Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

"Before this comes to your Hands, you will have heard of the most
terrible Accident that hath almost ever happened. This morning at 8,
my men brought me word that D. Hamilton had fought with Ld. Mohun and
killed him and was brought home wounded. I immediately sent him to
the Duke's house in St James's Square, but the porter could hardly
answer for tears and a great Rabble was about the House. In short
they fought at 7 this morning the Dog Mohun was killed on the spot,
and wile (_sic_) the Duke was over him Mohun shortening his sword
stabbed him in at the shoulder to the heart the Duke was helpt
towards the lake house by the Ring in the park (where they fought),
{39} and dyed in the Grass before he could reach the House and was
brought home in his Coach by 8, while the poor Dutchess was asleep. .
. . I am told that a footman of Ld. Mohun's stabbd D. Hamilton; and
some say Mackartney did so too. Mohun gave the affront and yet sent
the Challenge. I am infinitly concerned for the poor Duke who was a
frank honest good natured man, I loved him very well and I think he
loved me better.

JONAT. SWIFT.

"LONDON, 15_th Nov._ 1712."

I insert the following extract as it records what was of great importance to Hearne personally, since he refused to recognise George I. as the legitimate monarch.

3_rd Aug._ 1714.--"On Sunday morning (Aug. 1st) died queen Anne, about 7 o'clock. She had been taken ill on Friday immediately before. Her distemper an apoplexy, or, as some say, only convulsions. She was somewhat recovered, and then made Shrewsbury lord treasurer. On Sunday last, in the afternoon, George Lewis, elector of Brunswick, was proclaimed in London King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, by virtue of an act of parliament, by which those that are much nearer to the crown by bloud are excluded."

The following extract illustrates the feeling in Oxford under the first Hanoverian sovereign. Very few, however, showed Hearne's consistent and courageous Jacobinism:--

29_th May_ 1715.--"Last night a good part of the presbyterian meeting-house in Oxford was pulled down. There was such a concourse of people going up and down, and putting a stop to the least sign of rejoycing, as cannot be described. But then the rejoycing this day (notwithstanding Sunday) was so very great and publick in Oxford, as hath not been known hardly since the restauration. There was not an house next the street but was illuminated. For if any disrespect was shown, the windows were certainly broke. The people run up and down, crying _King James the third_! _The true King_! _No usurper_! _The duke of Ormond_! and healths were everywhere drank suitable to the occasion, and every one at the same time drank to a new restauration, which I heartily wish may speedily happen."

I give the following extract as a record of the dinner hour in Oxford in 1717:--

24_th April_ 1717.--"On Sunday morning last (being Easter-day) Dr Charlett, master of University college, sent his man to invite me to dinner that day. I sent him word that I was engaged, as indeed I was. Yesterday he sent again. I sent word I would wait upon him. Accordingly I went at twelve o'clock. When I came I found nobody with him but Mr Collins, of Magdalen coll., whom he had also invited." {41}

Here is an interesting scrap of history:--

19_th April_ 1718.--". . . King William the Conqueror's beard alwayes shaven, for so was the custome of the Norman. Thus were the Englishmen forced to imitate the Normans in habit of apparell, shaving off their beards, service at the table, and in all other outward gestures. The English before did not use to shave their upper lips."

11_th Nov._ 1720.--"Dr Wynne. . . . This worthy doctor was the man also that put a stop to the selling of fellowships in All Soul's college, as I have often heard him say; and I have as often heard him likewise say, that he always voted for the poorest candidaters for fellowships in that college, provided they were equally qualified in other respects; a thing not practised now."

Here is a pleasant inversion of the relation between boy and schoolmaster:--

21_st Jan._ 1718-19.--"I remember that I heard formerly Tom Rogers, who was yeoman beadle, say, that when he was that year, when the plague raged, a school-boy at Eaton, all the boys of that school were obliged to smoak in the school every morning, and that he was never whipped so much in his life as he was one morning for not smoaking."

27_th Feb._ 1722-23.--"It hath been an old custom in Oxford for the scholars of all houses, on Shrove Tuesday, to go to dinner at ten o'clock (at which time the little bell, called _pan-cake bell_, rings, or at least should ring, at St Maries), and at four in the afternoon; and it was always followed in Edmund hall, as long as I have been in Oxford, till yesterday, when they went to dinner at twelve, and to supper at six, nor were there any fritters at dinner, as there used always to be. When laudable old customs alter, 'tis a sign learning dwindles."

I hope that modern Oxford has returned to pancakes on Shrove Tuesday.

There is a pleasant touch of mediaevalness in the following:--

10_th July_ 1723.--"There are two fairs a year at Wantage, in Berks, the first on 7th July, being the translation of St Thomas a Becket, and the second on the 6th of October, being St Faith's day. But this year, the 7th of July being a Sunday, the fair was kept last Monday, and 'twas a very great one; and yesterday it was held too, when there was a very great match of backsword or cudgell playing between the hill-country and the vale-country, Berkshire men being famous for this sport or excercise."

