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 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS 
 
 BY 
 
 EICHARD JEFFERIES 
 
 AUTHOR OK 
 
 'THE GAMEKEErEU AT HOME' 'WILD LIFE IX A SOL'THEUN COUNTY* 
 
 ' TIIK AMATEUH rOACHEIt ' ' GREENE FEltNE FAKM ' 
 
 m TWO VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1880 
 
 [All lights reserved ]
 
 T35K. 
 
 PEEFACE. 
 
 The papers of wliich. these volumes are com- 
 posed originally appeared in 77ic Standard, 
 and are now republished by permission of 
 the Editor. 
 
 In manners, mode of thought, and way of 
 life, there is perhaps no class of the com- 
 munity less uniform tlian the agricultural. 
 The diversities are so great as to amoiuit to 
 contradictions. Individuality of character is 
 most marked, and, varying an old saw, it 
 might be said, so many farmers so many 
 minds. 
 
 Next to the tenants the landowners have 
 felt the depression, to such a degree, in fact, 
 
 552746
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 that they should perhaps take the first place, 
 having no one to allow them in turn a 20 per 
 cent, reduction of their liabilities. It must 
 be remembered that the landowner will not 
 receive the fruits of returning prosperity when 
 it comes for some time after they have reached 
 the farmer. Two srood seasons will be needed 
 before the landowner begins to recoup. 
 
 Country towns are now so closely con- 
 nected with agriculture that a description of 
 the one would be incomplete without some 
 mention of the other. The aggregate capital 
 employed by the business men of these small 
 towns must amount to an immense sum, and 
 the depreciation of their investments is of 
 more than local concern. 
 
 Although the labourer at the present mo- 
 ment is a little in the background, and has 
 the best of the bargain, since wages have not 
 much fallen, if at all ; yet he will doubtless 
 come to the front again. For as agriculture 
 revives, and the sun shines, the organisations
 
 PREFACE. VU 
 
 by whif'li lie is represented will naturally dis- 
 play fresh vigour. 
 
 l)iit the rapid progress of education in 
 the villages and outlying districts is the ele- 
 ment which is most worthy of thoughtful con- 
 sideration. C)n the one hand, it may perhaps 
 cause a })owerful demand for corresponding 
 privileges ; and on the other, counteract the 
 tendency to imreasonable expectations. In 
 any case, it is a fact that cannot be ignored. 
 Meantime, all I claim lor the followini>' 
 sketches is that they are Avritten in a fair 
 and impartial sj^irit. 
 
 RICHARD JEFFERIES. 
 
 VOL. 1, a
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OP 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. The Farmers' Parll-uient .... 1 
 
 II. Leaving His Farm 
 
 III. A 3Iax of Progress .... 
 
 IV. Going Downhill 
 
 V. The Borrower and the Gambler . 
 
 VI. An Agriculxukal Genius— Old Style 
 
 VII. The Gig and the Fofr-tn-IIand. A Bicycle 
 
 Farmer 
 
 VIII. IlAVMAKJxti. ' The Jlke's Oou>-Tnv ■ . 
 
 IX. The Fine Jjady Farmer. Country Girls 
 
 X. Mademoiselle, the Governess . 
 
 XL Fleecedorough. A ' Despot ' 
 
 XII. The Squire's ' Round Robin ' . . 
 
 XIII. An Ambitious Squire .... 
 
 XIV. The Parson's Wife 
 
 XV. A Modern Country Curate . 
 
 23 
 41 
 60 
 
 82 
 U2 
 
 134 
 168 
 203 
 235 
 256 
 278 
 298 
 317 
 335
 
 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 -»*•- 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE farmers' PARLIAMEKT. 
 
 The doorway of the Jason Inn at Woolbury 
 had nothing particular to distmguish it from 
 the other doorways of the same extremely 
 narrow street. There was no porch, nor could 
 there possibly be one, for an ordinary porch 
 would reach half across the roadway. There 
 were no steps to go up, there was no entrance 
 hall, no space specially provided for crowds of 
 visitors ; simply nothing l)ut an ordinary 
 street-door opening directly on the street, and 
 very little, if any, broader or higher than 
 those of the private houses adjacent. There 
 was not even the usual covered way or arch- 
 way leading into the courtyard behind, so 
 VOL. I. B
 
 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 often found at old country inns ; the approach 
 to the stables and coach-houses was through a 
 separate and even more narrow and wmding 
 street, necessitating a detour of some quarter 
 of a mile. The dead, dull wall was worn 
 smooth in places l^y the mvoluntary rubbings 
 it had received from the shoulders of foot- 
 passengers thrust rudely against it as the 
 market- people came pouring in or out, or both 
 together. 
 
 Had the spot been in the most crowded 
 district of the busiest part of the metropolis, 
 where every inch of ground is worth an 
 enormous sum, the buildmgs could not 
 have been more jammed together, nor the 
 inconvenience greater. Yet the little town 
 was in the very midst of one of the most 
 purely agricultural counties, where land, to 
 all appearance, was plentiful, and where there 
 was ample room and ' verge enough ' to bmld 
 fifty such places. The pavement in fi'ont of 
 the uin was barely eighteen inches wide ; two 
 persons could not pass each other on it, nor 
 walk abreast. If a cart came along the road- 
 way, and a trap had to go by it, the foot- 
 passengers had to squeeze up against the wall,
 
 THE farmers' parliament. 3 
 
 lest tlie box of the Avheel projecting over the 
 kerb should push them down. If a great 
 ■waffo-on came loaded witli wool, the chances 
 
 Co ' 
 
 were whether a carriage could pass it or not ; 
 as for a waggon -load of straw that projected 
 from the sides, nothing could get by, but all 
 must wait — coroneted panel or plain four- 
 wheel — till the huge mass had rumbled and 
 jolted into the more open market-place. 
 
 But hard, indeed, must have been the flag- 
 stones to withstand the wear and tear of the 
 endless iron-shod shoes that tramped to and fro 
 these mere ribbons of pavements. For, besides 
 the through traffic out from the market-place 
 to the broad macadamised road that had taken 
 the place and the route of an ancient Roman 
 road, there were the customers to the shops 
 that lined each side of the street. Into some 
 of these you stepped from the pavement down, 
 as it were, into a cave, the level of the shop 
 being eight or ten inches below the street, 
 while the first floor projected over the pave- 
 ment quite to the edge of the kerb. To enter 
 these shops it was necessary to stoop, and 
 Avhen you were inside there was barely room 
 to turn round. Other shops were, indeed, 
 
 b2
 
 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 level with, the street ; but you had to be care- 
 ful, because the threshold was not flush with, 
 the pavement, but rose a couple of inches and 
 then fell again, a very trap to the toe of the 
 unwary. Many had no glass at all, but were 
 open, like a butcher's or fishmonger's. Those 
 that had glass were so restricted for space 
 that, rich, as they might be within in the 
 good things of the earth, they could make no 
 ' display.' All the genius of a AYest-end shop- 
 man could not have made an artistic arrange- 
 ment in that narrow space and in that bad 
 liofht : for, thouoh so small below, the houses 
 rose high, and the street being so narrow the 
 sunshine rarely penetrated into it. 
 
