard, away from the village, as well
as those near the Manor House, and many repairs were necessary. There
were, too, very many gates, repairs to fences, hurdle-making, and odd
jobs, to keep a man employed for months at a time. The building of
three hop-kilns, with the necessary storerooms for green and dried
hops, as the hop acreage increased, the preparation of hop-poles, and
the erection of wire-work on larger poles, which gradually superseded
the ordinary pole system, all demanded a great deal of regular work.
I was most fortunate in obtaining the services of a man living in a
neighbouring village, not only as estate carpenter, but as a skilled
joiner, and possessing all the knowledge and efficiency of an
experienced builder. When I first met him, or very soon afterwards,
Tom G. was a teetotaller, and I have always had immense admiration for
the strength of will which enabled him to conquer completely the drink
habit, for he freely admitted that he was entirely mastered by it in
his younger days. He told me, and it proves what a kindly word will
sometimes do, that the Squire of his village, who also employed him
largely, said to him, after praising some of his work, "There's only
one thing the matter with you, Tom, and that's the drink." "I went
home," said Tom, "and I thought to myself, if the drink is all that's
wrong with me, what a fool I must be to continue it. Next day I went
to Evesham and signed the pledge, and I've never touched a drop since,
though the smell and the sight of a public-house have been so sore a
temptation that many a time after a long day's work, and with money in
my pocket, I've gone a mile or two out of my way in order not to pass
a place of the sort."
His training as a carpenter had induced habits of great accuracy,
exact method, and lucid thought, and a chat with him, and watching his
quick and clever workmanship, was an educational opportunity. I have
always been fascinated by such work, and one of my earliest
recollections is of being taken by my father to interview a carpenter
about some small household job. His name was Snewin--I am not sure of
the spelling, for I was only about eight years old at the time--and we
found him in his workshop vigorously using a long plane on some red
deal boards, his feet buried in beautifully curled shavings, and the
whole place redolent of the delicious scent of turpentine. Every time
his plane travelled along the edge, to my childish fancy, the board
said in plaintive tones of remonstrance, _in crescendo_, his name,
"Snewin, _Snewin_," and again, "SNEWIN," and even now the scent and
action of planing a deal board always brings back the scene clearly to
my mind.
I suppose, therefore, it was partly old associations that induced the
fascination of watching Tom G. at his work, but there were other
reasons. With his axe, the edge beautifully ground and sharpened to a
razor-like finish, he could trim a piece of wood, or shape it, so
neatly that it presented almost the appearance of having been planed;
his saw, with no apparent effort, raced from end to end of a board or
across the grain of a piece of "quartering," and his chisels and plane
irons were ground to the correct concave bevel that relieves the
parting of a chip or shaving, and gives what he called "sweetness" to
the cutting action. He was a strong Conservative, good at an argument,
and had many heated discussions with some of my men whose tendencies
leaned to the opposite side; but his sound logic and common sense were
observable in all his ideas, and I think he generally came off best as
a shrewd and clear-headed debater, for from his employment in various
places his horizon was wider than that of the ordinary farm labourers.
Tom G. had considerable knowledge of the Bible, which he sometimes
employed in conversation; alluding to the work that was nearly always
waiting for him at Aldington, he told a friend of mine that there was
"earn (corn) in Egypt"; and when he had a written contract with me for
a special piece of work, and wished to suggest that as time went on we
might think of some improvement, and that there was no necessity to
adhere to the original specifications, he announced that "we bean't
Mades, nor we bean't Piersians" (we're not Medes, nor are we
Persians).
No necessary measurement was ever guessed at, his "rule" was always
handy in a special pocket, but in cases where a rough guess was
sufficient he would hazard it by what he called "scowl of brow"
(intently regarding it). The agricultural labourer is inclined, both
with weights and measures, to be inaccurate, "reckoning it's near
enough." I found soon after I came to Aldington that the weighing
machine which had been in use throughout the whole of my predecessor's
time, and had weighed up hundreds of pounds of wool at 2s. and 2s. 6d.
a pound, cheese at 8d., and thousands of sacks of wheat, barley, and
beans, was about a pound in each hundredweight _against the seller_,
so that he must have lost a considerable sum in giving overweight.
Tom G. was scornful about weather signs, and summed up his doubts in
such matters with sarcasm: "I reckon that the indications for rain are
very similar to the indications for fine weather!" But the best
epigram I ever heard from him was, "There's a right way and a wrong
way to do everything, and folks most in general chooses the wrong un!"
I should like to see those words of wisdom on the title-page of every
school book, and blazoned up in letters of gold on the wall of every
classroom in every school in the kingdom.
I have referred to the hop-kilns I built. Throughout the work of
erecting them, and it was no small one, Tom G. was the leading spirit;
it gave scope for his abilities, I think, on a larger scale than any
building he had previously undertaken. We began with a kiln sufficient
for the first 6 acres planted; it was necessary, with the gradual
extinction of British corn-growing, to find something to supersede it,
and to compensate for the falling off in farm receipts. I had seen
something of hops as a pupil on a large farm near Alton, Hampshire,
where they occupied an area of over a hundred acres, but at that time
I had no intention of growing them myself, and had not been infected
with the glamour, formerly attaching to hops beyond any other crop,
that came to me later.
I visited the old Alton farm, and obtained all particulars of the
latest kind of hop-kiln in the neighbourhood from the inventor, and
instructed him to prepare plans and specifications for the conversion
of an old malthouse close to the Manor. I contracted with Tom G. for
all the carpenter's work, and with an excellent stonemason or
bricklayer for that belonging to his department. They both entered
with enthusiasm upon the job, and we had many interesting discussions
as to improvement, as it proceeded. Tom G. was a man of great
resource, and could always find a way out of every difficulty; he told
me, before we began, that he could see the completed building as if
actually finished, just as a great sculptor once said how easy it was
to produce a statue from a block of marble, for all he had to do was
to cut away the superfluous material!
The alterations entailed a new roof from end to end of the old
building, and a new floor for the upper part, the length being about
70 and the width about 20 feet. The old roof was covered mostly with
stone-slates--flakes of limestone from the Cotswolds--very uneven in
size and rough as to surface, and in part with ordinary blue slates.
The latter lie much more closely on the laths, the stone slates
allowing the passage of more air between them, and it was interesting
to find that while the ancient laths under the stone slates were
fairly well preserved, those beneath the blue slates were much
decayed, evidently from the fact of the damp in an unheated building
remaining longer where the air was excluded, though one would have
expected the close-lying blue slates to be the better protection of
the two.
Much expense was saved by Tom G.'s economical use of materials;
wherever the old oak beams could be used again they were incorporated
with the new work. He never cut sound old or new pieces of timber to
waste; almost every scrap came in somewhere, for he worked with his
head as well as his hands.
The difference in this respect is very noticeable in different men; an
old plumber once told me that he had been employed upon a pump on a
neighbouring farm, where the slot in which the handle works was so
worn on one side that the bolt which carries the handle had given way,
owing to the man, who had used it for years, not keeping it running
truly in the centre. He called the man's attention to the cause of the
damage, and, being a sententious old fellow, asked him why he didn't
think what he was doing. The answer was, "I'm not paid to think."
The hop-kiln was a great success, and later, with the same workmen, I
added two more, as my hopyards extended, on exactly the same lines.
They would probably have been annually in use in the picking season up
to the present time had it not been that the low prices ruling
latterly have rendered a crop which requires so much labour,
knowledge, and supervision, not worth growing.
I hear, however, with much satisfaction, that these old hop-kilns and
storerooms have been of great service during the war for drying
medicinal herbs, chiefly belladonna and henbane, and that in 1917 the
turnover exceeded £6,000.
CHAPTER V.
AN OLD FASHIONED SHEPHERD--OLD TRICKER--A GARDENER--MY SECOND HEAD
CARTER--A LABOURER.
"Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way."
--GRAY'S _Elegy_.
I had experiences of various shepherds, and the man I remember best
was John C. Short, sturdy, strong, and willing, he was somewhat
prejudiced and old-fashioned, with many traditions and inherited
convictions as to remedies and the treatment of sheep. John had a
knowing expression; his nose projected and his forehead and chin
retreated, so that his profile was angular. He wore the old-fashioned
long smock-frock--not the modern short linen jacket which goes by the
name of smock, but a garment that reached to his knees, with a
beautifully worked front over the chest. It is a pity that these old
smock-frocks are no longer in vogue: I never see one now; they were
most picturesque, and afforded great protection from the rough weather
which a shepherd has constantly to face. His hat was of soft felt,
placed well towards the back of his head, and, behind it, he wore a
wealth of curls overlapping the collar of his smock. John was very
proud of his curls; he told a group of men, who were sheep-dipping
with him, that the parasites of the sheep, which are formidable in
appearance, never troubled him until they reached his head. "Into them
curls, I suppose, John?" said a flippant bystander. John was pleased
that his most attractive feature should receive even this recognition.
Altogether he presented a notable figure, and one quite typical of his
profession, especially when armed with his staff of office, his crook.
He was inclined to superstitious beliefs, and told me when I noticed
the matted condition of the manes of some colts domiciled in a distant
set of buildings that he reckoned "Old P. G."--an ancient dame in a
neighbouring cottage with a reputation for witchcraft--"had been
a-ridin' of 'em on moonlight nights." This matted appearance of colts'
manes, which is only the natural result of their not being groomed or
combed when young and unbroken, was known in many country places as
"hag-ridden." Such superstitions are now nearly, if not quite,
extinct, but still linger in old place-names, for it was usual in
former times to attribute any uncommon or surprising physical
appearance to supernatural agency. Thus we have such names as "Devil's
Dyke," "Devil's Punchbowl," "Puck Pits," "Pokes-down" (Puck's Down),
and many others.
The fairy rings, too, which puzzled our ancestors, are explicable by a
natural process. The starting-point is a fungus, _Marasmius oreades_,
which in due course sheds its spores in a tiny circle around it; the
decay of the fungus supplies nitrogen to the grass, and renders it
dark green in colour. The circle expands, always outwards, more and
more fungi appearing every year; it does not return inwards because
the mineral constituents of the soil are exhausted by the growth of
the fungus and of the grass, under the stimulus of the abundant
nitrogen left by the former, so that the dark ring of grass extends
its diameter year by year.
In the _Tempest_ Shakespeare refers to the fairies:
"... That
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites."
John carried a magic bottle of caustic liniment for application to the
feet of sheep affected with the complaint called "foot-rot." The cause
of this troublesome disease is excessive development of the walls of
the hoof, owing to the animals grazing exclusively on wet pasture, the
surface of which is too soft to keep them worn down; the walls
gradually double over and collect wet mud, which causes inflammation.