The following account makes one inclined to sympathise with Hearne's avoidance of travelling:--

21_st Sept._ 1723.--"They wrote from Dover, Sept. 14, that the day before, col. Churchill, with two other gentlemen, arrived there from Calais, by whom they received the following account, viz., that on Thursday morning last, Mr Seebright and Mr Davis being in one chair, and Mr Mompesson and a servant in another chaise, with one servant on horseback, pursuing their way to Paris, were, about seven miles from Calais, attacked by six ruffians, who demanded the three hundred guineas which they said were in their pockets and portmanteaus. The gentlemen readily submitted, and surrendered the money; yet the villains, after a little consultation, resolved to murder them, and thereupon shot Mr Seebright thro' the heart, and gave the word for killing the rest: then Mr Davis, who was in the chaise with him, shot at one of them, missed the fellow, but killed his horse; upon which he was immediately killed, being shot and stabb'd in several places. Mr Mompesson and the two servants were likewise soon dispatched in a very barbarous manner. During this bloudy scene, Mr John Locke coming down a hill within sight of them, in his return from Paris, the ruffians sent two of their party to meet and kill him; which they did before the poor gentleman was apprized of any danger; but his man, who was a Swiss, begging hard for his life, was spared. This happening near a small village where they had taken their second post, a peasant came by in the interim, and was also murdered. They partly flead, and otherwise mangled, the horse that was killed, to prevent its being known; so that 'tis believed they did not live far from Calais. The unfortunate gentlemen afore mentioned, not being used to travel, had unwarily discovered at Calais what sums they had about them, by exchanging their guineas for Louis d'ors, which is supposed to have given occasion to this dismal tragedy."

27_th July_ 1726.--"This is the day kept in honour of the Seven Sleepers, so called, because in the reign of Theodosius the second, about the year 449, when the resurrection (as we have it from Greg. Turon.) came to be doubted by many, seven persons, who had been buried alive in a cave at Ephesus by Decius the emperor, in the time of his persecution against the Christians, and had slept for about 200 years, awoke and testified the truth of this doctrine, to the great amazement of all."

In the following passage Hearne shows (as in some other instances) a certain antagonism to Sir Isaac Newton. I hope, however, that he was impressed by what he quotes from the _Reading Post_, viz. that "six noble peers supported the pall" at the funeral.

"Sir Isaac Newton had promised to be a benefactor to the Royal society, but failed. Some time before he died, a great quarrel happened between him and Dr Halley, so as they fell to bad language. This, 'tis thought, so much discomposed Sir Isaac as to hasten his end. Sir Isaac died in great pain, though he was not sick, which pain proceeded from some inward decay, as appeared from opening him. He is buried in Westminster Abbey. Sir Isaac was a man of no promising aspect. He was a short well-set man. He was full of thought, and spoke very little in company, so that his conversation was not agreeable. When he rode in his coach, one arm would be out of the coach on one side, and the other on the other."

25_th April_ 1727.--"Mr West tells me, in a letter from London of the 22nd inst., that being lately in Cambridgeshire, he spent two days in that university, both which times he had the pleasure of seeing my friend Mr Baker, who was pleased to walk with him, and shew him his college, the library, etc. What hath been given to the library by Mr Baker himself, is no small addition to it; Mr Baker being turned out of his fellowship for his honesty and integrity (as I have also lost my places for the same reason, in not taking the wicked oaths), writes himself in all his books _socius ejectus_. His goodness and humanity are as charming, to those who have the happiness of his conversation, as his learning is profitable to his correspondents. The university library is not yet put into any order."

25_th June_ 1728.--"The Cambridge men are much wanting to themselves, in not retrieving the remains of their worthies. Mr Baker is the only man I know of there, that hath of late acted in all respects worthily on that head, and for it he deserves a statue."

3_rd Aug._ 1728.--"Yesterday Mr Gilman of St Peter's parish in the east, Oxford (a lusty, heartick, {46a} thick, and short man), told me, that he is in his 85th year of age, and that at the restoration of K. Charles II., being much afflicted with the king's evil, he rode up to London behind his father, was touched on a Wednesday morning by the king, was in very good condition by that night, and by the Sunday night immediately following was perfectly recovered and hath so continued ever since. He hath constantly wore the piece of gold about his neck that he received of the king, and he had it on yesterday when I met him."

I hope that Oxford, which had treated poor Hearne so ill, was impressed by the facts recorded on 10th June 1730:--

"On Thursday, June 4th, the earl of Oxford (Edw. Harley) was at my room at Edm. hall from ten o'clock in the morning till a little after twelve o'clock, together with Dr Conyers Middleton, of Trin. coll. Camb., and my lord's nephew, the hon. Mr May of Christ Church, and Mr Murray of Christ Church."