 But mean as a metropolitan shopman might 
 have thought the spot, the business done there 
 was large, and, more than that, it was ge- 
 nuine. The trade of a country market-town, 
 especially when that market-town, like Wool- 
 bury, dates from the earhest days of English, 
 history, is hereditary. It flows to the same 
 store and to the same shop year after year, 
 generation after generation, century after cen- 
 tury. The farmer who walks into the saddler's 
 here goes in because his father went there
 
 THE farmers' parliament. 
 
 before liiiii. His father went in because liis 
 father dealt there, and so on farther back than 
 memory can trace. ]t might ahnost be said 
 that whole villages go to particular shops. 
 You may see the agricultural labourers' wives, 
 for instance, on a Saturday leave the village 
 in a bevy of ten or a dozen, and all march in 
 to the same tradesman. Of course in these 
 latter days speculative men and ' co-operative ' 
 prices, industriously placarded, have sapped 
 and undermined this old-fashioned system. 
 Yet even now it retains sufficient hold to be a 
 marked feature of country life. To the through 
 traffic, therefore, had to be added the steady 
 flow of customers to the shops. 
 
 On a market-day like this there is, of 
 course, the incessant entry and exit of carts, 
 waggons, traps, gigs, four-wheels, and a large 
 number of private carriages. The number of 
 private carriages is, indeed, very remarkable, 
 as also the succession of gentlemen on 
 thoroughbred horses — a proof of the number 
 of resident gentry in the neighbourhood, and 
 of its general prosperity. Cart-horses fur- 
 bished up for sale, with straw-bound tails and 
 glistening skins ; ' baaing ' flocks of sheep ;
 
 6 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 squeaking pigs; bullocks with their heads held 
 ommously low, some going, some returnmg, 
 from the auction yard; shouting drovers; lads 
 rushing hither and thither ; dogs barking ; 
 everything and everybody crushing, jostling, 
 pushing through the narrow street. An old 
 shepherd, who has done his master's business, 
 comes along the pavement, trudging thought- 
 ful and slow, with ashen staff. One hand is 
 is m his pocket, the elbow of the arm project- 
 ing ; he is feelmg a fourpenny-piece, and 
 dehberating at which ' tap ' he shall spend it. 
 He fills up the entire pavement, and stolidly 
 plods on, turnmg ladies and all into the road- 
 way ; not from intentional rudeness, but from 
 sheer mability to perceive that he is causing 
 inconvenience. 
 
 Unless you know the exact spot it is difS.- 
 cult m all this crowd and pushing, with a 
 nervous dread of being gored from behind by 
 a bull, or thrown off your feet by a sudden 
 charge of sheep, to discover the door of the 
 Jason Inn. That door has been open every 
 legitimate and lawful hour this hundred years ; 
 but you will very likely be carried past it and 
 have to struggle back. Then it is not easy to
 
 THE farmers' tarliament. 
 
 enter, for half a dozen stalwart farmers and 
 farmers' sons are coming out ; while two young 
 fellows stand just inside, close to the sliding bar- 
 window, blocking up the passage, to exchange 
 occasional nods and smiles with the barmaid. 
 However, by degrees you shuffle along the 
 sanded passage, and past the door of the bar, 
 which is full of farmers as thick as they can 
 stand, or sit. The rattle of glasses, the chink 
 of spoons, the hum of voices, the stamping of 
 feet, the calls and orders, and sounds of 
 laughter, mingle in confusion. Cigar-smoke 
 and the steam from the glasses fill the room 
 — all too small — with a thick white mist, 
 through which rubicund faces dimly shine like 
 the red sun throuo-h a fo"\ 
 
 Some at the table are struo-oiino- to write 
 cheques, with continual jogs at the elbow, 
 with ink that will not flow, pens that scratch 
 and splutter, blottmg-paper that smudges 
 and blots. Some are examinino; cards of an 
 auction, and discussing the prices which they 
 have marked in the margin in pencil. The 
 good-humoured uproar is beyond description, 
 and is increased by more farmers forcing 
 their way in from the rear, where are their
 
 8 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 horses or traps — by farmers eagerly inquiriiig- 
 for dealers or friends, and Ijy messengers from, 
 the shops loaded with parcels to place in the 
 customer's vehicle. 
 
 At last you get beyond the bar-room door 
 and reach the end of the passage, where is a 
 wide staircase, and at the foot a tall eight-day 
 clock. A maid-servant comes tripping down, 
 and in answer to inquiry replies that that is 
 the way up, and the room is ready, but she 
 adds with a smile that there is no one there 
 yet. It is three-quarters of an hour after the 
 time fixed for the reading of a most important 
 jDaper before a meeting specially convened, 
 before the assembled Parliament of Hodsfe's 
 masters, and you thought you would be too 
 late. A glance at the staircase proves the truth 
 of the maid's story. It has no carpet, but it 
 is white as well- scrubbed wood could well be. 
 There is no stain, no dust, no foot-mark on it ; 
 no heavy shoe that has been tramping about 
 in the mud has been up there. But it is 
 necessary to go on or go back, and of the two 
 the first is the lesser evil. 
 
 The staircase is guarded by carved ban- 
 nisters, and after going up two flights you
 
 THE FAKiMEKS' rAULIAMKNT. 
 
 enter a large and vacant apartment prepared 
 for the meetini'- of the farmers' club. At the 
 farther end is a small mahogany table, with 
 an anncliair for the president, paper, pens, 
 ink, blotting-paper, and a wax candle and 
 matches, in case he should want a light. 
 Two less dignified chairs are for the secretary 
 (whose box, containing the club records, 
 books of reference, &c., is on the table), and 
 for the secretary's clerk. Rows of plain chairs 
 stretch across the room, rank after rank ; 
 these are for the audience. And last of all 
 are two \oivj: forms as if for IIodi>-e, if IIodo:e 
 chooses to come. 
 
 A gleam of the afternoon sun — as the 
 clouds part awhile — attracts one naturally 
 to the window. The thickness of the wall 
 in which it is ])laced must l^e souie two or 
 three feet, so that there is a recess on which 
 to put your arms, if you do not mind the dust, 
 and look out. The window is half open, and 
 the sounds of the street come up, ' baaing ' 
 and belloAviug and squeaking, the roll of 
 wheels, the tramp of feet, and. more distant, 
 the shouting of an auctioneer in the market 
 place, whose stentorian tones come round the
 
 10 HODGE AJv'D HIS JIASTEES. 
 
 corner as he puts up rickclotlis for sale. Noise 
 of man and animal below ; above, here in the 
 chamber of science, vacancy and silence. Look- 
 ing upward, a narrow streak of blue sky can 
 be seen above the ancient house across the 
 way. 
 