It never occurred on my arable land, either among ewes or younger
sheep, but whenever I bought sheep from the flint stones of Hampshire
and grazed them on soft pasture, it soon made its appearance. The
remedy is timely and constant paring of the hoof before any tendency
to lameness is observed, and when this is properly attended to no
caustic application is necessary. Lame sheep indicate an inefficient
shepherd, and the disorder has been well called "Shepherd's Neglect."
An eminent breeder of prize Hampshire Down sheep told me that, when
contemplating the exhibition of sheep, the first necessity is to get a
"prize shepherd," a man with a presence, and a reputation which he
would not risk in the show-ring without something worth exhibiting. I
started a flock of pedigree Shropshires, but my land was too good and
grew them too big and coarse for showing, and I soon found that it was
useless to try, though I succeeded in taking a prize at the
Warwickshire county show. It so happened that when my shepherd (not
John) returned in great triumph from the show, he found his first-born
son, who had arrived in his absence, awaiting him. "Well done,
shupperd," said a neighbour, "got him a son and a prize the same day!"
John was jealous of any interference in his remedial measures for
ailing sheep, but my wife, who doctored the village generally, was
anxious to try her hand, having little faith in his skill; so we
arranged that the next time he had what he considered a hopeless case
it was to be given over to her exclusively. The opportunity soon
occurred; a ewe was found caught by the fleece in some rough briars in
an old hedge, where it had been some hours in great distress, and,
with much struggling to free itself, it was quite exhausted. Pneumonia
supervened, and when John thought it impossible to save its life he
handed the case over to my wife. She succeeded, chiefly, I think, by
careful nursing, in pulling it through, much to John's surprise;
doubtless he thought its recovery a lucky fluke. John was given to
occasional alcoholic lapses; on one occasion I found him aimlessly
driving sheep across a field of growing mangolds! I could see that he
was muddled, and on reaching home later I sought an interview. He was
not to be found, but at his cottage his wife told me that John was not
very well. I postponed my reckoning till the following day, when, with
great readiness, he explained how it happened. "The day before," he
said, "I frained my fittle (refrained from my victuals) all day, and
when I got up yesterday I didn't feel justly righteous (quite right)
ov my inside; so I gets a bit of 'bacca, just about as much as _you_
med put in your pipe (this, apparently, to incriminate me), and I
putts it at the bottom of a tay-cup, with a drop ov rum; then I fills
it up with hot tay and drinks it off, and very soon I felt it a coming
over (overcoming) mer (me)."
Sheep-breeding was not one of the most important branches of farming
in my part of Worcestershire: the land is too stiff and wet, they
thrive much better on the Cotswolds or the chalk downs of Hampshire.
At one time I visited the latter county every summer, attending the
big fairs like Overton or Alresford, for the purpose of buying 100
draft ("full-mouthed") ewes from one of the best flocks. It was very
interesting in the early morning, reaching Overton by rail from
Basingstoke, where I had passed the night at the Red Lion with £300 in
bank-notes under my pillow, to see the gipsies in the village asleep
on the ground under their vans, the girls sometimes awake, combing
their hair, and beautifying themselves in readiness for the pleasure
fair where they were to appear in charge of the shooting-galleries and
competitions. A short walk, with only time for a passing glance at the
speckled trout near the bridge over the Itchen, which I never omitted,
took me to the sheep-pens on the hill-top where the fair is held. One
could see the flocks, with their shepherds always _in front_ and the
dogs behind, winding along the narrow lanes, which, from all
directions, lead to the hill, in a cloud of chalky dust, flock after
flock with only a few dividing yards between them. It is advisable to
reach the fairground thus early, to see the sheep before they are
penned; they can be much better inspected in the open than when packed
close together, and a more reliable opinion of their condition can be
formed. From the aesthetic point of view the grand old shepherds
interested me most, dignified, patriarchal men, with a reserve of
strength of character evident in their rugged features, and the
patience and hardihood that takes little heed of exposure to every
variety of weather.
The sheep were sold by auction, and when I had bought a pen of 100,
generally from Lord Ashburton's flock, paid the auctioneer's clerk as
soon as possible and received a ticket permitting the release of the
sheep, as the roads in all directions are soon crowded, I induced the
shepherd to help in driving them to the railway-station. He was always
a dear old fellow, and full of interesting information. On reaching
the station we packed the sheep into three open trucks, so close that
they could not jump out, and despatched them to Worcestershire,
whither they would arrive about noon the following day. We never had a
mishap with them on the journey, but they were terribly thirsty on
reaching Aldington, and made straight for water immediately.
Old Tricker came to Worcestershire originally with a farmer who
migrated from Suffolk, which proves him to have been a valuable man.
But he was worn out even when he first came to work for me, though as
willing and industrious as ever. My bailiff often praised him--for his
work was excellent, if somewhat slow on account of his age--and used
to tell him that "All as be the matter with you, Tricker, is that you
was born too soon," which was only too true, for he must have been the
oldest man on the farm by at least twenty years. He was a steady
worker, and was often so absorbed in his job, such as hoeing, that,
being, moreover, somewhat deaf, he was not aware of my approach until
I was quite close. On such occasions, with a violent start, he always
said: "My word, how you did frighten I, to be sure! Shows I don't look
about me much, however, don't it?"
He was fond of fairs, wakes, and "mops"--no doubt they were
reminiscent of old days, for he lived in the past--and he would often
beg a day off for such outings; he was a subject for the chaff of the
other men for his gaiety when these jaunts took place. They pretended
that, as a widower for many years, it was time for him to think of
another courtship. On a festive occasion, when we were giving a dinner
to all the men and their wives, great amusement was caused by
crackers, which the guests, I think, had never seen before, containing
paper caps and imitation jewellery; and it was a merry scene when all
around the tables were decorated in the most incongruous fashion. Old
Tricker happened to become possessed of a plain gilt wedding-ring, and
of course chaff was levelled at him from all sides: "Ah, Tricker; sly
dog, sly dog!" and so on. He was greatly pleased, accepting
good-naturedly the part of pantaloon of the piece; and I am sure, from
his beaming smiles, he felt, for a time at least, dozens of years
younger.
Years before, when still able to do a good day's work, he walked to
Ipswich to revisit his old home, a distance of about 160 miles, which
he accomplished in four days, and returned in the same time. He had
been specially struck by the building of a new post-office there--this
must have been at least thirty years before the time of which I am
writing. One of my brothers who lived near Ipswich was visiting me,
and I introduced him to the old man, knowing that they would have
common interests. No sooner did Tricker hear that my brother had just
come from Ipswich than he inquired anxiously if the new post-office
was finished. "Oh yes, and pulled down some years ago, and a new one
built!" Tricker was astonished; the years had evidently slipped by him
unnoticed, and no record of dates remained in his memory.
Tricker often got a little mixed in the names of novelties or in
unusual words. I chanced to pass him one day along the road, on my
omnicycle, and next time I saw him he referred to it, adding: "I
didn't know as you'd got a phlorsopher (velocipede and philosopher)"!
Some of my land had been occupied by the Romans in very distant days,
and coins and pottery were frequently found. Tricker, having heard of
the Romans, also of Roman Catholics, jumbled them together, and
"reckoned" that the former inhabitants of these fields were "some of
those old Romans or Cartholics."
This mixture of words, generally bearing some relation to each other,
was not infrequently carried still further by making one word of two.
With some of the villagers "conservatory" stood for conservative and
tory, and "containment" for concert and entertainment. A messenger who
was asked to bring _Daniel Deronda_ from the Evesham library returned
with the announcement that "Dannel Deronomy" was not available; this
appeared to be a confusion between the books of Daniel and
Deuteronomy. A cook (not a Worcestershire person) was asked if the
papers had come. "Yes; the _Standard_ has arrived, but not the Condy's
fluid _(Connoisseur)_ "! The regatta at Evesham was always "the
regretta." An old sexton working in a churchyard, from whom I inquired
if there was a bridge over the river, replied: "Only a temperance
bridge (temporary bridge)."
Tricker, as a very typical representative of the agricultural labourer
in old age, was engaged as model for a figure in a picture by Mr.
Chevalier Taylor, then staying in Badsey. He sat in this capacity when
work was not very pressing, and day by day used to repair to the
artist's lodgings with his tools on his shoulder. His remuneration was
half a crown a day--ordinary day wages for an able-bodied man--but he
told me that the inaction was very trying, and that a day as model was
much more exacting than a day's work on the farm.
When the old man could no longer complete even a short day's work, and
suffered from the cold in winter, he decided to go to the workhouse
for a time, but he was out again before the cuckoo was singing, and we
found him light jobs "by the piece," so that he could work for as long
or as short a time as suited him. He was most grateful for any
assistance, and told me that "A little help is worth a deal of
sympathy." Eventually he became a permanent inmate of the workhouse,
much to my grief; but it is, of course, impossible to run a farm on
which heavy poor-rate has to be paid, as a philanthropic institution.
The difficulty with aged and infirm persons is not so much food and
maintenance as the necessity for nursing and supervision, which are
expensive and difficult to arrange. Tricker told me that he could live
on sixpence a day, and if it had been a question of food only, and our
village could have cut itself adrift from the Union and the rates it
entailed, we could easily have more than kept the poor old man to the
end of his days in comfort. For years he was the only parishioner
receiving any help from the immense sum the parish annually paid in
rates. I have heard it said that out of every shilling of the
ratepayer's contributions the poor people only get twopence or its
equivalent, the officials and administration expenses absorbing the
remaining tenpence.
My first gardener had been employed at the Manor, when I came, for
very many years, and at the end of ten more he was obliged to resign
through old age. He had planted the poplars round the mill-pond in his
earliest days, and, among other trees, the beautiful weeping wych-elm
on the lawn behind the house. The weeping effect he produced by
beheading the tree when quite small and grafting it with a slip of the
weeping variety, and the junction was still plainly visible. It was a
symmetrical and, especially when in bloom, a lovely tree, but as the
blossoms died and scattered themselves all over the grass, they
worried the methodical old man, and every spring he wished it had
never been planted. It had flourished amazingly, and we could
comfortably find sitting room at tea for sixty or seventy people at a
garden-party in its shade.
He was an excellent gardener, but did not care about novelties in
flowers, though at one time he made a hobby of raising new kinds of
potatoes. His greatest success was the original Ashleaf variety, the
stock of which he sold to Mr. Myatt for a guinea, and which was
afterwards introduced to the public as "Myatt's Early Ashleaf." It was
one of the best potatoes ever grown, very early, and splendid in
quality, and it was unfortunate that he parted with it so cheaply,
though, of course, the purchaser of the first few tubers had no idea
of its immense potential value, and possibly, like so many novelties,
it might have proved a failure. It is still in cultivation, though its
constitution is impaired, like that of all potatoes of long standing.