7_th Aug._ 1732.--"My friend the honble. Benedict Leonard Calvert {46b} died on 1st June 1732 (old stile) of a consumption, in the _Charles_, Capt. Watts commander, and was buried in the sea. When he left England he seemed to think that he was becoming an exile, and that he should never see his native country more; and yet neither myself nor any else could disswade him from going. He was as well beloved as an angel could be in his station; (he being governour of Maryland); for our plantations have a natural aversion to their governours, upon account of their too usual exactions, pillages, and plunderings; but Mr Calvert was free from all such, and therefore there was no need of constraint on that score: but then it was argument enough to be harrassed that he was their governour, and not only such, but brother to Ld. Baltimore, the lord proprietor of Maryland, a thing which himself declared to his friends, who were likewise too sensible of it. And the same may appear also from a speech or two of his on occasion of some distraction, which tho' in print I never yet saw. I had a sincere respect for him, and he and I used to spend much time together in searching after curiosities, etc., so that he hath often said that 'twas the most pleasant part of his life, as other young gentlemen, likewise then in Oxford have also as often said, that the many agreeable hours we used to spend together on the same occasion were the most entertaining and most pleasant part of their lives. As Mr Calvert and the rest of those young gentlemen (several of which, as well as Mr Calvert, were of noble birth) used to walk and divert themselves with me in the country, much notice was taken thereof, and many envyed our happiness."

5_th July_ 1733.--"One Handel, a foreigner (who, they say, was born at Hanover), being desired to come to Oxford, to perform in musick this Act, in which he hath great skill, is come down, the Vice-Chancellor (Dr Holmes) having requested him so to do, and, as an encouragement, to allow him the benefit of the Theater, both before the Act begins and after it. Accordingly he hath published papers for a performance to-day, at 5s. a ticket. This performance began a little after five o'clock in the evening. This is an inovation. The players might be as well permitted to come and act. The Vice-Chancellor is much blamed for it."

16_th Sept._ 1733.--"Mr Sacheverel, who died a few years since, of Denman's Farm (in Berks) near Oxford, was looked upon as the best judge of bells in England. He used to say, that Horsepath bells near Oxford, tho' but five in number, and very small, were the prettiest, tunablest bells in England, and that there was not a fault in one, except the 3d, and that so small a fault, as it was not to be discerned but by a very good judge."

3_rd Oct._ 1733.--"I hear of iron bedsteads in London. Dr Massey told me of them on Saturday, 29th Sept. 1733. He said they were used on account of the buggs, which have, since the great fire, been very troublesome in London."

17_th Jan._ 1733-34.--"Mr Baker of Cambridge (who is a very good, as well as a very learned man, and is my great friend, though I am unknown in person to him) tells me in his letter of the 16th of last December, that he hath always thought it a happiness to dye in time, and says of himself, that he is really affraid of living too long. He is above seventy, as he told me some time since."

10_th March_ 1733-34.-- . . . "On the 7th inst. Ld. Oxford sent me the chronicle of _John Bever_. He lends it me at my request, and says he will lend me any book he hath, and wonders I will not go to London and see my friends; and see what MSS. and papers are there, and in other libraries, that are worth printing. I could give several reasons for my not going either to London or other places, which however I did not trouble his lordship with. Among others, 'tis probable I might receive a much better welcome than I deserve, or is suitable to one that so much desires and seeks a private humble life, without the least pomp or grandeur."

2_nd May_ 1734.--"Yesterday an attempt was made upon New college bells of 6876 changes. They began a quarter before ten in the morning, and rang very well until four minutes after twelve, when Mr Brickland, a schoolmaster of St Michael's parish, who rang the fifth bell, missed a stroke, it put a stop to the whole, so that they presently set them, and so sunk the peal, which is pity, for 'twas really very true ringing, excepting five faults, which I observ'd (for I heard all the time, tho' 'twas very wet all the while) in that part of the Parks which is on the east side of Wadham college, where I was very private; one of which five faults was the treble, that was rung by Mr Richard Hearne, and the other four were faults committed by the aforesaid Mr Brickland, who 'twas feared by several beforehand would not fully perform his part. . . ."

2_nd May_ 1734. . . . "When I mention'd afterwards my observations to ye said Mr Smith, he told me, that tho' he rung himself, yet he minded the faults also himself. Upon which I asked him how many there were? He said three before that which stopp'd them. I told him that there just five before that, at which he admired my niceness."

14_th Oct._ 1734. . . . "Dr Sherlock, now bp. of Salisbury, was likewise of that little house (Cath. Hall), and they look upon it as very much for the honour of that little house, that it has produced two of our principal prelates (Dr Sherlock and Hoadly, at Salisbury and Winchester). The last has usually (and regularly) gone to an Oxford man, as Ely to Cambridge."

31_st Dec._ 1734. . . . "But having been debarr'd the library, a great number of years, I am now a stranger there, and cannot in the least assist him, tho' I once design'd to have been very nice in examining all those liturgical MSS., and to have given notes of their age, and particularly of Leopric's Latin Missal, which I had a design of printing, being countenanc'd thereto by Dr Hickes, Mr Dodwell, etc."

RECOLLECTIONS

"To entertain the lag-end of my life
With quiet hours."

--_Henry IV._, Pt. I.

I was born at Down on 16th August 1848: I was christened at Malvern--a fact in which I had a certain unaccountable pride. But now my only sensation is one of surprise at having been christened at all, and a wish that I had received some other name. I was never called Francis, and I disliked the usual abbreviation Frank, while Franky or Frankie seemed to me intolerable. I also considered it a hardship to have but one Christian name. Our parents began by giving two names to the elder children; but their inventive capacity gave way and the younger ones had each but one. It seemed, too, a singular fact that--as they afterwards confessed--they gave names which they did not especially like. Our godfathers and godmothers were usually uncles and aunts, but this tepid relationship was deprived of any conceivable interest by the fact that the uncles were usually represented by the parish clerk. This, of course, we only knew by rumour, but we realised that they gave no christening mugs--a line of conduct in which I now fully sympathise. My brother Leonard did indeed receive a silver spoon from Mr Leonard Horner, but I fancy that this came to him on false pretences.