 After awhile there comes the mellow sound 
 of bells from the church which is near by, 
 though out of sight ; bells with a soft, old- 
 world tone ; bells that chime slowly and suc- 
 ceed each other without haste, rmging forth a 
 holy melody composed centuries ago. It is as 
 well to pause a mmute and listen to their 
 voice, even in this railroad age of hurry. Over 
 the busy market-place the notes go forth, and 
 presently the hum comes back and dwells m 
 the recess of the window. It is a full hour 
 after the time fixed, and now at last, as the 
 carillon finishes, there are sounds of heavy 
 boots upon the staircase. Three or four farmers 
 gather on the landing ; they converse together 
 just outside. The secretary's clerk comes, and 
 walks to the table ; more farmers, who, now 
 they have company, boldly enter and take 
 seats ; still more farmers ; the secretary ar- 
 rives ; finally the president appears, and with
 
 THE farmers' parliament. 11 
 
 him the lecturer. There is a hum of iiTeetinH; : 
 the mmutes are read ; the president introduces 
 the professor, Jind the hitter stands forth to 
 read his paper — ' Science, ■ the Itemedy for 
 Agricultural Depression.' 
 
 Farmers, he pointed out, had themselves 
 only to blame for the present period of distress. 
 For many years past science had been like the 
 voice crying m the wilderness, and few, a very 
 few only, had listened. Men had, indeed, come 
 to the clubs ; but they had gone away home 
 agam, and, as the swine of the proverb, re- 
 turned to their wallowino- in the mire. One 
 blade of i»'rass still ffrew where two or even 
 three might be grown ; he questioned whether 
 farmers had any real desire to grow the extra 
 blades. If they did, they had merely to 
 employ the means provided for them. Every- 
 thing had been literally put into then' hands ; 
 but what was the result ? Why, nothing — in 
 point of fact, nothing. The country at large 
 was still undrained. The very A B C of 
 progress had been neglected. He should be 
 afraid to say what proportion of the land was 
 yet undrained, for he should be contradicted, 
 called ill names, and cried down. But if they
 
 12 HODGE AND HIS MASTEES. 
 
 would look around them they could see for 
 themselves. They would see meadows full of 
 rank, coarse grass in the furrows, which neither 
 horse nor cattle would touch. They would 
 see in the wheat-fields patches of the crop 
 sickly, weak, feeble, and altogether poor ; that 
 was where the water had stood and destroyed 
 the natural power of the seed. The same 
 cause 2:ave orioin lo that mass of weeds which 
 was the standino; disoTace of arable districts. 
 
 But men shut their eyes wilfully to these 
 23lam facts, and cried out that the rain had 
 ruined them. It was not the ram — it was 
 their own intense dislike of making any im- 
 provement. The vis inertia' of the agricultural 
 class was beyond the limit of language to 
 describe. Why, if the land had been drained 
 the rain would have done comparatively little 
 damage, and thus they would have been inde- 
 pendent of the seasons. Look, agam, at the 
 hay crop ; how many thousand tons of hay had 
 been wasted because men would not believe 
 that anything would answer which had not 
 been done by their forefathers ! The hay might 
 have been saved by three distinct methods. 
 The grass might have been piled against hur-
 
 THE farmers' RARLIAMENT. 13 
 
 dies or li^lit frame-work and so dried l)y the 
 wind ; it might have been pitted in the earth 
 and preserved still gi^een ; or it might have 
 been dried by machinery and the hot blast. 
 A gentleman had invented a machine, the 
 utility of Avliich had been demonstrated hv- 
 yond all doubt. But no ; farmers folded their 
 hands and watched their hay rotting. 
 
 As for the wheat crop, how could they 
 expect a wheat crop ? They had not cleaned 
 the soil — there were horse-hoes, and every 
 species of contrivances for the purpose ; but 
 they would not use them. They had not 
 ploughed deeply : they had merely scratched 
 the surface as if with a pin. How could 
 the thin upper crust of the earth — the mere 
 rind three inches thick — be expected to yield 
 crop after crop for a hundred years ? Deep 
 ploughing could only be done by steam : now 
 how many farmers possessed or used steam- 
 ploughs ? Why, there were whole districts 
 where such a thing was unknown. They 
 had neglected to manure the soil ; to restore 
 to it the chemical constituents of the crops. 
 But to speak upon artificial manure was 
 enough to drive any man who had the power
 
 14 IIODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 of thought into temporary insanity. It was 
 so utterly dispiritmg to see men positively 
 turning away from the means of obtaining 
 good crops, and then crying out that they 
 were ruined. With drains, steam-ploughs, 
 and artificial manure, a farmer might defy the 
 weather. 
 
 Of course, continued the professor, it was 
 assumed that the farmer had good substantial 
 buildings and sufficient capital. The first he 
 could get if he chose ; and without the second, 
 without capital, he had no business to be 
 farmmg at all. He was simply stopping the 
 road of a better man, and the sooner he was 
 driven out of the way the better. The neglect 
 of machinery was most disheartening. A 
 farmer bought one machine, perhaps a reaping- 
 machine, and then because that solitary article 
 did not immediately make his fortune he de- 
 clared that machinery was useless. Could the 
 force of folly farther go ? With machinery 
 they could do just as they liked. They could 
 compel the earth to yield, and smile at the 
 most tropical rain, or the most continuous 
 drought. If only the voice of science had 
 been listened to, there would have been no
 
 THE farmers' parliament. 15 
 
 depression at nil. Even now it was not too 
 late. 
 
 Those who were wise would at once set to 
 work to di'ain, to purchase artificial manure, 
 and set up steam power, and thereby to pro- 
 vide themselves with the means of stemming 
 the tide of depression. By these means they 
 could maintam a head of stock that would be 
 more than double what was now kept upon 
 equal acreage. He knew full well one of the 
 objections that would be made against these 
 statements. It would be said that certain in- 
 dividuals had done all this, had deep ploughed, 
 had manured, had kept a gTeat head of valu- 
 able stock, had used eveiy resource, and yet 
 had suffered. This was true. He deeply re- 
 gi'etted to say it was true. 
 
 But why had they suffered ? Xot be- 
 cause of the steam, the machinery, the arti- 
 ficial manure, the improvements they had set 
 on foot ; but because of the folly of their 
 neighbours, of the agricultural class generally. 
 The great mass of farmers had made no im- 
 provements ; and, when the time of distress 
 came, they were beaten down at every point. 
 It was through these men and their fiulures
 
 16 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 that the price of stock and of produce fell, 
 and that so much stress was put upon the 
 said individuals through no fault of their own. 
 He would go further, and he would say that 
 had it not been for the noble efforts of such 
 individuals — the pioneers of agriculture and 
 its main props and stays — ^the condition of 
 farming would have been simply fifty times 
 worse than it was. They, and they alone, had 
 enabled it to bear up so long against calamity. 
 They had resources ; the agricultural class, as 
 a rule, had none. Those resources were the 
 manure they had put into the soil, the deep 
 ploughing they had accomplished, the great 
 head of stock they had got together, and so 
 on. These enabled them to weather the 
 storm. 
 