Later on I shall have more to say about this unfortunate tendency to
deterioration.
J.E. was one of my most reliable men, working for me, first as
under-carter and afterwards as head carter, for, I think, altogether
twenty-six years; he was well educated and a great reader, quiet and
somewhat reserved, and though his humour did not lie on the surface,
he could appreciate a joke. My recollections of him, after his
steadiness and reliability, are chiefly of his personal mishaps, for
he was an unlucky man in this particular.
I was on my round one morning when I met a breathless carter-boy
making for the village. Asked where he was off to, "Please, sir," he
replied, "I be to fetch Master E. another pair of trowsers!"
"Trousers," said I; "what on earth for?" "Please, sir, the bull ha'
ripped 'em!" I hurried on, and soon saw that it was no laughing
matter, for I found poor E. in a terrible plight of rags and tatters,
sitting in a cart-shed in some outlying buildings, on a roller. The
cowman was standing by holding a Jersey bull. The story was soon told.
The cowman, having to go into the yard, had asked E. to hold the bull
a minute. Unfortunately, the animal had only a halter on him, the
cowman having omitted to bring the stick, with hook and swivel, to
attach to the bull's nose-ring. No sooner was the cowman out of sight
than the bull began to fret, and, turning upon E., knocked him down
between a mangoldbury and the outside wall of the yard. In this
position he was unable to get a direct attack upon the man, but he
managed to gore him badly and tear his clothes to pieces. The cowman,
hearing E. calling, came back and rescued him, the bull becoming quite
docile with his regular attendant. Poor E. was black and blue when he
got home in the pony-cart, and was laid up for many weeks afterwards.
He undoubtedly had a very narrow escape. It is curious that, though
the Jersey cows are the most docile of any kind, the bulls are the
most uncertain and, when annoyed, savage; I had trouble with two or
three, and one became so dangerous that he had to be killed in his
stall.
E.'s bad luck overtook him again when returning from Evesham with,
fortunately, an empty waggon and team; one of the horses was startled,
and E. ran forwards to catch the reins. By some means he fell, and the
waggon-wheels passed over him; had it been full, as it was on the
outward journey, with a heavy load of beans, it would have been a
serious matter, but nevertheless he suffered a great deal for some
time afterwards.
J.E. must have walked many hundreds of miles among my hops with the
horses drawing "the mistifier," a syringing machine which pumped a
mist-like spray of soft soap and quassia solution upon the under-side
of the hop-leaves, when attacked by the aphis blight; and he must have
destroyed many millions of aphides, for the blight was an annual
occurrence at Aldington, and taxed our energies to the utmost at one
of the busiest times of year.
Mrs. J.E. was, and is, one of those kind persons always ready to do a
good turn to a neighbour. She and her husband brought up a large
family, all of whom have done well, and a son in the Grenadier Guards
especially distinguished himself in the war. She has a remarkable
memory for dates of birthdays, weddings, and such-like events, and
often writes us one of her interesting letters, full of information of
the old village.
I had many experiences of the honesty of the agricultural labourer,
but one especially remains in my mind. I.P., a man living some two
miles from Aldington, regularly walked the four miles there and back
for many years, in addition to his day's work. He was an excellent
drainer, and a most useful all-round man, exceedingly strong and
willing, bright and cheerful in conversation, and I had a very high
opinion of him. I had just reached the end of a long pay when he
reappeared--having taken his wages earlier in the proceedings--and
asked if I had made a mistake in his money; a sovereign was missing,
and he could not remember actually taking it from the table with the
rest of the cash. I at once balanced my payments and receipts for the
evening, but they corresponded exactly. It was a serious matter, as a
half-year's rent was due to the owner of his cottage that day, and
I.P. was one of those men who take a pride in paying up with
punctuality. I could see, as he realized that the sovereign was lost,
how disappointed and worried he felt, and being glad of an opportunity
to do him a good turn, I gave him another, and sent him away very
grateful. Later still he returned again, placed a sovereign on my
table, and said that he had nearly reached home when he felt something
hard against his knee, inside his corduroys, where he found the
missing coin; there was a hole in his pocket, but the encircling
string which labourers tie below the knee had prevented its escape.
CHAPTER VI.
CHARACTERISTICS OF AGRICULTURAL LABOURERS AND VILLAGERS.
"My crown is in my heart, not on my head:
Not deck'd with diamonds and Indian stones,"
--_3 Henry VI_.
The agricultural labourer, and the countryman generally, does not
recognize any form of property beyond land, houses, buildings, farm
stock, and visible chattels. A groom whom I questioned concerning a
new-comer, a wealthy man, in the neighbourhood, summed him up thus:
"Oh, not much account--only one hoss and a brougham!" A railway may
run through the parish, worth millions of invested capital, but the
labourer does not recognize it as such, and a farmer, employing a few
men and with two or three thousand pounds in farm stock, is a bigger
man in his eyes than a rich man whose capital is invisible.
The labourer in the days of which I am writing was inclined to be
suspicious of savings banks and deposit accounts at a banker's; his
savings represented a vast amount of hard work and self-denial; and he
looked askance at security other than an old stocking or a teapot. He
had heard of banks breaking, and felt uncomfortable about them. A
story was current in my neighbourhood of a Warwickshire bank in
difficulties, where a run was in progress. A van appeared, from which
many heavy sacks were carried into the bank, in the presence of the
crowd waiting outside to draw out their money. Some of the sacks were
seen to be open, and apparently full of sovereigns; confidence was
restored, and the run ceased. Later, when all danger was over, it
transpired that these supposed resources were fictitious, for the open
sacks contained only corn with a thin layer of gold on the top.
Formerly it was said of a certain street in Evesham, chiefly inhabited
by market-gardeners and their labourers, that the houses contained
more gold than both the banks in the town, and I have no doubt that,
even at the present day, there is an immense amount of hoarded money
in country places. Only a short while ago, long after the commencement
of the Great War, the sale of a small property took place in my
neighbourhood, when the purchaser paid down in gold a sum of £600, the
bulk of which had earned no interest during the years of collection.
No doubt people, as a rule, in these days of war bonds and
certificates, have a better idea of investment, but probably a vast
sum in possible loans has been lost to the Government through want of
previous information on the subject. It should have been a simple
matter, during the last fifty years of compulsory education, to teach
the rudiments of finance in the elementary schools, and I commend the
matter as worth the consideration of educational enthusiasts.
The labourer's attitude, as I have said, is suspicious towards
lawyers. I was chatting with a man, specially taken on for harvest,
who expressed doubts of them; he continued, "If anybody were to leave
me a matter of fifty pounds or so, I'd freely give it 'em," meaning
that by the time all charges were paid he would not expect more than a
trifle, because he supposed stamps and duties to be a part of the
lawyer's remuneration, and that very little would be left when all was
paid.
I was once discussing farming matters with a labourer when prospects
were looking very black, and ended by saying that I expected soon to
be in the workhouse. "Ah, sir," said he, "I wish I were no nearer the
workhouse nor you be!" It should not be forgotten that the
agricultural labourer's financial horizon does not extend much beyond
the next pay night, and were it not for the generosity of his
neighbours--for the poor are exceedingly good to each other in times
of stress--a few weeks' illness or unemployment, especially where the
children are too young to earn anything, may find him at the end of
his resources.
Almost the first time I went to Evesham, in passing Chipping Norton
Junction--now Kingham--three or four men on the platform, in charge of
the police, attracted my attention. I was told that they were rioters,
guilty of a breach of the peace in connection with the National
Agricultural Labourers' Union, then under the leadership of Joseph
Arch. Being so close to my new neighbourhood, where I was just
beginning farming, the incident was somewhat of a shock. Arch
undoubtedly was the chief instrument in raising the agricultural
labourer's wages to the extent of two or three shillings a week, and
the increase was justified, as every necessity was dear at the time,
owing to the great activity of trade towards the end of the sixties.
The farmers resisted the rise only because, already in the early
seventies, the flood of American competition in corn-growing was
reducing values of our own produce; and as all manufactured goods
which the farmer required had largely increased in price, he did not
see his way to incur a higher labour bill.
Arch sent a messenger to me a few years later, to ask permission to
hold a meeting in Aldington in one of my meadows. I saw at once that
opposition would only stimulate antagonism, and consented. The meeting
was held, but only a few labourers attended, and no farmers, and
agitation, so far as we were concerned, died down. One or two of my
men were, I think, members of the Union, but having already obtained
the increased wages there was nothing more to be gained for themselves
by so continuing, and they soon dropped out of the list. Eventually
the organization collapsed. Arch was a labourer himself, and
exceedingly clever at "laying" hedges, or "pleaching," as it is still
called, and was called by Shakespeare in _Much Ado About Nothing_:
"Bid her steal into the pleached bower,
Where honeysuckles, ripen'd by the sun,
Forbid the sun to enter."
Pleaching is a method of reducing and renovating an overgrown hedge by
which all old and exhausted wood is cut out, leaving live vertical
stakes at intervals, and winding the young stuff in and out of them in
basket-making fashion, after notching it at the base to allow of
bending it down without breakage. Arch was a native of Warwickshire,
the home of this art; it takes a skilled man to ensure a good result,
but when well done an excellent hedge is produced after two or three
years' growth. The quickset or whitethorn (May) makes the strongest
and most impervious hedge, and it flourishes amazingly on the stiff
clay soils of the Lias formation in that county and its neighbour
Worcestershire.
I have often wondered at, and admired, the labourer's resignation and
fortitude in adversity; a discontented or surly face is rarely seen
among them; they have, like most people, to live lives of
self-sacrifice, frugality, and industry, which doubtless bring their
own compensation, for the exercise and habit of these very virtues
tend to the cheerfulness and courage which never give up. Possibly,
too, the open-air life, the vitalizing sunshine, the sound sleep, and
the regularity of the routine, endows them with an enviable power of
enjoyment of what some would consider trifles. After a long day out of
doors in the natural beauty of the country, who shall say that the
labourer's appetite for his evening meal, his pipe of tobacco beside
his bright fireside, and his detachment from the outside world, do not
afford him as great or greater enjoyment than the elaborate luxury of
the millionaire, with his innumerable distractions and
responsibilities?
The labourer has, as I have said, little appreciation of the invisible
or what does not appeal strongly to his senses; he cannot understand,
for instance, that a small bag of chemical fertilizer, in the form of
a grey, inoffensive powder, can contain as great a potentiality for
the nutrition of crops as a cartload of evil-smelling material from
the farmyard; nor is he aware that, in the case of the latter, he has
to load and unload 90 pounds or thereabouts of worthless water in
every 100 pounds with which he deals. Possibly, however, his
preference for the natural fertilizer is not wholly misplaced, for
there is, no doubt, much still to be learned concerning the relative
values of natural and artificial compounds with special reference to
the bacterial inoculation of the soil and its influence on vegetable
life.