I have no idea at what age we began to go to church, but I have a general impression of unwillingly attending divine service for many boyish years. We had a large pew, lined with green baize, close beneath the clergyman's desk, and so near the clerk that we got the full flavour of his tremendous amens. I have a recollection of entertaining myself with the india-rubber threads out of my elastic-sided boots, and of gently tweaking them when stretched as miniature harp-strings. The only other diverting circumstance was the occurrence of book-fish (Lepisma?) in the prayer books or among the baize cushions. I have not seen one for fifty years, and I may be wrong in believing that they were like minute sardines running on invisible wheels. In looking back on the service in Down church, I am astonished at the undoubted fact that whereas the congregation in general turned towards the altar in saying the Creed, we faced the other way and sternly looked into the eyes of the other churchgoers. We certainly were not brought up in Low Church or anti-papistical views, and it remains a mystery why we continued to do anything so unnecessary and uncomfortable.

I have a general impression of coming out of church cold and hungry, and of seeing the labourers standing about the porch in tall hats and green or purple smock-frocks. But the chief object of interest was Sir John Lubbock (the father of the late Lord Avebury), of whom, for no particular reason, we stood in awe. He made it up to us by coming to church in a splendid fluffy beaver hat. My recollection is that we often went only to the afternoon service, which we preferred for its brevity. I have a clear recollection of our delight when, on rainy Sundays, we escaped church altogether.

A feature that distinguished Sunday from the rest of the week was our singular custom of having family prayers on that day only. When we were growing up we mildly struck at the ceremony, and my mother accordingly dropped it on finding that the servants took no especial interest in it.

On Sundays we wore our best jackets, but I think that, when church was over, we put on our usual tunics or blouses of surprising home-made fit. But I clearly remember climbing (in my Sunday clothes) a holly-tree on a damp Christmas Day, and meeting my father as I descended green from head to foot. I remember the occurrence because my father was justly annoyed, and this impressed the fact on me, since anything approaching anger was with him almost unknown.

In our blouses we might with impunity cover ourselves with the thick red clay of our country-side, and this we could always do by playing in a certain pit where we built clay forts, etc. We used also to run down the steep ploughed fields, our feet (grown with adhering clay to huge balls) swinging like pendulums and scattering showers of mud on all sides. Then we would come cheerfully home, entering by the back door and taking off our boots as we sat on the kitchen stairs in semi-darkness and surrounded by pleasant culinary smells.

In later years, when we used to take long winter tramps along our flinty winding lanes, this unbooting on the back stairs was a prelude to eating oranges in the dining-room, a feast that took the place of five o'clock tea--not then invented.

In the early days of which I was speaking, we had schoolroom tea with our governess, while our parents dined in peace at about 6.30. We came down after our tea, rushing along the dark passage and descending the stairs with that rhythmic series of bangs peculiar to children. I do not know that we were really frightened at passing certain dark doorways, but I certainly remember enjoying a sort of sham terror. One of these doors led into my mother's room and also to a store-room; I cannot think that this had any "night fears" for us, because it smelt so strongly of such everyday earthly things as soap and tallow candles. Why it was placed next to the bedroom I do not know. I have no clear remembrance of what we did in the evenings, but I seem to see a round table and a moderator lamp, such as occurs in John Leech's pictures in _Punch_. I have also a faint recollection of black-coated uncles sitting by the fire and not unnaturally objecting to our making short-cuts across their legs. It was no doubt a pity that we were not reproved for our want of consideration for the elderly, and that, generally speaking, our manners were neglected. One of our grown-up cousins was reported to have called our midday dinner "a violent luncheon," and I do not doubt that she was right. We were fortunate in having a set of simple, kindly, old-fashioned servants with whom we could be on friendly terms. Thus it happens that recollections cluster about the kitchen and pantry. I have a vague remembrance of a Welsh cook, Mrs Davis, who was very kind to us in spite of constant threats of "tying a dish-cloth to your tail," which, so far as I know, remained a threat, and was indeed never understood by me. We certainly could generally extract gingerbread and other good things from Daydy, as we called Mrs Davis. The butler, Parslow, was a kind friend to us all our lives. I do not remember being checked by him except in being turned out of the dining-room when he wanted to lay the table for luncheon, or being stopped in some game which threatened the polish of the sideboard, of which he spoke as though it were his private property. He had what may be called a baronial nature: he idealised everything about our modest household, and would draw a glass of beer for the postman with the air of a seneschal bestowing a cup of malvoisie on a troubadour. He would not, I think, have disgraced Charles Lamb's friend Captain Burney, who welcomed his guests in the grand manner to the simplest of feasts. It was good to see him on Christmas Day: with how great an air would he enter the breakfast-room and address us:--"Ladies and Gentlemen, I wish you a happy Christmas, etc. etc." I am afraid he got but a sheepish response from us. Among the outdoor servants there were three whom I remember well. There was Brooks, the general outdoor man, who acted as gardener, cowman, etc. He had dark eyes and a melancholy, morose face. Of him I have told elsewhere {56a} the following anecdote:--

Brooks had been accused by the other gardener of using foul language, and was hailed before my father to be judged. I, as a little boy, standing in the hall, heard my father say, "You know you are a very bad-tempered man." "Yes, sir" (in a tone of deep depression). "Then get out of the room--you ought to be ashamed of yourself." At this point I rushed upstairs in vague alarm and heard no more.