 The cry for a reduction of rent was an 
 irresistible proof of what he had put forth — 
 that it was the farmers themselves who were 
 to blame. Tliis cry was a confession of their 
 own incompetency. If you analysed it — if 
 you traced the general cry home to particular 
 people — you always found that those people 
 were incapables. The fact was, farming, as a 
 rule, was conducted on the hand-to-mouth
 
 THE FAHMERS' rAHLIAMENT. 17 
 
 principle, and the least stress or strain caused 
 an outcry. He must be forgiven if he seemed 
 to speak Avith unusual acerbity. He intended 
 no offence. But it was his duty. In such a 
 condition of things it would be folly to mince 
 matters, to speak softly while cverytMng was 
 going to pieces. He repeated, once for all, it 
 was their own fault. Science could supply 
 the remedy, and science alone ; if they would 
 not call in the aid of science they must suffer, 
 and their privations must be upon their own 
 heads. Science said. Drain, use artificial ma- 
 nure, plough deeply, keep the best breed of 
 stock, put capital into the soil. Call science 
 to their aid, and they might defy the seasons. 
 The professor sat down and thrust his 
 hand through his hair. The president invited 
 discussion. For some few minutes no one 
 rose ; presently, after a whispered conversa- 
 tion with his friend, an elderly farmer stood 
 up from the forms at the very back of the 
 room. He made no pretence to rounded 
 periods, but spoke much better than might 
 have been expected ; he had a small piece of 
 paper in his hand, on which he had made 
 notes as the lecture proceeded. 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 IIODGE AND lIIS MASTERS. 
 
 He said that the lecturer had made out a 
 very good case. He had proved to demon- 
 stration, in the most logical manner, that 
 farmers were fools. Well, no doubt, all the 
 world agreed with him, for everybody thought 
 he could teach the farmer. The chemist, the 
 grocer, the baker, the banker, the wine mer- 
 chant, the lawyer, the doctor, the clerk, the 
 mechanic, the merchant, the editor, the printer, 
 the stockbroker, the colUery owner, the iron- 
 master, the clergyman, and the Methodist 
 preacher, the very cabmen and railway por- 
 ters, policemen, and no doubt the crossing- 
 sweepers — to use an expressive Americanism, 
 all the whole 'jing-bang' — could teach the 
 ignorant jackass of a farmer. 
 
 Some few years ago he went into a 
 draper's shop to bring home a parcel for his 
 wife, and happened to enter into conversation 
 with the draper himself. The draper said 
 he was just going to sell off the business 
 ^nd go into dairy farming, which was- the 
 most paying thing out. That was just when 
 there came over from America a patent ma- 
 chine for milking cows. The draper's idea 
 was to milk all his cows by one of these
 
 THE farmers' TARLIA^MENT. 19 
 
 articles, and so dispense Avitli la,l)our. He 
 saw no more of him for a long time, but 
 had heard that morninQ: that he went into a 
 dairy farm, got rid of all his money, and was 
 now tramj)ing the country as a pedlar with a 
 pack at his back. Everybody thought he 
 could teach the farmer till he tried farming 
 himself, and then he found his mistake. 
 
 One remark of the lecturer, if he might 
 venture to say so, seemed to hun, a poor 
 ignorant farmer of sixty years' standing, not 
 only uncalled-for and priggish, but downright 
 brutal. It was that the man with little capital 
 ought to be driven out of farming, and the 
 sooner he went to the wall the better. Now, 
 how would all the grocers and other tradesmen 
 whom be had just enumerated like to be told 
 that if they had not got 10,000/. each they 
 ought to go at once to the workhouse ! That 
 would be a line remedy for the depression of 
 trade. 
 
 He always thought it was considered rather 
 meritorious if a man with small capital, by 
 hard work, honest dealinir, and self-denial, 
 managed to raise himself and get up in the 
 world. But, oh no ; nothmg of the kind ; the 
 
 c2
 
 20 HODGE AND IILS MASTERS. 
 
 small man was the greatest simier, and must 
 be eradicated. Well, lie did not hesitate to 
 say that he had been a small man himself, and 
 began in a very small way. Perhaps the 
 lecturer would think him a small man still, as 
 he was not a millionaire ; but he could pay 
 his way, which went for something m the eyes 
 of old-fashioned people, and perhaps he had a 
 pound or two over. He should say but one 
 word more, for he was aware that there was a 
 thunderstorm rajDidly coming up, and he sup- 
 posed science would not prevent him from 
 getting a wet jacket. He should like to ask 
 the lecturer if he could give the name of one 
 single scientific farmer who had prospered ? 
 
 Having said this much, the old gentleman 
 put on his overcoat and bustled out of the 
 room, and several others followed him, for the 
 rain was already splashing against the window- 
 panes. Others looked at their watches, and, 
 seeing it was late, rose one by one and slipped 
 off. The president asked if any one would 
 continue the discussion, and, as no one rose, 
 invited the professor to reply. 
 
 The professor gathered his papers and 
 stood up. Then there came a heavy rolling
 
 THE farmers' parliament. 21 
 
 sound — the unmistakable boom of distant 
 thunder. He said that the gentleman who 
 liad left so abruptly had quite misconstrued 
 the tenour of his paper. So far from intend- 
 ing to describe farmers as lacking in intelli- 
 gence, all he wished to show was that they 
 did not use their natural abilities, from a cer- 
 tain traditionary bowing to custom. They 
 did not like their neighbours to think that 
 they were doing anything novel. No one re- 
 spected the feelings that had grown up and 
 strengthened from childhood, no one respected 
 the habits of our ancestors, more than he did ; 
 no one knew better the solid virtues that 
 adorned tlie homes of aoTiculturists. Far, in- 
 deed, be it from him to say aught — [lioom ! 
 and the rattling of rain against the window] 
 — auo-lit that could — but he saw that (gentle- 
 men were anxious to get home, and would 
 conclude. 
 
 A vote of thanks was luu'riedly got over, 
 and the assembly broke up and hastened down 
 the staircase. They found the passage below 
 so blocked with farmers who had crowded in 
 out of the storm that movement was impos- 
 sible. The place was darkened by the over-
 
 22 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 hangiiig clouds, the atmosphere thick and 
 close with the smoke and the crush. Flashes 
 of brilliant lig'htnmg seemed to sweep down 
 the narrow street, which ran like a brook with 
 the storm-water ; the thunder seemed to de- 
 scend and shake the sohd walls. ' It's rather 
 hard on the jjrofessor,' said one farmer to 
 another. ' What would science do in a thun- 
 derstorm ! ' He had hardly spoken when the 
 hail suddenly came down, and the round 
 white globules, rebounding from the pavement, 
 rolled in at the open door. Each paused as 
 he lifted his ei^ss and thouoiit of the harvest. 
 As for Hodge, who was reaping, he had to 
 take shelter how he might in the open fields. 
 Boom! flash! boom! — splash and hiss, as the 
 hail rushed alono- the narrow street.
 