He is not without some aesthetic feeling for the glories of Nature
daily before him, and though like Peter Bell, of whom we are told that
"A primrose by a river's brim
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more,"
and putting aside the metaphysical analogy and the moral teaching
which are presented by every tree and plant, he enjoys, I know, the
simple beauty of the flower itself, the exhilarating freshness of the
bright spring morning, the prodigality of the summer foliage, the ripe
autumnal glow of the harvest-field, and the sparkling frost of a
winter's day. But he very rarely expresses his enthusiasm in
superlatives: "a usefulish lot," and "a smartish few," meaning in
Worcestershire "a very good lot," and "a great many," is about the
limit to which he will commit himself. His natural reticence in
serious situations and calamity, and his reserve in the outlet of
feeling by vocal expression, give a wrong impression of its real
depth, and may even convey the impression of callousness to anyone not
conversant with the working of his mind.
To a nephew of mine who was surprised to see his gardener's little son
leaving the garden, the man explained: "That little fellow be come to
tell I a middlinish bit of news; 'e come to say as his little sister
be dead." Notice the "middlinish bit of news," where a much stronger
expression would have been justified, and note the restraint as to his
loss, suggesting an unfeeling mind, though in reality very far from
the grief he was shy of expressing.
An old woman in a parish adjoining mine, having lost a child, received
the condolences of a visitor with, "Yes, mum; we seems to be regular
unlucky, for only a few weeks ago we lost a pig."
A lady well known to me, the daughter of the Vicar of a Cumberland
parish, was calling on a woman whose husband had died a few days
previously, and expressing her sympathy with the widow in her
affliction, spoke of the sadness of the circumstances. The widow
thanked her visitor, and added: "You know, miss, we was to have killed
a pig that week, but there, we couldn't 'ave 'em both about at the
same time"!
All these incidents suggest callousness, but in reality they were
plain statements of fact from persons with a limited vocabulary and
unskilled in the niceties of polished language.
Another incident will illustrate how faulty expression may give an
unintended impression. A lady, calling at a cottage, exclaimed with
appreciation at the fragrant odour of frying bacon which greeted her.
The cottager was busy with it at the fire. "Yes, miss," she said, "it
_is_ nice to 'ave a bit of bacon as you've waited on yourself"--of
course, referring to the fact that she knew the animal was always fed
on really good food, an important and reassuring condition, though a
tender heart might have regretted the sacrifice of an intimate
creature which some would have regarded almost as a pet.
The cottager does not look upon his pig in that light; it is fed well
and comfortably housed with a definite object, and very little love is
lost between the pig and his master. Children in some places in
Worcestershire were formerly kept at home in order to be present on
the great occasion of the pig's obsequies. A woman, asked why her
children were absent from school, replied: "Well, sir, you see, we
killed our pig that day, and I kept the children at home for a treat;
there's no harm in that, sir, I'm sure, for pigs allus dies without
malice!"
Villagers accept the novel significations which time or fashion
gradually confer upon old words very unreadily. I could see, at first,
that they were puzzled by my use of the word "awful," now long adopted
generally to strengthen a statement, very much as they themselves make
use of "terrible," "desp'rate," or "de-adly." They connect the word
"friend" with the signification "benefactor" only; a man, speaking of
someone born with a little inherited fortune, said that "his friends
lived before him." I told an old labourer that my little daughter
considered him a great friend of hers. He looked puzzled, and replied:
"Well, I don't know as I ever gave her anything." They still
distinguish between two words now carrying the same meaning. I told a
man that I was afraid some work he had for me would give him a lot of
trouble. He corrected me: "'Twill be no _trouble_, master, only
_labour_."
The labourer does not appreciate a sudden order or an unreasonable
change in work once commenced; he does not like being taken by
surprise in such matters: the necessary tool--for farm labourers find
their own hand implements--may not be readily available, may be out of
order, require grinding, or a visit to the blacksmith's for repair or
readjustment. The wise master introduces the subject, whenever
possible, gradually beforehand. "We shall have to think about
wheat-hoeing, mowing, potato-digging, next week," prepares the man for
the occasion, so that when the time comes he has his hoe, axe, scythe,
or bill-hook, as the case may be, ready. The job, too, may demand some
special clothing--hedging gloves, gaiters, new shoes, and so forth.
He is often suspicious of new arrangements or alteration of hours, and
is inclined to attribute an ulterior motive to the proposer of any
change in the unwritten but long-accustomed laws which govern his
habits; he lives in a groove into which by degrees abuses may have
crept, and some alteration may have become imperative.
When we introduced a coal club for the villagers, with the idea of
buying several trucks at lowest cash price, collecting their
contributions week by week during the previous summer, when good wages
were being earned, and delivering the coal gratis in my carts shortly
before winter, they seemed very doubtful as to the advantage of
joining. Some saw the advantage at once, knowing the high prices of
single half-tons or hundredweights delivered in coal-merchants' carts;
others would "let us know in a day or two," wanted time to consider
the matter, being taken "unawares"; others, assured that nobody would
undertake such a troublesome business without an eye to personal
profit, but anxious not to offend my daughter, who was visiting each
cottage, replied: "Oh yes, miss, if 'tis to do _you_ any good"!
Eventually, however, they were all satisfied and very grateful,
appreciating the fact that the cartage was not charged for, and that
they were getting much better coal than before at a lower price.
Village people, I am afraid, are rather fond of horrors; the newspaper
accounts of events which come under that description, such as murders,
suicides, and sensational trials, afford, apparently, much interest. A
man was working for me on some repairs close to my door; as he was a
stranger, I tried, as usual, to induce him to talk whenever I passed.
I had no success and could not get a word out of him, until, one
morning, I chanced to see a sensational headline in a local paper
about a suicide in a neighbouring town. On passing my workman, he
immediately broke out in great excitement, "Did you read in the paper
about that bloke who went to his father's house at W----, sat down on
the doorstep, and cut his throat?" The account had evidently seized
upon his imagination, and had thoroughly roused him out of himself,
but the following day he was as silent as before.
Births, marriages, and deaths are interesting topics in the village,
and perhaps with reason, for, after all, they are the most important
events in our lives, and in the villages most of the cottagers are
more or less related. All the inhabitants were much excited when a
poor old widow, living very near my house, sitting on a low circular
stone parapet round her well, lost her balance in some way, fell in,
and was drowned. I was foreman of the jury at the inquest, and after
hearing the evidence, which amounted to no more than the finding of
the body soon after the event, the coroner expressed his opinion that
it was a case of accidental death, with which I at once concurred.
With some reluctance, the other jurymen agreed; they had, I imagine,
as usual, made up their minds for a more sensational verdict, but
scarcely liked to suggest it, and a verdict of accidental death was
accordingly returned. Afterwards I heard that the villagers were
saying that it was very kind of me to bring in such an indulgent
verdict, but they "knowed very well it was suicide."
I was invited to the wedding feast of my bailiff's daughter, and
being, I suppose, regarded as the principal guest, was, according to
custom, requested to carve the excellent leg of mutton which formed
the _pièce de résistance_. The parish clerk, considerably over eighty
at the time, was one of the most sprightly members of the company; he
kept us interested with historical recollections going back to the
Battle of Waterloo, and spoke of Wellington and Napoleon almost as
familiarly as we now speak of Earl Haig and the Kaiser. He had a
strong sense of humour, and, after a very hearty meal, announced that
he didn't know how it was, but he'd "sort of lost his appetite,"
pretending to regard the fact as an injury, premeditated by the
hospitality of our host and hostess.
The labourer dearly loves a grievance, not exactly for its own sake,
but because it affords an interesting topic of conversation. One
autumn, returning from a holiday in the Isle of Wight, I found the
whole village agog with the first County Council election. A
magistrate candidate, in the neighbouring village of Broadway, was to
be opposed by an Aldington man. I found a local committee holding
excited partisan meetings on behalf of the latter, active canvassing
going on, a villager appointed as secretary (always called
"seckert_ar_y" in these parts), and the election the sole topic of
conversation. The village people, always delighted in the possession
of a common enemy and a common cause, were making the election a
village affair, as opposed to the village of the other candidate;
popular feeling was running very high, Badsey, of course, joining up
with Aldington as strong allies. Some young men had lately been before
the magistrates at Evesham, and fined for obstructing the footpath,
and the magistrate candidate was selected as the scapegoat for the
affront to our united villages. At the election the Aldington man was
returned, and his supporters started with him on a triumphal progress
through the constituency. Of course, they visited Broadway, to crow
over the conquered village, but the wind was somewhat taken out of
their sails when the defeated candidate at once came forward, shook
hands with his opponent, and congratulated him upon his success! The
return journey was not so hilarious; one of the men of Broadway,
noticing a string of carts in the procession, conveying sympathizers
with the victor, in addition to the owners of the vehicles--thus
rendering the latter liable to the carriage duty of 15s. each--and
strongly resenting the spirit which brought the victorious party to
Broadway, sent a telegram to the Superintendent of Police at Evesham,
who met the returning procession and took down their names, with the
ultimate result of a substantial haul in fines for the excise!
During the Boer War the common foe was, of course, "Old Kruger" (with
a soft _g_), and we hoisted the Union Jack in front of the Manor
whenever our side scored a substantial success. The news of Lord
Roberts's victory at Paardeburg reached Badsey in the morning, after
the papers, and, returning by road from my farm round, I heard great
rejoicings and cheering from the direction of the village. Meeting a
boy, I learned that "Old Cronje" was defeated and a prisoner, with
"'leven thousand men!"--a report which proved to be correct with the
trifling discount of 9,000 of the latter! The same spirit of union for
a common cause was almost as evident at that time as in the far more
strenuous struggle of 1914-1918, and so long as England to herself
remains but true, doubtless our enemies will fulfil the part assigned
to them by the greatest of English poets.
A love of the marvellous is a common characteristic of country village
folks, and I have already referred to such beliefs in the supernatural
among my men. We had our own "white lady" on the highroad where it
turns off to Aldington, though I never met anyone who had seen her;
there were, too, signs and wonders before approaching deaths, and a
thrilling story of a headless calf in the neighbourhood.