Brooks lived in a cottage close to the cow-yard, with his wife, in whom I took an interest because her name was Keziah, and because she was the best smocker in the village. I have a vague recollection of a private in the Guards to whom I was introduced as a son of Brooks--a statement I regarded as surprising. Mrs Brooks was as melancholy as her husband, and I remember many years later, when the pair were pensioned off in the village, hearing Brooks say in her presence, "She ain't no comfort to me, sir." To this she made no retort, though a _tu quoque_ would have been most just.

The under-gardener, Lettington (the man who objected to being sworn at), was a kindly person and a great friend of mine. It was he who taught me to make whistles {56b} in the spring and helped me with my tame rabbits. He also showed me how to make brick-traps for small birds, and a more elaborate trap made of hazel twigs. In this last I remember catching a blackbird: I imagine that I must have been rather afraid of my captive, for the unfortunate bird escaped leaving its tail in my hands. I do not think I ever wanted to kill the few other birds caught in traps, but let them go free. I clearly remember looking with envy and admiration at Bewicke's woodcuts of traps, _e.g._ that of the woodcock springe, and another of a sieve propped up over grain sprinkled as bait.

To return to Lettington. It was he who helped my father in his experiments on the crossing of plants: he lived to a great age, dying as a pensioner many years later. My father used to tell with amusement how Lettington never failed to remind him of a bad prophecy:--"Yes, sir, but you said so-and-so would happen." The third outdoor man was Thomas Price, generally known as the Dormouse on account of his somnolent manner of working. We, as boys, believed him to be a deserter from the army on account of the military set of his shoulders, and because he had arrived in the village an unknown wanderer. He was a bachelor and spent more than was wise on beer. For the last few years of his life my mother made him save money by the simple process of retaining part of his wages in her own hands. In this way he unwillingly acquired some 20 or 30 pounds, but as he refused to leave it to those who took care of him in his last illness, it went to the Crown, to whom I hope it made up for the loss of T. Price's very doubtful military services.

In later years it occurred to us that the methods of gardening at Down were antiquated, and we persuaded our parents to engage an active young Scotchman whom I will call X, and who was placed in command of Lettington and the Dormouse (the gloomy Brooks having been pensioned). The two old servants were dreadfully bustled by X, and I well remember their flushed faces after the first morning's digging in the serious Scotch manner. After a time, finding that matters were very little looked after, X began some mysterious dealings in cows with a neighbouring farmer, and it was suddenly discovered that a cow had disappeared. I remember my shame at finding I did not know how many cows we ought to have, nor could I swear to their personal appearance. But by dint of cross-examination I was enabled to draw up a statement of how cow A had been sold, cow B bought, and cow C exchanged for cow D, etc. Finally the ingenious X was discharged, and the rejoicing Lettington and Dormouse reinstated. But before this fortunate conclusion, I had at my father's bidding taken steps to obtain a summons against X. I remember thinking what a fool I should look when cross-examined before the magistrates. Another circumstance is impressed on my mind. The affair occurred in that remarkable October in which the trees were greatly injured by a snowstorm, and as I drove in a dog-cart through Holwood Park in search of the summons, I thought, as the trees cracked like pistols, that it was hardly worth while being crushed to death for the sake of any number of cows. Finally X was not prosecuted, and departed in peace.

To return to my childhood: I came between George and Leonard, and was a companion to both of them, but I do not think we made a trio as Leonard and Horace and I did more or less. I have a clear recollection of Leonard in a red fez, and bare legs covered with scratches, but I cannot distinctly call up images of the others. I seem to remember a great deal of purposeless wandering with my younger brothers; but with George, playing was an organised affair in which I was an obedient subordinate, as I have described in _Rustic Sounds_. Our chief game was playing at soldiers; we had toy guns to which home-made wooden bayonets were fixed, knapsacks, and I think shakos--whether we had any uniform coats I cannot remember. In the cloakroom under the stairs our names and heights were recorded, and George conscientiously constructed a short foot-rule so that our height should come to something like six feet. I had to keep sentry at the far end of the kitchen garden until released by a bugle-call. George being a sergeant was exempt from sentry work, and was merely responsible for the bugle-blowing. Indoors there was much playing with tin soldiers. I remember a regiment of dragoons whose coats my mother had laboriously reddened with sealing-wax to convert them into British soldiers. The troopers were in a ferocious charging attitude with swords raised, but the blades were mostly broken, and I innocently believed that they were all raising crusts of bread to their mouths. Another indoors game was the hurling of darts at one another in the long passage upstairs; we had wooden shields on which the javelins used to strike briskly enough, since they were weighted with lead. On these occasions we were knights or men-at-arms, but out of doors we were savages. George could hurl hazel-spears, using the Australian throwing-stick, an art I never acquired, but I was fond of slinging stones. To make a sling a bit of leather was necessary, and this meant a visit to the village cobbler, Parker by name, who was a short, sallow man with the bristling chin which, according to Dickens, {60} is the universal attribute of cobblers. I remember the pleasure of sending, with my sling, a pebble crashing into the big ash-tree in the field from what seemed to me a great distance.