 23 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 LEAVING HIS FAKM. 
 
 A LARGE white poster, fresh and o-larino-, is 
 pasted on the wall of a barn that stands be- 
 side a narrow country lane. So plain an 
 advertisement, without any colour or attempt 
 at 'display,' would be passed unnoticed among- 
 the endless devices on a town hoarding. 
 There nothing can be hoped to be looked at 
 unless novel and strange, or even incompre- 
 hensible. But here the oblong piece of black 
 and white contrasts sufficiently in itself with 
 red brick and dull broAvn wooden framinof, 
 with tall shadowy elms, and the glint of sun- 
 shine on the streamlet that flows with a cease- 
 less murmur across the hollow of the lane. 
 Every man that comes along stays to read it. 
 The dealer in his trap — liis name painted in 
 white letters on the shaft — pulls up his quick 
 pony, and sits askew on his seat to read. lie
 
 24 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 has probably seen it before in the bar of the 
 wayside inn, roughly hung on a nail, and 
 swaying to and fro with the draught along 
 the passage. He may have seen it, too, on 
 the handing-post at the lonely cross-roads, 
 stuck on in such a manner that, in order to 
 peruse it, it is necessary to walk round the 
 post. The same formal announcement ap- 
 pears also in the local weekly papers — there 
 are at least two now in the smallest place — 
 and he has read it there. Yet he pauses to 
 glance at it again, for the country mind re- 
 quires reiteration before it can thoroughly 
 grasp and realise the simplest fact. The 
 poster must be read and re-read, and the 
 printer's name observed and commented on, 
 or, if handled, the thickness of the paper 
 felt between thumb and fino-er. After a 
 month or two of this process people at last 
 begin to accept it as a reality, like cattle or 
 trees — somethmg substantial, and not mere 
 words. 
 
 The carter, with his waggon, if he be an 
 elderly man, cries ' Whoa ! ' and, standing 
 close to the wall, points to each letter with the 
 top of his whip — where it bends — and so
 
 LEAVING HIS FARM. 2j 
 
 spells out ' Sale by Auction.' If lie be a 
 young man he looks up at it as the heavy 
 waggon rumbles by, turns his back, and goes 
 on with utter indifference. 
 
 The old men, working so many years on 
 a sinofle farm, and whose minds were formed 
 in days when a change of tenancy happened 
 once in half a century, have so identified 
 themselves with the order of things in the 
 parish that it seems to personally affect them 
 when a farmer leaves his place. 13ut young 
 Hodge cares nothing about his master, or his 
 fellow's master. AVhether they go or stay, 
 prosperous or decaying, it matters nothing to 
 him. He takes good wages, and can jingle 
 some small silver in his pocket when he comes 
 to the tavern a mile or so ahead ; so ' gee-up ' 
 and let us get there as rapidly as possible. 
 
 An hour later a flu-mer passes on horse- 
 back ; his horse all too broad for his short 
 leffs that stick out at the side and show some 
 
 o 
 
 inches of stockin<>- between the bottom of his 
 trousers and his boots. A sturdy, thick-set 
 man, with a wide face, brickdust colour, 
 fringed with close-cut red whiskers, and a 
 chest so broad — he seems compelled to wear
 
 26 HODGE AND HIS MASTEKS. 
 
 his coat unbuttoned. He pulls off his hat 
 and wipes his partly bald head with a 
 coloured handkerchief, stares at the poster a 
 few minutes, and walks his horse away, evi- 
 dently in deep thought. Two boys — cot- 
 tagers' children — come home from school ; 
 they look round to see that no one observes, 
 and then throw flints at the paper till the 
 sound of footsteps alarms them. 
 
 Towards the evening a gentleman and 
 lady, the first middle-aged, the latter very 
 young — fother and daughter — approach, their 
 horses seeming to linger as they walk through 
 the shallow stream, and the cool water 
 splashes above their fetlocks. The shooting 
 season is near at hand, Parliament has risen, 
 and the landlords have returned home. In- 
 stead of the Row, papa must take his darlmg 
 a ride through the lanes, a little dusty as the 
 autumn comes on, and pauses to read the 
 notice on the wall. It is his neio-hbour's 
 tenant, not his, but it comes home to him 
 here. It is the real thing — the fact — not the 
 mere seeing it in the papers, or the warning 
 hints in the letters of his own steward. 
 ' Papa ' is rather quiet for the rest of the ride.
 
 LEAVING Ills FAKM. 27 
 
 Ever since lie was a lad — how many years 
 affo is tliat ? — he has shot with his neijrh- 
 hour's party over this farm, and recollects the 
 tenant well, and with that Mendly feeling 
 that grows up towards what we see year 
 after year. In a day or two the clergjnnan 
 drives by with his low four-wheel and fat 
 pony, notes the poster as the pony slackens 
 at the descent to the water, and tells himself 
 to remember and get the tithe. Some few 
 Sundays, and Farmer Smith Avill appear in 
 church no more. 
 
 Farmer Smith this beautiful morning is 
 looking at the wheat, which is, and is not, 
 his. It would have been cut in an ordinary 
 season, but the rains have delayed the ripen- 
 ing. He wonders how the crop ever came 
 up at all through the mass of weeds that 
 choked it, the spurrey that filled the spaces 
 between the stalks below, the bindweed that 
 climbed up them, the Avild camomile flower- 
 ing and flourishing at the edge, the tall 
 thistles liftmg their heads a1)ove it in l3unclies. 
 and the great docks whose red seeds showed 
 at a distance. He sent in some men, as nuich 
 to give them something to do as for any real
 
 28 HODGE AND HIS MASTEKS. 
 
 good, one day, who in a few hours pulled up 
 enough docks to fill a cart. They came 
 across a number of snakes, and decapitated 
 the reptiles with their hoes, and afterwards 
 hung them all up — tied together by the tail — 
 to a bough. The bunch of headless snakes 
 hano-s there still, swin^nn"- to and fro as the 
 wind plays through the oak. Yermm, too, 
 revel in weeds, which encourage the mice and 
 rats, and are, perhaps, quite as much a cause 
 of their increase as any acts of the game- 
 keeper. 
 
 Farmer Smith a few years since was very 
 anxious for the renewal of his lease, just as 
 those about to enter on tenancies desired leases 
 above everything. All the agi'icultural world 
 agTeed that a lease was the best tMng possible 
 — the clubs discussed it, the papers preached 
 it. It was a safeguard ; it allowed the tenant 
 to develop his energies, and to put his capital 
 into the soil without fear. He had no dread 
 of being turned out before he could get it 
 back. Nothmg like a lease — the certain pre- 
 ventative of all agricultural ills. There was, 
 to appearance, a great deal of truth in these 
 arguments, which in their day made much
 
 LEAVING HIS FAUAI. 29 
 
 impression, and caused u movement in that 
 direction. AVlio could foresee that in a few 
 short years men would be eager to get rid of 
 their leases on any terms ? Yet such was 
 the fact. 'Jlie very men mIio had longed so 
 eagerly for the blessing of security of tenure 
 found it the worst thing possible for their 
 interest. 
 