An old house at Badsey, once a _hospitium_ or sanatorium for sick
monks from Evesham Abbey in pre-Reformation days, was reported to be
haunted, and people told tales of "the old fellows rattling about
again" of a night. Probably these beliefs had been encouraged in
former times by the monks themselves, to prevent the villagers prying
too closely into their occupations; and no doubt the scattered
individuals of the same body originated the popular theory that the
Abbey lands of which they were dispossessed would never, owing to a
curse, pass by inheritance in the direct line from father to eldest
son--an event that in the course of nature often fails, though by no
means invariably.
In recent years a startling story has been told, and even appeared in
a local paper, of a ghostly adventure near the Aldington turning. A
young lady (not a native), riding her bicycle to Evesham from Badsey,
passed, machine and all, right through an apparition which suddenly
crossed her path, without any resulting fall.
In connection with the monk's _hospitium_ I lately made an interesting
discovery as to the origin of a curious name of one of my fields,
which had always puzzled me. The field adjoined the _hospitium_, and
was always known as "the Signhurst." Field-names are a very
interesting study, they usually bear some significance to a
peculiarity in the field itself, or its position with reference to its
surroundings, and it has always been a hobby of mine to trace their
derivations. The word "Signhurst" presented no clue to its origin
except the Anglo-Saxon "burst," signifying a wood, but there was no
appearance or tradition of any wood having ever occupied the spot, and
the land was so good, and so well situated as to aspect, that it was
unlikely to have been such a site, even in Anglo-Saxon days. I
stumbled upon a passage in May's _History of Evesham_ which mentioned
the "Seyne House," meaning "Sane House," the equivalent of the modern
word "sanatorium," and I saw at once the origin of the corrupted word
"Signhurst"--the field near the Seyne House.
Wages are, of course, the crowning reward of the working-man's week;
throughout the whole of my time 15s. a week was the recognized pay for
six full summer days--"a very little to receive, but a good deal to
pay away," as a neighbour once said. During harvest, and at piecework,
more money was earned, and it always pleased me that I could pay much
better prices for piece-work among the hops than for piece-work at
wheat-hoeing or on similar unremunerative crops. The reason is
obvious: the hoeing of an acre of wheat, a crop which might possibly
return a matter of £10 per acre, takes no more manual effort than the
hoeing of an acre of hops, where a gross return of £70 or £80 per acre
is not unusual, and is sometimes considerably exceeded.
As wages must eventually always depend upon prices of produce raised
by the labour for which such wages are expended, when the agricultural
labourer buys his bread he is only buying back his own labour in a
concrete form plus the other relative expenses on the farm, and the
cost of milling, baking, and distribution, so that when he gets a high
price for his labour he must expect to pay a high price for his food;
and when the price of food is reduced the price of his labour also
falls. Here, again, the rudiments of economics, taught in the schools,
would conduce to his understanding the position, and the eradication
of discontent.
It is impossible, economically speaking, to defend the system of equal
wages to the most capable and industrious men on the one hand and to
inefficient slackers on the other; and as a graduated scale of
payment, according to results, is not practicable without arousing
ill-feeling and jealousy, the farmer's only remedy is to get rid of
the slackers. Inefficiency and slacking are often due to a man's
enfeebled mental and physical condition, owing to neglect in his
bringing up as a child, or to insufficient or unwholesome food
provided by an improvident wife in his home.
I was fortunate in meeting with very few of these degenerates, but I
remember one tall, delicate-looking man who seemed unable to apply
either his strength or his attention to his work. He was denounced by
the foreman under whom he worked as not only useless, but "the
starvenest wretch as ever I see," intended to convey the impression,
and confirming my own conclusion, that cold and hunger were really the
cause of his inability to render a fair day's work.
I remember, too, when some elderly women, with a younger one, were
hay-making, one of the old ladies, dragging the big "heel-rake" behind
the waggon in course of loading--always rather a tough job--tried to
induce the younger woman to take her place with, "Here, Sally, thee
take a turn at it; thee be a better 'ooman nor I be." My bailiff,
overhearing, at once interposed: "Be she a better 'ooman than thee,
Betsy, ov a Saturday night [pay-night]?"
Hard-and-fast laws and fixed prices for agricultural labour will be
found very difficult to maintain as to piecework; no wage board can
fix just prices, because conditions are so variable. Of two men
cutting corn on separate plots in the same field, the one at 12s. an
acre may really earn more money _per diem_ than another man at 15s. an
acre on the other side of the field, owing to the difference in the
weight of the crop or its condition, it being, perhaps, erect in the
first case, and laid by heavy storms in the second.
There is, too, a vast difference in the value of boys' work and
usefulness; one may easily be worth double another, yet no difference
is allowable by the new law; or one may demoralize another, so that
two are less effective than one. A good old saying puts the matter
very plainly: "One boy's a boy, two boys are half a boy, and three
boys are no boy at all!"
It is, in fact, ridiculous for townspeople, lawyers, and manufacturers
to legislate for the labour of the farm; they do not understand that
indoor labour in the workshop or factory, under regular conditions and
with unvarying materials, is totally different from labour out of
doors, in constantly changing conditions of season, weather, and the
resulting crops dealt with. An old maxim of the Worcestershire
labourer who, without a fixed place, took on piece-work at specially
busy times, will confirm this: "Go to a good farmer for wheat-hoeing,
and to a bad one for harvesting." I may explain that the fields of the
good farmer are clean and nearly free from weeds, so that hoeing is a
comparatively light job; but the same, or nearly the same, price per
acre is paid by the bad farmer, whose corn is overrun with weeds,
entailing much more time and harder work. On the other hand, the good
farmer's wheat crop is much heavier than that of the bad, and, the
prices for cutting being again very similar, more money _per diem_ can
be earned at harvest on the farm of the latter.
It is a sound old Worcestershire saying that "the time to hoe is when
there are no weeds"--apparently a paradox, but the meaning is simple:
when no weeds are to be seen above ground there are always millions of
tiny seedlings just below the surface ready to increase and multiply
wonderfully with a shower of rain; if attacked at the seedling stage,
these can be slaughtered in battalions, with far greater ease and
efficacy than when they become deep-rooted and established, and
dominate the crop.
I have heard of farmers to whom pay-night was a sore trial; one such
was frequently known to mount his horse and gallop away just before
his men appeared: how he settled eventually I do not know. Some
farmers will pay out of doors on their rounds, having a rooted
objection to business of any kind under a roof; and one small farmer,
I was told, always passed the cash to his men behind his back so that
he might not have the agony of parting actually before his eyes.
A labourer is supposed to come to work in his master's time and go
home in his own, thus sharing the necessary loss, and, as a rule, they
are fairly punctual; but one defaulter in this particular will waste
many moments of a whole gang working together, as it seems to be
etiquette not to begin till they are all present. I have often heard,
too, sarcastic comparisons made between the day-man and "the
any-time-of-day man."
The cottagers have their feuds, and the use of joint wash-houses or
baking-ovens between two or more adjoining cottages is a frequent
source. I have had excited wives of tenants coming to me at
unseasonable hours to settle these differences, and I found it a very
difficult business to reconcile the disputants. I could only visit the
_locus in quo_ and arrange fixed and separate days and regulations;
but though the wisdom of Solomon may administer justice in a dispute,
it is impossible to ensure a really peaceful solution that will
endure.
Sometimes feuds, originating in such or similar causes, were
maintained for years by neighbours living with only a 9-inch party
wall between them, and daily meetings outside, to the extent of not
even "passing the time of day." At last, however, in a day of distress
to one, the heart of the unafflicted other would melt, and after an
offer of help, or actual assistance, kind relations would be once more
established. Or a peace offering, in the shape of a dish of good
pig-meat, sent over with a kind message, would restore more genial
conditions, and they would return to happy and neighbourly
familiarity.
I once employed an old Dorset labourer, a tall, slim, aristocratic
figure, with an elegant, refined nose to match; he bore the well-known
name of an ancient and distinguished Dorset family, and I have no
doubt was well descended. He was decidedly a canny, not to say crafty,
man. I gave him a holiday at Whitsuntide to visit his old home, but he
overran the time agreed upon and returned some days late. Before I
could begin the rebuke I proposed to administer, he produced a
charming photograph of a ruined abbey near his old locality, and
handed it to me as a present. "I thought upon you, master, while I was
away, and knowing as you was fond of ancient things I've brought you
this picture." I was completely disarmed, and the rebuke had to be
postponed _sine die_.
As I was talking one day to my bailiff--one of the men who lived a
mile away standing near--he said: "Tom, here, is always the first man
to arrive in the morning; I have never known him to be late." I
congratulated Tom, and asked what time he went to bed: "Oh, about
seven o'clock!" He was, in fact, a lonely old bachelor, and, being "no
scholard," it saved lights and firing to be early to bed.
This man, like many villagers, had very vague ideas of geography. To
save the trouble of cooking, he lived largely on American tinned beef,
and got chaffed about it by his fellow-workers. "How be you getting on
with the 'Merican biff?" Tom was asked. "Oh," said he, "never no more
'Merican biff for me." "How's that, Tom?" "Why, the other day I found
a trouser-button in it!" The point of this story lies in the fact that
the Russo-Turkish war was proceeding at the time. _Tempora mutantur_,
we were then encouraging Turkey against Russia, though the latter had
declared war to avenge the atrocities in Bulgaria of which the Turks
were guilty, while in the recent struggle the position was almost
exactly reversed.
There was then a violent militant feeling here in Britain, and excited
crowds were singing:
"We don't want to fight but, by Jingo, if we do, We've got the ships,
we've got the men, We've got the money too."
Hence the expression "Jingoism," which we often hear to-day, though,
perhaps, the origin is now almost forgotten.
It is not unusual to see villagers, as married couples, complete
contrasts to each other in appearance and character--one fat and
jolly, the other thin and miserable; one happy and contented, the
other grumbling and morose; one open-hearted and generous, the other
close and parsimonious. In matrimony people are said to choose their
opposites, and possibly, as time goes on, the difference in their
appearance and dispositions becomes still more definitely developed.
The labourer understands sarcasm and makes use of it himself, but
irony is often lost upon him. Passing an old man on a pouring wet day,
I greeted him, adding, "Nice morning, isn't it?" He stared, hesitated,
and then, "Well, it would be if it wasn't for the rain!" I only
remember one surly man--not one of my workers or tenants. He was
scraping a very muddy road, and I remarked, for something to say,
"Makes it look better, doesn't it?" All I got in reply was, "I
shouldn't do it if it didn't!"
It is important, in managing a mixed lot of farm labourers, to find
out each man's special gift, making him the responsible person when
the time or opportunity arrives for its application. There are men,
excellent with horses, who have no love of steam-driven machinery, and
_vice versa_; and there are men who are capable at small details, yet
unable to take comprehensive views.