Another pursuit was walking on stilts, of which we had two kinds; on the smaller ones even girls had been known to walk, but of the larger (which I remember as of imposing height) only the male sex was capable. The garden at Down was originally a bare and windy wilderness, but our parents constructed mounds of raw red clay on which laurel and box finally grew and made shelter. One of these mounds, covered with dwarf box-trees, was known to us as the Pyrenees, and our pleasure was to traverse the passes on stilts. There was a slight sense of danger and a certain romance in climbing the heights from the lawn and descending in what was legally a part of the orchard, where the last of the limes grew and a particular crab-tree of which I was fond.

Then there were two swings, one of the orthodox kind between those twin yew-trees that gave a special character to the lawn, and one consisting of a long rope fixed high up on the tall Scotch fir that grew on the mound. The rope of the latter had a short cross-bar at its lower end which served as a seat or a handle. There were various tricks, some of which were almost sure to bump the head of a strange child against the tree trunk, to our private satisfaction.

A similar rope hanging from the ceiling of the long passage at the top of the house supplied a more complicated set of tricks, which all had special names. Of these, I remember that _spangle_ meant a method of sitting on one side of the cross-bar at the end of the rope. The stairs leading to the second floor jutted out into the passage; we used to stand with one foot on each banister-supporting post and make it a starting-point for a swing on the rope, also a landing-place, and if we succeeded in getting back into position with a foot on each banister-post we were pleased with ourselves, especially if it was done at night without a light. The rope, working on the hooks fixed into the ceiling, made a grinding or squeaking noise which must have been annoying to guests, especially when mixed with much crashing and banging and shouting.

In later years we played stump cricket and lawn tennis, but in the early days of which I am thinking the only game I clearly remember was the practice of the village cricketers in our field. It seems improbable, yet I am decidedly of opinion that the pitch was the footpath, the unmown condition of the grass making bowling elsewhere an impossibility; on the other hand it made fielding an easy affair. I remember clearly the runs being recorded by notches cut on a stick, a method of scoring which has its place in literature in the match between All Muggleton and Dingley Dell. {62}

It is curious to remember how solitary our life was. We had literally no boy-friends in the whole neighbourhood; there were plenty of boys within reach but we never amalgamated with them, and were, I imagine, despised by them as outside the pale of Eton-dom. No opportunity was made for us to learn to shoot; I used to wander with a gun and shoot an occasional hare and various blackbirds, but I never had even the meanest skill, and after suffering miseries of shame at one or two shooting-parties I am glad to think I gave it up.

Fishing there was none in our dry country, and it was only very much later, on the beautiful Dovey in North Wales, that I learned something of the art.

Riding we did learn in a casual, haphazard way, and some of us hunted a little with a mild pack (the Old Surrey) in our bad hunting country--but all this was much later and hardly concerns my present subject.

The best practice I had as a boy was riding twice or thrice a week (from perhaps my tenth to my twelfth year) to Mr Reed, Rector of Hayes, to be taught Latin and a little arithmetic. Our ponies were shaggy, obstinate little beasts, who had the strongest possible dislike of their duties. I remember well how my pony turned round and round, and at last consented to proceed till a new excuse occurred for a bolt towards home. It was a secret delight to me when one of my brothers was beaten in the pony-fight and was brought ignominiously home.

Mr Reed was the kindest of teachers, and after a short spell of Latin he used to give me a slice of cake and allow me to look at the wonderful pictures in an old Dutch Bible. Even under the mild discipline of this kindest of men I used to dissolve in tears over my work.

When I was twelve years old, _i.e._ in the summer of 1860, I went to the Grammar School at Clapham kept by Rev. Charles Pritchard. I was two years under Pritchard, and when he left {63} I remained under his successor, Rev. Alfred Wrigley, until I went up to Trinity College, Cambridge, 1866. Wrigley had none of the force of Pritchard, nor had he, I fancy, his predecessor's gift of teaching. Mathematics formed a great part of our curriculum, and for these I had no turn. I am, however, grateful to Wrigley for having made me work out a great many logarithmic calculations which had to be shown up (as he expressed it) in a "neat, tabular form." As I have said in my article on my brother George in _Rustic Sounds_, my "recollections of George at Clapham are coloured by an abiding gratitude for his kindly protection of me as a shrinking and very unhappy 'new boy' in 1860."

From school I went to Trinity College, Cambridge. I lodged first with a tailor called Daniells in Bridge Street, nearly opposite to the new chapel of St John's--the slow rise of which I used to watch from my windows. Afterwards I moved into rooms on the ground floor to the left of the New Court Gate that leads out into the Backs. Why the architect made the sitting-rooms look into the Court and all its mean stucco decorations I cannot imagine. My bedroom looked out on the Backs and its avenue of lime-trees, where the nightingales sang through the happy May nights.