 Mr. Smith got his lease, and paid for it 
 tolerably stiffly, for at that period all agricul- 
 tural prices were inflated — from the price of a 
 lease to that of a calf He covenanted to pay 
 a certain fixed rental for so many acres of 
 arable and a small proportion of grass for a 
 fixed time. He covenanted to cultivate the 
 soil by a fixed rotation ; not to sow this nor 
 that, nor to be guided by the change of the 
 markets, or the character of the seasons, or 
 the appearance of powerful foreign competitors. 
 There was the parchment prepared with all 
 the niceties of wording that so many genera- 
 tions of lawyers had polished to the highest 
 pitch ; not a loophole, not so much as a t left 
 uncrossed, or a doubtful interlineation. But 
 although the parchment did not alter a jot, 
 the times and seasons did. Wheat fell in price,
 
 30 HODGE AXD HIS MASTEES. 
 
 vast shipments came even from India, cattle 
 and sheep from America, wool from Australia, 
 horses from France ; tinned provisions and 
 meats poured in by the ton, and cheese, and 
 butter, and bacon by the thousand tons. La- 
 bour at the same time rose. His expenditure 
 increased, his income decreased ; his rent re- 
 mained the same, and rent audit came round 
 with the utmost regularity. 
 
 Mr. Smith be2:an to tlunk about his 
 lease, and question whether it was such an 
 unmixed blessing. There was no getting 
 out of it, that was certain. The seasons 
 grew worse and worse. Smith asked for a 
 reduction of rent. He got, like others, ten 
 per cent, returned, which, he said, looked 
 very hberal to those who knew nothing of 
 farming, and was in reality about as usefril as 
 a dry biscuit flung at a man who has eaten 
 nothing for a week. Besides which, it was 
 only a gracious condescension, and might not 
 be repeated next year, unless he kept on his 
 good behaviour, and paid court to the clergy- 
 man and the steward. Unable to get at what 
 he wanted in a direct way. Smith tried an in- 
 direct one. He went at game, and insisted on
 
 LEAVING HIS FARM. 31 
 
 its being reduced in number. This he could 
 do accordini? to the usual terms of aoTcement : 
 but when it came to the point he found that 
 the person called in to assess the damage put 
 it at a much lower figure than he had himself ; 
 and who was to decide what was or was not a 
 reasonable head of game ? This attack 'of his 
 on the game did him no good whatever, and 
 was not mmaturally borne in mind — let us 
 not say resented. 
 
 He next tried to get permission to sell 
 straw — a permission that he saw gi-anted 
 to others in moderation. But he was then 
 reminded of a speech he had made at a 
 club, Avhen, in a moment of temper (and 
 sherry), he had let out a piece of his mind, 
 which piece of his mind was duly pubhshed 
 in the local papers, and caused a sensation. 
 Somebody called the landlord's attention to it, 
 and he did not Hke it. Nor can he be blamed ; 
 we none of us like to be abused in public, the 
 more especially when, lookmg at precedents, we 
 do not deserve it. Smith next went to the 
 assessment committee to get his taxes reduced, 
 on the gi'ound of a loss of revenue. The com- 
 mittee sympathised with him, but found that
 
 32 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 they must assess him according to his rent. 
 At least so they were then advised, and only 
 did their duty. 
 
 By this time the local bankers had scented 
 a time of trouble approaching in the commer- 
 cial and agricultural world ; they began to 
 draw in their more doubtful advances, or to 
 refuse to renew them. As a matter of fact, 
 Smith was a perfectly sound man, but he had 
 so persistently complained that people began 
 to suspect there really was something wrong 
 with liis finances. He endeavoured to ex- 
 plain, but was met with the tale that he had 
 himself started. He then honestly produced 
 his books, and laid his position bare to the 
 last penny. 
 
 The l)anker believed him, and renewed 
 part of the advance for a short period ; but 
 he beiran to cooitate in this wise : ' Here 
 is a farmer of long experience, born of a 
 farming family, and a hardworking fellow, 
 and, more than that, honest. If this man, 
 who has hitherto had the command of a fair 
 amount of capital, cannot make his books 
 balance better than this, what must be the case 
 with some of our customers ? There are
 
 LEAVING HIS FARM. 33 
 
 many who ride about on hunters, and have a 
 bin of decent wine. How much of all this 
 is genuine ? We must be careful ; these are 
 hard times.' In short, Smith, without mean- 
 ing it, did his neighbours an immense deal of 
 harm. His very honesty injured them. By 
 slow degrees the bank got ' tighter ' with its 
 customers. It leaked out — all things leak out 
 — that Smith had said too much, and he be- 
 came unpoi)ular, which did not increase his 
 contentment. 
 
 Finally he gave notice that unless the 
 rent was reduced he should not apply to re- 
 new the lease, which would soon expire. He 
 had not the least intention in his secret mind 
 of leavmg the farm ; he never dreamed that 
 his notice would be accepted. He and his 
 had dwelt there for a hundred years, and were 
 as much part and parcel of the place as the 
 elm-trees in the hedges. So many forms were 
 in the market going a begging for tenants, it 
 was not probable a landlord would let a good 
 man go for the sake of a few shilHngs an acre. 
 But the months went by and the landlord's 
 agents gave no sign, and at last Smitli re- 
 alised that he was really going to leave. 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 Though he had so long talked of going, it 
 came upon him like a thunderbolt. It was 
 hke an attack of some violent fever that 
 shakes a strong man and leaves him as weak 
 as a child. The farmer, whose meals had 
 been so hearty, could not relish his food. His 
 breakfast dwindled to a pretence ; his lunch 
 fell off ; his dinner grew less ; his supper 
 faded ; his spirits and water, the old familiar 
 ' nightcap,' did him no good. His jolly 
 ringing laugh was heard no more ; from a 
 thorough gossip he became taciturn, and 
 barely opened his lips. His clothes began to 
 hang about him, instead of fitting him all too 
 tight ; his complexion lost the red colour and 
 became sallow ; his eyes had a furtive look in 
 them, so different to the old straightforward 
 glance. 
 
 Some said he would take to his bed and 
 die ; some said he would jump into the 
 pond one night, to be known no more in this 
 world. But he neither jumped into the pond 
 nor took to his bed. He went round his 
 fields just the same as before — perhaps a little 
 more mechanically ; but still the old routine 
 of daily work was gone through. Leases,
 
 LEAVING HIS FARM. 85 
 
 though for a sliort period, do not expu'e in a 
 day ; after a while time began to produce its 
 usual effect. The sharpness of the pain wore 
 off, and he set to work to make the best of 
 matters. He understood the capacity of each 
 field as well as others understand the yielding 
 power of a little garden. His former study 
 had been to preserve something like a balance 
 between what he put in and what he took out 
 of the soil. Now it became the subject of 
 consideration how to o'et the most out without 
 putting anything in. Artificial manures were 
 reduced to the lowest quantity and of the 
 cheapest quality, such as was used being, in 
 fact, nothing but to throAV dust, literally, in 
 the eyes of other people. Times were so bad 
 that he could not be expected, under the most 
 favourable circumstances, to consume much 
 cake in the stalls or make much manure in 
 that way. 
 