Responsibility is the life-blood of efficiency, and men can always be
found upon whom responsibility will act like a charm, producing
quickened perception, interest, foresight, economy, resource,
industry, and all the characteristics that responsibility demands. Put
the square peg in the square hole, the round peg in the round hole;
show the man you have confidence in him, teach him to act on his own
initiative in all the lesser matters that concern his job, coming only
to the master in those larger considerations to which the latter are
subordinate, and my experience is that your confidence will not be
betrayed, and that he will save you an immense amount of tiresome
detail.
The most difficult man to deal with is the over-confident "know-all";
he is always ready to oppose experience--often dearly bought--with his
superior knowledge, he can suggest a quicker or a cheaper way of doing
everything, and in his last place he "never saw" your system followed.
He is the penny-wise and pound-foolish individual, and his methods are
"near enough." It has been said that at twenty a man knows everything,
at forty he is not quite so sure, and at sixty he is certain that he
knows nothing at all; but there are exceptions even to this rule, who
continue all their lives thinking more and more of their own opinions,
and completely satisfied with their own methods. On the other hand,
the master will always find, among the more experienced, men from whom
much is to be learnt; they are generally diffident and not too ready
to hazard an opinion, but when consulted they can give very valuable
help. I willingly acknowledge my indebtedness to my old hands, their
well-founded convictions that were the fruit of long years of
practical experience, and their readiness to impart them in times of
doubt and difficulty.
Just as bad-tempered grooms make nervous, bad-tempered horses; rough
and noisy cattle-men, fidgety cows; ill-trained dogs and savage
shepherds, sheep wild and difficult to approach; so does the
bad-tempered, impatient, or slovenly master make men with the same bad
qualities, when a smile or a kind word will bring out all that is good
in a man and produce the best results in his work.
I began my farming with four dear old women, working on the land, when
wanted for light jobs; the youngest must have been fifty at least.
They received the time-honoured wage of tenpence a day, and worked, or
talked, about eight hours. They loved to work near the main road,
discussing the natural history of the occupants of passing carts or
carriages. They knew something comic, tragic, or compromising about
everybody, and expressed themselves with epigrammatic force. A farmer
occupant of a neighbouring farm in long-past days, was a favourite
subject of such recollections. After relating how "he were a random
duke," and recalling his habits, one old lady would conclude the
recital with an account of his last days, adding, as if everything was
thereby finally condoned:
"But there, 'e was just as nice a carpse as ever I see, and
I was a'most minded to put his paddle [thistle-spud] beside
him in his coffin, for he was always a-diggin' and a-delvin'
about with it."
One member of this quartet, when ill, had a dish of minced mutton sent
her in the hopes of tempting her appetite. She eyed the gift with
disfavour, and announced with scorn that "she preferred to chew her
meat herself!"
In due course these old ladies retired from active service and younger
women took their places; women were especially necessary in the
hop-yards for the important operation of tying the selected bines to
the poles with rushes and pulling out those which were superfluous. It
was difficult, at first, to accustom them to the fact that the hop
always twines the way of the sun, whilst the kidney bean takes the
opposite course. And there was a problem which greatly exercised their
minds: How were they to reach the hops at the tops of the poles--14
feet from the ground--when the time came? It did not occur to them
that it was possible to cut the bine and pull up the pole. They soon
became very quick and expert at the tying, and their well-worn
wedding-rings, telling of a busy life, would flash brightly in the
sunshine as they tenderly coaxed the brittle bines round the base of
the poles, securing them with the rush tied in a special slip-knot, so
that it easily expanded as the bine enlarged.
Women are splendid at all kinds of light farm work whenever deftness
and gentle touch are required, such as hop-tying and picking, or
gathering small fruit like currants, raspberries, and strawberries;
but I do not consider them in the least capable of taking the place of
men in outdoor work which demands muscular strength and endurance and
the ability to withstand severe heat or bitter cold or wet ground
under foot, through all the varying seasons. Village women have, too,
their home duties to attend to, and it is most important that their
men-folk should be suitably fed and their houses kept clean and
attractive.
On the farm of my son-in-law, in Warwickshire, I have seen something
of the work of land girls, to the number of seventy or more, for whom
he provided a well-organized camp with a competent lady Captain; and I
know how useful they proved in the emergency caused by the War, but I
still adhere to my former conclusion as to the more strenuous forms of
farm labour, without in the least detracting from my admiration for
the courage and patriotism that brought them forward.
I know one woman, however, who quite successfully undertakes very
strenuous garden work, including digging, having been inured to it at
a very early age. If she could be spared from her own work to take the
position of instructress for young girls determined to make the land
their chief employment, they would be saved a vast amount of
unnecessary fatigue and labour by learning the art of using spades,
forks, hoes, and rakes in the way that experience teaches, relying
more upon the weight and designed capabilities of the tool to do the
work than upon their own untrained muscles.
We could always get a supply of excellent maids for house-work from
among the village families; they began very young, coming in for a few
hours daily to help the regular staff, and, as these left or got
married, they were ready trained to take their places. These girls
were quite free from the self-importance of the present-day domestic,
but I remember one nice village girl about whom we inquired as a
likely maid who, it then appeared, was engaged to marry a thriving
small tradesman. The girl's mother, being over-elated at her
daughter's apparently brilliant prospects of independence, rejected
the proposal with some hauteur, adding that her daughter "would soon
be keeping her own maid." I fear, however, that she was disappointed,
as the course of true love did not run smooth.
We preferred a married man as shepherd, because, when I had only a few
cows, he combined his duties with those of cowman; and, bringing in
the milk and doing the churning, he was much about the back premises.
On one occasion, however, I engaged a young bachelor, partly because
he replied, with a knowing smile, to a question as to whether he was
married, that he dared say he could be if he liked--which I
optimistically took to amount to an announcement of his engagement.
Time went on and he remained a single man, but it was observable that
he lingered on his milky way, and was more in evidence in the dairy
than his duties appeared to warrant. We concluded that he was
attracted by the cook. One day my wife said to another maid: "I can't
think why the shepherd spends so much time in the house. I suppose
cook is the attraction?" The girl blushed, hesitated, and looked down,
but finally courageously murmured: "Please, mum, it's me, mum!" They
were married in due course, and we lost an excellent servant.
Some of the village women and girls filled up spare moments with
"gloving"; the large kid-glove manufacturers in Worcester supplied the
material, cut into shape, and a stand, with a kind of vice divided
into spaces the exact size of each stitch, which held the work firmly
while the stitching was done by hand; they grew very quick at this
work, and turned out the gloves with beautifully even stitches, but I
don't think they could earn much at it in a day, and it must have been
rather monotonous.
I was interested to read in Mr. Warde Fowler's _Kingham Old and New_
an account of a peculiar ceremony--called "Skimmington," by Mr. Hardy,
in his _Mayor of Casterbridge_--which took place in Kingham village. I
have known of two similar cases, one in Surrey and one at Aldington,
under the name of "rough music." The Kingham case was quite parallel
with that at Aldington, being a demonstration of popular disapproval
of the conduct of a woman resident, in matters arising out of
matrimonial differences.
The outraged neighbours collect near the dwelling of the delinquent,
having provided themselves with old trays, pots and pans, and anything
by means of which a horrible din can be raised, and proceed to
serenade the offender. To be the subject of such a demonstration is
regarded as a signal disgrace and a most emphatic mark of popular
odium. Mr. Warde Fowler tells me, on the authority of a German book on
marriage, etc., that "the same sort of din is made at marriage in some
parts of Europe to drive evil spirits away from the newly married
pair." Possibly, therefore, the custom among our own villagers may
have originated with the same idea, and they may formerly have taken
the charitable view that evil spirits were responsible for evil deeds,
and that their exorcism was a neighbourly duty.
The holiday outings I gave my men were a _quid pro quo_ for some hours
of overtime in the hay-making, and included a day's wages, all
expenses, and a supply of food. They generally went to a large town
where an agricultural show was in progress, but I think the sea trips
to Ilfracombe and Weston-super-Mare were the most popular, offering as
they did much greater novelty. I have a vivid recollection of the
preparation of the rations on the previous night: a vast joint of beef
nicely roasted and got cold before operations commenced, my wife and
daughter making the sandwiches, while I cut up the beef in the
kitchen, sometimes in my shirt-sleeves on a hot summer night;
mountains of loaves of bread, great slices of cake, and pounds of
cheese, completed the provisions. The rations were wrapped in separate
papers and placed in a hipbath, covered with a cloth, and finally kept
in a cool building, whence each man took his portion at early dawn.
For the sea trips the train took the party to Gloucester and
Sharpness, where they embarked upon the steamer.
Many and thrilling were the tales I heard next day; the sea was fairly
smooth until they reached the Bristol Channel, but then, if they met a
south-west wind, the vessel began to roll, and jovial faces looked
thoughtful. I must not dwell upon the delightful horrors of the voyage
on such occasions; they were accepted with good-humour and regarded as
part of the show, but it was curious that not one of the narrators
himself suffered the fate that he so graphically described as the
portion of the others. Arrived at their destination, they inspected
the town, watched the people on the piers and parades, and the
children playing on the sands. The latter created the greatest
interest, busy with their spades and buckets, or, as one man expressed
it, "little jobs o' draining and summat!"
At Christmas the village children always came in small gangs to sing,
or rather chant, a peculiar and very ancient seasonable greeting:
"I wish you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year,
A pocket full of money and a cellar full of beer,
A good fat pig to last you all the year.
May God bless all friends near!
A merry, merry Christmas and a happy New Year."
CHAPTER VII.
MACHINERY--VILLAGE POLITICS--ASPARAGUS.
"Last week came one to the county town
To preach our poor little army down."
--_Maud_.
Though machinery has lightened the labour of manual workers to some
extent, it entails much more trouble upon masters and foremen, for
breakages are frequent and always occur at the busiest time. What with
mowers, reapers, thrashing machines, chaff-cutters, root-pulpers, and
grain-mills run by steam-power or in connection with horse-gears;
hop-washers, separators, and other delicately adjusted novelties, the
master must of necessity be something of a mechanic himself. I doubt
if machinery is really quite the advantage claimed by theorists and
reconstructionists at the present day. Even the thrashing machine,
universally adopted, presents disadvantages in comparison with the
ancient flail, generally regarded as obsolete, though still to be
found in occasional use by the smallholder or allotment occupier. In
former times the farmer reserved his thrashing by hand, for the most
part, for winter work during severe frost or wet weather, when nothing
could be done outside. The immense barns, which still exist, were
filled almost to the roof at harvest; thatching was not necessary, and
every sheaf was absolutely safe from rain as soon as it was under
cover. Continuous winter work was provided for the men, and a daily
supply of fresh straw for chaff-cutting and bedding, besides fresh
chaff and rowens or cavings for stock throughout the winter. With the
thrashing machine in use for ricks, thatching is a necessity, and is
often difficult to arrange in the stress of harvest; the machine and
engine demand a day's work for two teams of horses to fetch them, and
the cartage and expense of much coal, now so dear. On a small farm
extra hands have to be engaged, the straw has to be stacked or carried
to the barns, and the same applies to the chaff and rowens. If the
weather is damp, straw, chaff, and rowens get stale, mouldy, and
unpalatable to the stock, a heavy charge is made for the hire of the
machine and the machine men, and the latter require food and drink or
payment instead. The machine breaks and bruises many grains of corn,
which are thereby damaged for seed or malting, whereas the less urgent
flail leaves them intact.