I hardly made any permanent friends till my second year, when I had the good fortune to become intimate with Edmund Gurney and Charles Crawley, both of whom died early. Crawley was drowned in a boating accident in which he tried in vain to save the women of the party. Edward Stirling, an Australian, has only recently (1919) died. I am glad to think that my undergraduate friends (except those removed by death) are still my friends.

Among the Dons who were friendly to students of natural science the first place must be given to Alfred Newton, the Professor of Zoology, who most kindly invited us to come to his rooms in Magdalene any and every Sunday evening. There we smoked our pipes and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. We had the advantage of meeting older members of the University. It was in this way I became acquainted with G. R. Crotch, of St John's, who was an assistant in the University Library. He was a strikingly handsome man with a long silky beard and wonderful eyes. His passion was Entomology, and he had a great knowledge of the Coleoptera, and used sometimes to take me out beetle-catching, but I never became a collector. He was eccentric in his habits; for instance, he dressed entirely in black flannel--shirt, coat, and trousers--which were made for him by Brown, the tailor, who was a brother entomologist. He finally gave up his librarianship and went off beetle-catching to the United States, where he died in what would have been miserable conditions but for the tender care bestowed on him by a complete stranger, whose name I have unfortunately forgotten. There, too, I occasionally saw Clifford, the well-known mathematician, who died early--also Kingsley on at least one occasion. I remember him, too, at the New Museums (where I was dissecting some beast or other) reproving me for my white shirt, and telling me that flannel was far more suitable for dissections. John Willis Clark (who afterwards became Registrary of the University) was then Curator of the New Museums, and encouraged me to work in his department, and I well remember my pride when my preparation of a hedgehog's inside was added to the Museum. J. W. Clark was the kindest of men, and I, like many another undergraduate, used to dine with him and his mother at Scrope House. There some of us were introduced for the first time to good claret. I remember Mrs Clark (rather a masterful old lady) saying, "Drink your wine like a good boy and don't talk nonsense," as though these precepts contained the whole duty of undergraduate man. J. W. Clark was the patron and director of the undergraduates' Amateur Dramatic Society (the A. D. C.), and occasionally took a part himself. I have a clear recollection of hearing him (attired in red tights) exclaim in his peculiar pronunciation, in which the letters _l_ and _r_ were indistinguishable, "I am the srave of the ramp."

I had left to the last the man whose kindness towards me as an undergraduate I valued most highly, and whose friendship it is still my good fortune to possess--I mean Henry Jackson, now Professor of Greek, but at that time a Trinity lecturer. I have an image of him walking up and down his room in Neville's Court with a pipe in his mouth (which burned more fiercely than did the pipes of other men), and talking with a humour and enthusiasm which were a perpetual delight. A literary venture, _The Tatler in Cambridge_, originated among undergraduates under the editorship of the present Canon Mason. To this I contributed a paper _On the Melancholy of Bachelors_, which was accepted, chiefly, I think, through the kindness of E. Gurney. I shall never forget my delight when, on the day of its publication, Henry Jackson came round to my rooms to tell me that he liked it.

I must now return to my more serious employments. It was at the suggestion of E. C. Stirling that I became a medical student and began to work for the Natural Sciences Tripos. In order to get more time for the last-named examination I kept my small stock of mathematics simmering as it were, and managed (without giving much time to the subject) to get a mathematical degree as fifth among the Junior Optimes in 1870. I had the pleasure of being coached for this examination by James Stuart--the only man, I imagine, who ever made mathematics entertaining and even amusing to an unmathematical pupil.

I then had a clear year in which I could devote myself to Natural Science. I did not succeed in finding a coach who was of any use to me. But in Comparative Anatomy I did a fair amount of undirected work: in this way I dissected a good many creatures such as slugs and snails and freshwater mussels, dragonflies, etc. I have a dim recollection of catching the mussels in the Cam with Gordon Wigan, the son of the celebrated actor--and indeed that kindly personage joined us in one of our boating expeditions.

On leaving Cambridge I went to St George's Hospital with the intention of becoming a practising physician. But happily for me the Fates willed otherwise. The late Dr Cavafy of St George's Hospital urged me to learn something of Histology, and sent me to Dr Klein, whose pupil I had the good fortune to become at the Brown Institute. I have elsewhere {67} said something of my debt of gratitude to Dr Klein. Under his guidance I produced a paper which served as a thesis for my M.B. degree. I had another interesting experience during my time at St George's. I used to go to the Zoological Society's dissecting-room, where the late Dr Garrod (the Prosector) allowed me to investigate some of the daily quota of dead animals. But it was not of any real educational value, I fancy. Still it may have helped the impetus of Klein's teaching to suggest that medicine {68a} should be given up and that I should become the assistant to my father.

The old nursery at Down had been turned into a laboratory, and when (on the death of my wife) I came to live in the house of my parents, they converted the billiard-room into a sitting-room for me.