 One by one extra expenditures were cut 
 off. Gates, instead of being repaired, were 
 propped up by running a pole across. Labour 
 was eschewed in every possible way. Hedges 
 were left uncut ; ditches were left uncleancd. 
 The team of horses was reduced, and the 
 
 1)2
 
 3G HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 plougliing done next to nothing. Cleaning 
 and weeding were gradually abandoned. 
 Several fields were allowed to become overrun 
 with grass, not the least attention being paid 
 to them ; the weeds sprang up, and the grass 
 ran over from the hedges. The wheat crop 
 was kept to the smallest area. Wheat requires 
 more previous labour and care as to soil than 
 any other crop. Labour and preparation cost 
 money, and he was determined not to spend a 
 shilhng more than he was absolutely com- 
 pelled. He contrived to escape the sowing of 
 wheat altogether on some part of the farm, 
 leaving it out of the rotation. That was a 
 direct infring-ement of the letter of tlie ao-ree- 
 ment ; but wlio was to prove that he had 
 evaded it? The steward could not recollect 
 the crops on several hundred acres ; the 
 neighbouring tenants, of course, knew ver}' 
 well : ]jut althouaii Smith had become un- 
 popular, they were not going to tell tales of 
 him, He sold everything he dared off the 
 farm, and many things that he did not dare. 
 He took everything out of the soil that it was 
 possible to take out. The last Michaelmas 
 was approaching, and he walked round in
 
 LEAVING HIS FAR.M. 37 
 
 the warm Aug-ust sunshine to look at tlic 
 wheat. 
 
 He sat down on an old roller that lay m 
 the corner of the field, and thought over the 
 position of tliino-s. He calculated that it 
 would cost the incoming tenant an expendi- 
 ture of from one thousand two hundred 
 pounds to one thousand five hundred pounds 
 to put the form, ^vhich was a large one, into 
 proper condition. It could not be got into 
 such condition under three years of labour. 
 The new tenant must therefore be prepared to 
 lay out a heavy sum of money, to wait while 
 the improvement went on, nuist live how he 
 could meanwhile, and look forward some three 
 years for the commencement of his profit. To 
 such a state had the farm been brouo-ht in a 
 brief time. And how would the landlord come 
 oft' ? The new tenant would certainly make 
 liis bargain in accordance with the state of the 
 land. For the first year the rent paid would 
 be nominal ; for the second, perhaps a third or 
 half the usual sum ; not till the third year 
 could the landlord hope to get his full rental. 
 That full rental, too, would be lower than pre- 
 viously, because the general depression had
 
 o8 HODGE AND HIS PIASTERS. 
 
 sent down arable rents everywhere, and no 
 one would pay on the old scale. 
 
 Smith thought very hard thmgs of the 
 landlord, and felt that he should have his re- 
 venge. On the other hand, the landlord 
 thought very hard thmgs of Smith, and not 
 without reason. That an old tenant, the de- 
 scendant of one of the oldest tenant-farmer 
 families, should exhaust the soil m this way 
 seemed the blackest return for the good feel- 
 ing that had existed for several generations. 
 There was great irritation on both sides. 
 
 Smith had, however, to face one difficulty. 
 He must either take another farm at once, or 
 hve on his capital. The mterest of his capital 
 — if invested temporarily in Government se- 
 curities — would hardly suffice to maintain the 
 comfortable style of livmg he and his rather 
 large family of grown-up sons and daughters 
 had been accustomed to. He sometimes heard 
 a faint, far off ' still small voice,' that seemed 
 to say it would have been mser to stay on, and 
 wait till the reaction took place and farming 
 recovered. The loss he would have sustained 
 by staying on would, perhaps, not have been 
 larger than the loss he must now sustam by
 
 LEAVING IIIS FARM. 39 
 
 living on capital till such time as he saw 
 something to suit him. And had he been 
 altogether Avise in omittino; all endeavours to 
 gain his end by conciliatory means ? Might not 
 gentle persuasion and courteous language have 
 ultimately produced an impression ? Might 
 not terms have been arranged liad he not been 
 so vehement? The new tenant, notwithstand- 
 ins: that he would have to contend with the 
 shocking state of the farm, had such favour- 
 able terms that if he only stayed long enough 
 to let the soil recover, Smith knew he must 
 make a good thing of it. 
 
 But as he sat on the wooden roller under 
 the shade of a tree and thought these things, 
 listening to the rustle of the golden wheat as 
 it moved in the breeze, he jDulled a newspaper 
 out of his pocket, and glanced doAvn a long, 
 long list of farms to let. Then he remem- 
 bered that his pass-book at the bank showed 
 a very respectable row of figures, buttoned up 
 his coat, and strolled homeward with a smile 
 on his features. The date fixed for the sale, 
 as announced by the poster on the barn, came 
 round, and a crowd gathered to see the last of 
 the old tenant. Old Hodn:e viewed tlie scene
 
 40 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 from a distance, resting against a gate, with 
 his chin on his hand. He was thinking of the 
 days when he first went to plough, years ago, 
 under Smith's father. If Smith had been 
 about to enter on another farm old Hodge 
 would have girded u}) his loins, packed his 
 worldly goods in a waggon, and followed his 
 master's fortunes thither. But Smith was 
 going to live on his capital awhile ; and old 
 Hodge had already had notice to quit his cot- 
 tage. In his latter days he must work for a 
 new master. Down at the sale young Hodge 
 was lounging round, hands in pocket, whisthng 
 — for there was some beer going about. The 
 excitement of the day was a pleasurable sensa- 
 tion, and as for his master he might go to 
 Kansas or Hono--Kono-.
 
 41 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A JIAN OF PROGRESS. 
 