The sound of the thrashing machine gives an impression to outsiders of
brisk and remunerative work, but it is cheerful to the farmer only
when high prices are ruling. Far otherwise was it for many years
before the War, when corn-growers heard only its moaning, despondent
note, telling anything but a flattering tale, only varied by an
occasional angry growl, when irregular feeding choked its satiated
appetite.
From the aesthetic standpoint uncouth and noisy machines, such as
mowers and reapers, cannot be compared to a lusty team of men with
scythes, in their white shirts, backed by the flowering meadows; or a
sunny field of busy harvesters facing a golden wall of corn, and
leaving behind them the fresh-shorn stubble dotted with sheaves and
nicely balanced shocks. The rattle of the machines, too, is discordant
and out of harmony with the peaceful countryside.
It is related of Ruskin that, hearing the insistent rattle of a mowing
machine in a meadow adjoining his home by the beautiful Coniston
Water, and his sense of the fitting being outraged, he interviewed the
owner, and, by an offer to pay the trifling difference between machine
and hand labour, induced him to discontinue the annoyance.
As to the relative cost of machine and hand wheat-cutting, quite early
in my farming I obtained the opinion of a distinguished farmer, then
well known on the Council of the Royal Agricultural Society, Mr.
Charles Randell, of Chadbury, near Evesham, on the subject: "If you
can get a good crop," he said, "cut, tied, and stocked by hand at
anything like 15s. an acre, don't use a machine. If the corn is ripe
it knocks out and wastes quite a bushel of wheat per acre" (worth at
that time about 5s., now nearer 9s. or 10s.). "I always bring out my
machines, and have them oiled and made ready, _but I don't want to use
them_."
In a wet harvest the machine is unworkable on sticky clay soil, and
after a wet summer, when the corn is badly laid and twisted, it makes
very poor work, cutting off the ears and scattering them, and leaving
a quantity of uncut and untidy straw on the ground.
In my own case my equanimity was never disturbed by a reaping machine,
with its unwieldy tossing arms, on my land, for I had to find
employment for my full staff of regular hands, specially required for
the much more important hop-picking a little later, and it pleased me
that they should get the extra pay for harvest work as well.
The cream separator, I admit, is a wonderful invention, and its hum is
not unmusical; it provides fresh skim milk for the calves and pigs
morning and night, which, as well as the cream, is thoroughly cleansed
in the process. The aeration of the skim milk leaves it a most
wholesome and nourishing article of diet for the villagers if they
could be made to understand its value, and that the removal of the
cream takes away only the fat (heating material), leaving the bone and
muscle making constituents in the milk. I could never induce my
village folk to accept this rudimentary proposition; they fancied that
all the goodness was gone with the cream, and though I offered the
skim milk at the nominal price of one halfpenny a quart, very few
would send their children to fetch it, though they mostly lived within
a hundred yards of the dairy.
The hay or straw elevator is one of the greatest helps, saving much
heavy overhand labour in rick-building. An old labourer, pointing to
one, with great appreciation, on a farm I was visiting, said:
"_That's_ a machine as will be always kept in the dry and took care
on." He spoke from experience of the arduous work of unloading and the
passing of heavy weights, sometimes from the bed of the waggon to the
summit of the rick; for, as my bailiff often said, "Nobody knows so
well where the shoe pinches as the man who has to wear it."
Steam has not done all that was expected of it as an agricultural
slave. The steam plough is not a success on heavy land where the
ridges are high and irregular in width, and even the steam cultivator
has to be used with caution lest the soil should be carried from the
ridges to the furrows, and the "squitch" (couch) buried to a depth at
which it is difficult to eradicate. The great convenience of steam
cultivation is that full advantage can be taken of a short spell of
hot, dry weather for fallowing operations, and the soil is left so
hollow that it soon bakes and kills the weeds. I fully sympathize with
Tennyson's, _Northern Farmer, Old Style:_
"But summon 'ull come ater meä mayhap wi' 'is kittle o' steäm
Huzzin' an' maäzin' the blessed feälds wi' the Devil's oän teäm";
for, except on a large farm with immense fields, the ponderous and
ungainly steam, tackle gives one a sensation of intrusion. Such a
field can be found on a farm between Evesham and Alcester; it contains
300 acres. The occupier, speaking of it, mentioned that it was all
wheat that year except one corner. To a question as to the size of the
corner, it transpired that it was 50 acres, and growing peas. For
comparison there is a story of a Devonshire farmer who said he had
been very busy one winter making four fields into one. "Then you've
got a big field," said a friend. "Yes," was the reply; "it's just four
acres."
When the farm labourer was enfranchised in 1885 he became an important
member of the electorate. Candidates and canvassers alike had a much
more strenuous time than ever before, the former were constrained to
hold meetings in every village, and the latter were obliged to visit
nearly every cottage. The late Sir Richard Temple after a
distinguished career in India, became Conservative candidate for our
division. The doctrine of "three acres and a cow," in opposition to
every tenet of rural economy, as well as the division of the land
among the labourers, were at the time paraded by theorists and paid
agitators, as bribes to purchase the votes of the new electors, and as
ensuring the salvation of the rural population, which was then
beginning to suffer from unemployment, resulting from the destruction
of corn-growing by foreign competition.
The more credulous of the labourers were excited and unsettled by the
alluring prospect of independence thus held out to them, and it was
reported that some went so far as to survey the fields around their
villages and select the plots they proposed to cultivate, and that
others took baskets to the poll in which to bring home the
all-powerful magic of the mysterious vote! Among the new voters in a
neighbouring village, a man of very decided views found it puzzling to
decide by which candidate they were most nearly represented, and,
determined to make no mistake at the poll, he consulted a
fellow-labourer, inquiring: "Which way be the big uns a-going, because
I be agin they?"
The Squire of an adjoining parish met an old villager with whom he had
always been on good terms; after mutual greetings, the man
sympathised: "I _be_ sorry for you, Squire." "Why?" was the rejoinder.
"Yes, I be regular sorry for you, Squire, that I be.." "What's the
matter?" asked the Squire. "Ay! about this here land; 'tis to be
divided amongst we working men." "Indeed," said the Squire; "but look
here, after a bit, some of you won't want to cultivate it any longer,
and some, with improvident habits, will sell their plots to others, so
that soon it will be all back again into the hands of a few; what will
you do then?" The man looked puzzled, scratched his head, and
cogitated deeply, until a simple solution presented itself: "Then,
Squire," said he, "we shall divide again!"
Sir Richard Temple was undoubtedly an able man, but he was a complete
stranger to the local conditions of the constituency. The villagers of
Badsey especially, as well as of other adjoining parishes, were just
beginning to retrieve their position, threatened by the collapse of
corn-growing and consequent unemployment, by the adoption of
market-gardening and fruit-growing. The land, run down and full of
weeds and rubbish, had been cut up into allotments and offered to them
as tenants, their only choice lying between years of hard work in
redeeming its condition or emigration. Many young men chose the
latter, and did well in the States of America; but where there was a
wife and young children that course was scarcely possible, and the man
became an allotment tenant. Passing one of these on a plot full of
"squitch," which he was laboriously breaking up with a fork to expose
it in big clods to a baking sun, I asked if he had taken it. "Well,"
said he, "I don't know whether I've taken _it_ or it's taken _me_!"
These men, by unceasing labour and self-denial, were just beginning to
turn the corner; they had cleaned the land, ameliorated its mechanical
condition by application of soot and by deep digging with their
beloved forks, and, having discovered how wonderfully asparagus
nourished on this deep, rich soil, had planted large areas, as well as
plum-trees and other market-garden crops, and the well-merited return
was coming in increasingly year by year.
Sir Richard Temple did not understand the difference between the small
holder, growing corn and ordinary crops in less favoured parts of the
countrymen the one hand, and market-gardeners in the Vale of Evesham,
with its early climate, splendid soil, and railway connection with
huge artisan populations, delivering the produce with punctuality and
despatch, on the other. He considered that small holders could not
make an economic success where the farmers had failed, and had made
his views well known in the constituency, but he did not distinguish
between the small holder and the market-gardener.
The men of Badsey felt aggrieved, they knew better, and at a meeting
he held in the village they gave him a rather noisy hearing, with
interruptions such as, "Keep off them steel farks," "Mind them steel
farks, Sir Richard," and so on.
Sir Richard came to ask for my support and assistance in our village,
and, as I was not at home, my wife entertained him in my absence, with
tea and wedding-cake. She innocently asked if he had come to canvass
me; her straightforward query surprised him, but, after a moment's
hesitation, he replied cautiously: "Well, something of that sort."
He was eventually returned, and the men of Badsey continued to
flourish on asparagus-growing in spite of his warnings; new houses
sprang up in every direction, and available labour grew scarcer and
scarcer. Those splendid asparagus "sticks" or "buds," as they are
called, tied with osier or withy twigs, which may be seen in Covent
Garden Market and the large fruiterers' shops in Regent Street, are
grown in and around the parishes of Badsey and Aldington. They command
high prices, up to 15s. and 20s. a hundred for special stuff, and this
year (1919) I see that £21 was realized for the champion hundred at
the Badsey Asparagus Show. That, of course, must be regarded as quite
exceptional, and possibly there were special considerations which made
it worth the money to the purchaser.
Later came difficulties; after successive dry summers the asparagus
was attacked by a fungoid complaint, called by the growers "rust."
Instead of growing vigorously after the crop had been gathered--which
is the time when the buds for next year's crop are developing on the
crowns of the plants--and finally dying off naturally in beautiful
feathery plumes of green and gold, it presented a dingy and rusty
appearance, eventually turning black. Asparagus cannot stand
long-continued summer and autumn drought; it likes plenty of moisture,
in free circulation but not stagnant. The crops that followed the
appearance I have described were very deficient, proving that the
growing season of one year's foliage is the time when next year's crop
is decided.