During the following years I went to work under Sachs at Wurzburg and afterwards under De Bary at Strassburg. Sachs was most kind and helpful, and under his direction I contributed a small paper to his _Arbeiten_. I made some good friends at Wurzburg--Stahl, who is now Professor of Botany at Jena; Kunkel, the Pharmacologist, who died young; the Finlander Elfving, who is now Professor of Botany at Helsingfors; and Goebel, now the well-known Professor of Botany at Munich. He and I walked side by side to receive our degrees at the 1909 meeting in Cambridge. {68b} I had the great pleasure of seeing Elfving on the same occasion, and we have never ceased to correspond, though at irregular intervals. I had once the satisfaction of receiving Stahl as my guest at Cambridge. He is still Professor of Botany at Jena, and in spite of rather weak health has published a mass of good work.

I am sorry to think that my relationship with Sachs came to an unhappy ending. I published what seemed to me a harmless paper, in which I criticised some of his researches. I wrote to him on the subject but received no answer. Partly on account of his silence and partly to pay a visit to a friend, I travelled to Wurzburg. I found Sachs in the Botanic Garden; he seemed to wish to avoid me, but I went up to him and asked him why he was angry with me. He replied: "The reason is very simple; you know nothing of Botany and you dare to criticise a man like me." I had no opportunity of replying, for at that moment one of his co-professors addressed him, asking if he could spare a moment. "Very willingly, Herr Professor," said Sachs, and walked off without a word to me. And that was the last I saw of the great botanist. I was undoubtedly stupid, but I do not think he showed to advantage in the affair.

I continued to work with my father at Down, and in spite of the advantages I gained by seeing and sharing in the work of German laboratories, I now regret that so many months were spent away from him.

OLD INSTRUMENTS OF MUSIC {71}

Mr Galpin has written an admirable book on old musical instruments. His knowledge, which is first hand, is the harvest of many years' research; and, like the best type of learned authors, he has the power of sharing his knowledge with the ignorant.

His book begins with a study of stringed instruments, which occupies about half the book, the remainder being given up to the wind band.

My own experience of instruments of music is confined to the latter division. I remember as a small boy at school struggling with an elementary flute: or was it a penny whistle? I believe it was a flute, for I have a dim recollection of pouring water into it before it would sound. I tried to teach the instrument--whatever it was--to a friend, and wrote down the fingerings by a series of black and white dots, in the manner quoted from Thomas Greeting's _Pleasant Companion_, 1675, by Mr Galpin (p. 146). Then when I was about fifteen or sixteen years old I began under that admirable teacher, the late R. S. Rockstro, to work regularly at the flute. As a Cambridge undergraduate I remember playing flute solos at the University Musical Society's concerts. And I can still recall the pleasant sound of the applause which on one occasion called for a repetition of my performance. Since those days I took up the bassoon under the guidance of another admirable teacher, Mr E. F. James. But nowadays my chief interest is the recorder, which is best known to the unmusical world from the well-known passage in _Hamlet_. Of this instrument I shall have something to say in the sequel. I give these personal details to show how small a right I have to do more than give an abstract of Mr Galpin's admirable book.

The first instrument dealt with is the harp, the essential feature of which is that each string gives but one sound. {72} It is not clear to me why the psaltery and dulcimer are separated from the harp, since they also have unstopped strings and therefore unalterable notes. Whereas the interpolated chapter ii. is concerned with instruments--the gittern and citole--whose tones are alterable in pitch by "stopping," _i.e._, altering the length of the vibrating part of the string. I can only suppose that the author considers that the fact of the gittern and citole being sounded by plucking the strings, brings these instruments into alliance with the harp. I confess that I should like to have seen Class I. (strings unalterable in tone) including the harp, the rote, the psaltery, dulcimer (Plate I.), the aeolian-harp, and the piano. Then would come a class of instruments some at least of whose strings produce a variety of tones by stopping, _i.e._, shortening the vibrating region of the string, and this would include gittern and citole, lute, etc. But doubtless the author has good reason for his arrangement, and I have not knowledge enough to be his critic.

[Picture: Plate I. Psaltery and Dulcimer]

At p. 4 (Galpin) is represented the simple Irish harp or lyre which was known as the cruit or crot; it is essentially a harp, although it seems, in its infancy at any rate, to have had but five or six strings. The name cruit or crot afterwards developed into rotte, and under this name is described a remarkable instrument apparently dating from the fifth to the eighth centuries, which is figured at p. 34 (Galpin). It was found in the Black Forest in the grave of a warrior, together with his sword and bow, and seems to have been clasped in his arms, as though he had especially valued it. The true harp, which in its simplest form (Galpin, p. 8) chiefly differs from the rote in shape, {73a} is characterised by the picturesque triangular outline that is so familiar. It was of Teutonic origin, and Mr Galpin tells an admirable story of a Saxon who disguised himself as a Briton, by playing the rote instead of the harp, which would have revealed his nationality. In spite of its Saxon parentage the Irish adopted the harp, and a beautiful instrument of the early thirteenth century is preserved at Trinity College, Dublin (Galpin, p. 12). The Irish for _harp_ is _Clairsech_, {73b} a word that reminds me of an Irish friend who used to quote--

"Old Tracy and old Darcy
Playing all weathers on the Clarsy."

Mr Galpin tells a pleasant story of St Ealdhelm, who was Bishop of Sherborne in the year 705. When he was about to preach he found the church empty; he therefore took his harp, and "standing on a bridge hard by, soon attracted a considerable crowd by his playing. Then he delivered his sermon."