The growth of asparagus is still a very important part of the
market-gardener's business in the parishes referred to, but it does
not continue to produce the best results indefinitely and continuously
on the same land, and the growers have been obliged to extend their
acreages and take fresh plots. I have little doubt that with the
scientific application of artificial fertilizers the yield would
continue satisfactory for a much longer period. Plant disease of any
kind is nearly always due to starvation for want of the chemical
constituents upon which the crop feeds, though sometimes caused by
unhealthy sap, the result of late spring frosts or unsuitable weather.
The asparagus-growers relied too much upon soot as a fertilizer; it
has a marvellous effect upon the mechanical condition of heavy land;
its particles intervene between the particles of the almost impalpable
powder of which clay is composed, and the soil approximates to a
well-tilled garden plot after a few applications and careful
incorporation, and in the local phraseology, it becomes "all of a
myrtle." But as plant food soot contains nitrogen only, a great plant
stimulant, which quickly exhausts the soil of the other necessary
constituents. If the growers would make use of basic slag,
superphosphate, or bone dust to replace the phosphate of lime removed
by the crop, and of potash in one of its available forms, they would
soon experience a great improvement in the power of their asparagus to
resist disease and deterioration.
I am aware that some of the smaller growers regard all kinds of
artificial fertilizers with suspicion, but they may be interested,
should they ever read these pages, in the following story. When
Peruvian guano was first introduced into this country, the farmers
could not be persuaded that it merited any reliance as a manure. The
importers, in despair, caused some of the despised stuff to be sown in
the form of huge letters spelling the word "FOOLS" upon a bare
hillside, visible from a great distance. The following spring, with
the beginning of growth, and throughout the summer, the word stared
the farmers in the face whenever they chanced to look that way, in
dark green outstanding characters upon the yellow background; after
this practical demonstration there was no difficulty in finding
purchasers.
Sir Richard Temple was opposed by Mr. Arthur Chamberlain, one at least
of whose canvassers was not above stretching a point to obtain the
votes of the labourers. My men told me that they had been promised
roast beef and plum pudding every day of their lives should the
Liberal party be returned. These tactics were again resorted to in the
election of 1906, when walls were placarded with pictures of the
Chinese employed in the gold-mines of the Transvaal, driven in chains
by cruel overseers, presumably representing the Conservative
Government which had sanctioned their employment. I know from what I
heard in my new home, for I was no longer at Aldington, that this
misrepresentation decided the votes of many of the more ignorant
voters.
CHAPTER VIII.
MY THREE VICARS--CHURCH RESTORATION--CHURCHWARDEN EXPERIENCES--
CLERICAL AND OTHER STORIES.
"Where many a generation's prayer,
Hath perfumed and hath blessed the air."
--GLADSTONE.
I saw a good deal of my three successive Vicars, for I was Vicar's
churchwarden for a period of nearly twenty years, and was treasurer of
the fund for the restoration and enlargement of Badsey Church. My
first Vicar had held the living for over thirty years when we decided
upon this important undertaking; and not wishing to be burdened with
the correspondence which the work would entail, he invited me to act
for him. I was pleased, because I have always been interested in the
architecture of old buildings, especially churches, and readily
undertook the post. I had the constant and intimate co-operation of my
co-warden, Mr. Julius Sladden, of Badsey, and I may say that no two
people ever worked together with greater harmony.
The restoration had been debated for many years; the ancient church
was sadly dilapidated, and disfigured by an ugly gallery at the west
end of the nave, which obscured the finest arch in the building,
leading into the tower; and the incident which brought the matter
within the range of possibility was romantic. The Vicar succeeded
quite unexpectedly to a large inheritance; the news reached him and
his wife, who was away from home at the time, simultaneously. The
letters they wrote to each other on their good fortune crossed in the
post, and characteristically each wrote "Badsey Church must now be
restored." Soon afterwards the Vicar came to my house and, sitting
down at my table, wrote me a cheque for £500 to start the fund.
On the advice of the patrons of the living--the Dean and Chapter of
Christ Church, Oxford--we invited Mr. Thomas Graham Jackson, now Sir
Thomas Graham Jackson, R.A., to undertake the duties of architect. His
work was well known at Oxford at the time, as the beautiful New
Schools had just been completed from his designs; we were also most
fortunate in obtaining the services of Mr. Thomas Collins, of
Tewkesbury, as builder. Mr. Collins was devoted to church
architecture, and the financial consideration of such work was to him
quite secondary to the pleasure he experienced as a connoisseur in
restoring to the dignity and beauty of the past any ecclesiastical
building of distinguished interest. The first estimate was, I think,
£1,500, exclusive of architect's fees, but when the work was completed
we had expended in all a sum of over £2,130. We did not finally clear
off the debt until 1894, nine years after the reopening of the church,
and since then a considerable further sum has been expended in
rehanging the old bells and adding two new ones to make up the full
peal of eight.
It was delightful to experience the willingness of everybody to help;
subscriptions, large and small, came in readily at the very outset,
and this part of the work never became arduous until the last few
hundreds had to be raised. Most of us experienced the truth of the
proverb _Bis dat qui cito dat_, but in a different sense from that
which usually commends it, for many who gave quickly not only
literally gave twice, but three times or more. Bazaars, concerts, and
entertainments of all kinds were undertaken by the parishioners, a sum
of £376 being raised by these means. Among them a bazaar at Badsey
realized £130; another, later, at Aldington in one of my old barns,
£80; and two concerts--afternoon and evening--at Malvern, organized by
my wife and her sister, Miss Poulton, £100.
The Vicar received a notable letter from the late Lord Salisbury, the
Premier; they had been at Eton and Christ Church together, and Lord
Salisbury was godfather to the Vicar's eldest son. The Vicar had
written of the fortune he had inherited, and spoke of some rooks as
having brought the luck by building, for the first time, in an
elm-tree in the vicarage grounds. Lord Salisbury, in sending a
donation of £25 to the restoration fund, added: "I see a great many
rooks building near my house" (Hatfield), "but the luck has not come
to me yet." The Vicar's comment to me was: "If the luck has not yet
come to Lord Salisbury, I don't see how anyone can hope for it!"
The Malvern concert was a strenuous undertaking; Badsey being a long
way from Malvern, it was necessary to interest the inhabitants and to
some extent to plead _in forma pauperis_, for we were really a poor
parish without any large resident landowners. The first thing was to
get a good list of influential local patrons; and as soon as Lady
Emily Foley consented, the promoters felt that the work was half done.
Lady Emily Foley was supreme at Malvern, a very distinguished old lady
and most popular, but perhaps a little alarming.
On the day of the two concerts I was detailed with a troop of young
men, relatives of the patrons, to conduct the people to their seats,
and an elaborate plan of the large Assembly Room was given me, with
minute particulars of the lettered rows and numbered seats, presenting
the appearance, somewhat, of a labyrinth. I was studying it at the
doors, and arranging with the young stewards as to their individual
functions, when I heard an alarmed exclamation from one of them: "Look
out! here comes Lady Emily Foley!" In an instant the whole crowd took
to their heels and disappeared down the corridor. With some little
difficulty I succeeded in finding the seats of Lady Emily Foley's
party, but I could see that she regarded me as a rather feeble
cicerone.
She was, however, exceedingly gracious after my wife's first solo,
which pleased her so much that we had to make an exception in this
case, and allow an encore by her special request, though it had been
arranged, owing to the length of the programme, that no encores were
to be given. Lady Alwyne Compton, wife of the Dean of Worcester, very
kindly assisted as a performer, my wife having frequently sung at
charity concerts and entertainments for her in Worcester and the
neighbourhood, among them a recital by Mr. Brandram of _A
Midsummer-Night's Dream_, when she undertook the soprano solos
occurring in the play, at the Worcester Guildhall. Lady Alwyne Compton
was very musical, and rehearsals were held in the stone-vaulted crypt
beneath the Deanery, a place of splendid acoustic properties, which
intensified the sound without coarsening it, and brought the voice
back to the singer in a way unknown on the usual platform, decorated
with screens, curtains, and flags, and obstructed by floral
impedimenta.
Among the performers at the Malvern concerts some professionals had
been engaged from London, including Miss Margaret Wild, a well-known
pianist. I had given my men a holiday for the occasion and was anxious
to hear their opinion of the performances. They considered the music
rather too high class for them, but they thoroughly appreciated the
nimble fingers of Miss Margaret Wild; one of them adding
enthusiastically: "My word, her did make 'im (the piano) rottle!" Our
old parish clerk too, at the time over eighty years of age, who walked
three miles to Evesham Station in the morning, ascended the
Worcestershire Beacon--nearly 1,500 feet--and finally walked back from
Evesham to Badsey at night, was much struck by the recitations of Miss
Isabel Bateman at the concert. The dear old man was somewhat deaf, and
told me that, sitting towards the back of the room, "I couldn't hear
nothing, but I could see as the gesters [gestures] was all right."
This old clerk was prominently devout in the church responses, and had
some original pronunciations of unusual words; in the Nicene Creed he
generally followed a few bars, so to speak, behind the Vicar, but one
never failed to catch the words "apost'lick church" towards the end.
He was very scornful of ghosts, and told me that he had been about the
churchyard very often at night for fifty years without seeing anything
like an apparition. But the whole village was alarmed, including the
clerk, one Sunday when, about midnight, the tenor bell was heard
solemnly tolling. The clerk, with some supporters and a lantern,
unlocked the door, and found the village idiot--silly C.--in the tower
ringing the bell. It appeared that, after service, the clerk had
extinguished the lights and locked up for the night about eight
o'clock. C., who had gone to sleep in the gallery with his head upon
his arms before him on the desk, slumbered on until he woke in alarm
some four hours later, to find himself alone and the church in total
darkness, but he was intelligent enough to remember the bell and get
his release.
C. had a hand-to-hand fight in the church tower with Aldington's
special imbecile. After service the clerk invited me to the scene of
the battle, pointing out some crimson traces on the stone pavement. I
called upon our imbecile's parents on my way home, and the old father
was greatly shocked. "Here he be, sir," he said; "I hope you'll give
him a jolly good hiding." I told him I could hardly undertake the rôle
of executioner on a Sunday, in cold blood, and contented myself with a
severe reprimand.
I was handing the collecting-bag one morning after service, and
finding it did not return from the end of the row of chairs as quickly
as usual, I discovered this same individual with his hand _in the
bag_. I signed to him impatiently to pass it back. After service he
came to the vestry and said that he had contributed a florin in
mistake for a penny, and was trying to retrieve it. I could generally
estimate pretty accurately the amount of the collection, as I handed
the bag, knowing the extent of each person's usual gift, and sure
enough, there was an extra florin among the coins, with which I sent
him away happy.
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
proceedi
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