 The sweet sound of rustling leaves, as sooth- 
 ino; as the rush of faHino- water, made a ii:entle 
 music over a group of three persons sitting at 
 the extremity of a lawn. Upon their right 
 was a plantation or belt of trees, which shel- 
 tered them fi'om the noonday sun ; on the left 
 the gi'een sward reached to the house ; from 
 the open window came the rippling notes of a 
 piano, and now and again the soft accents of the 
 Italian ton2;ue. The walls of the garden shut 
 out the world and the wind — the blue sky 
 stretched above from one tree-top to another, 
 and in those tree-tops the cool breeze, grateful 
 to the reapers in the fields, played with bough 
 and leaf In the centre of the group was a 
 small table, and on it some tall glasses of 
 antique make, and a flask of wine, l^y the 
 lady lay a Japanese parasol, carelessly dropped
 
 42 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 on the gi'ass. She was handsome, and elegantly 
 dressed ; her long, drooping eyelashes fringed 
 eyes that were almost closed in luxurious 
 enjoyment ; her slender hand heat time to the 
 distant song. Of the two gentlemen one was 
 her brother — the other, a farmer, her husband. 
 The brother wore a pith helmet, and his 
 bronzed cheek told of service mider tropical 
 suns. The husband was scarcely less brown ; 
 still young, and very active-looking, you might 
 guess his age at forty ; but his bare forehead 
 (he had thrown his hat on the gi'ound) was 
 marked with the line caused by involuntary 
 contraction of the muscles when thinking. 
 There was an an* of anxiety, of restless feverish 
 energy, about him. But just for the moment 
 he was calm and happy, turning over the 
 pages of a book. Suddenly he looked up, and 
 began to declaim, in a clear, sweet voice : — 
 
 ' He's speaking now, 
 Or murniuririg, " Where's my serpeut of old Nile ? " 
 For so lie calls me. !Now I feed myself 
 Witli most delicious poison ! ' 
 
 Just then there came the sharp rattle of 
 machinery borne on the wind ; he recollected 
 himself, shut the volume, and rose from his seat.
 
 A MAN OF PROGRESS. 43 
 
 ' The men have finished luncheon,' he said ; ' I 
 must go and see how things are getting on.' 
 The Indian officer, after one glance back at 
 the house, went with him. There was a 
 private footpath through tlie plantation of 
 trees, and down this the two disappeared. 
 Soon afterwards the piano ceased, and a lady 
 came slowly across the lawn, still hunnning 
 the air she had been playing. She was the 
 farmer's sister, and was engaged to the officer. 
 The wife looked up from the book which she 
 had taken from the table, witli a smile of wel- 
 come. But the smile foded as she said — ' They 
 have gone out to the reapers. Oh, this farm 
 will worry him out of his life ! How I wish 
 he had never bought it ! Don't let Alick have 
 anything to do with farms or land, dear, when 
 you are married,' 
 
 The gii-1 laughed, sat down, took her hand, 
 and asked if matters were really so serious. 
 
 ' It is not so much the money I trouble 
 about,' said the wife. ' It is Cecil himself 
 His nature is too tine for these dull clods. 
 You know him, dear ; his mind is full of art — 
 look at these glasses — of music and pictures. 
 Why, he has just been reading " Antony and
 
 44 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 Cleopatra," and now he's gone to look after 
 reapers. Then, he is so fiery and quick, and 
 wants everything done in a minnte, like the 
 men of business in the " City." He keeps his 
 watch timed to a second, and expects the men 
 to be there. They are so slow. Everything 
 agi'icultural is so slow. They say we shall 
 have fine seasons in two or three years ; only 
 think, years. That is what weighs on Cecil.' 
 
 By this time the two men had walked 
 through the plantation, and paused at a small 
 gate that opened on the fields. The ground 
 fell rapidly away, sloping down for half a mile, 
 so that every portion of the fields below was 
 visible at once. The house and gardens were 
 situate on the hill ; the farmer had only to 
 stand on the edge to overlook half his place. 
 
 ' What a splendid view ! ' said the officer. 
 The entire slope was yellow with wheat — on 
 either hand, and in front the surface of the 
 crop extended unbroken by hedge, tree, or 
 apparent division. Two reaping-machines 
 were being driven rapidly round and round, 
 cutting as they went ; one was a self-binder 
 and threw the sheaves off" already bound ; the 
 other only laid the corn low, and it had after-
 
 A MAN OF riiOGKESS. 45 
 
 Avards to be gathered up and l)Oiiiid by hand- 
 labour. There was really a small ju'niy of 
 labourers in the field ; but it was so large they 
 made but little show. 
 
 ' You have a first-rate crop,' said the 
 visitor ; ' I see no weeds, or not more than 
 usual ; it is a capital crop,' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied the fiirmer, ' it is a fine crop ; 
 but just think what it cost me to produce it, 
 and bear in mind, too, the price I shall get for 
 it.' He took out his pocket-book, and began 
 to explain. 
 
 While thus occupied he looked anything 
 but a farmer. His dress was indeed light and 
 careless, but it was the carelessness of breed- 
 ing, not slovenliness. His hands were brown, 
 but there were clean white cufis on his wrist and 
 gold studs ; his neck was brown, but his linen 
 spotless. The face was too delicate, too re- 
 fined with all its bronze ; the frame was well 
 developed, but too active ; it lacked the hea\"y 
 thickness and the lumbering gait of the farmer 
 bred to the plough. He miglit have conducted 
 a great financial operation : lie might have 
 been the licad of a o-reat mercantile^ liouse ; 
 he miirht have been on 'Chanu'c ; but that stiff
 
 46 HODGE AND HIS MASTEKS. 
 
 clay there, stubborn and unimpressionable, was 
 not in his style. 
 
 Cecil had gone into farming, in fact, as a 
 ' commercial speculation,' with the view of 
 realising cent, per cent. He began at the 
 time when it was daily announced that old- 
 fashioned farming was a thing of the past. 
 Business maxims and business practice were 
 to be the rule of the future. Farmino- was 
 
 o 
 
 not to be farming ; it was to be emphatically 
 ' business,' the same as iron, coal, or cotton. 
 Thus managed, with steam as the motive 
 power, a fortune might be made out of» the 
 land, in the same way as out of a coUiery or a 
 mine. But it must be done in a commercial 
 manner ; there must be no restrictions upon 
 the employment of capital, no fixed rotation 
 of crops, no clauses forbidding the sale of any 
 products. Cecil found, however, that the pos- 
 sessors of laro-e estates would not let him a 
 
 o 
 
 farm on these conditions. These ignorant 
 people (as he thought them) insisted upon 
 keeping up the traditionary customs ; they 
 would not contract themselves out of the 
 ancient form of lease. 
 
 But Cecil was a man of capital. He really
 
 A MAN OF PROGRESS. 47 
 
 had a large sum of money, and this short- 
 sighted policy (as he termed it) of the land- 
 lords only made him the more eager to convince 
 them how mistaken they were to refuse any- 
 thing to a man who could put capital into the 
 soil. He resolved to be his own landlord, and 
 ordered his agents to find him a small estate 
 and to purchase it outright. There was not 
 much difficulty in finding an estate, and Cecil 
 bought it. But he was even then annoyed 
 and disgusted with the formalities, the investi- 
 gation of title, the completion of deeds, and 
 astoimded at the length of the lawyer's bill. 
 
 Being at last established in possession Cecil 
 set to work, and at the same time set every 
 ao;ricultural tons^ue wao^odns; within a radius 
 of twenty miles. He grubbed up all the 
 hedges, and threw the whole of his arable 
 land into one vast field, and had it levelled 
 with the theodolite. He drained it six feet 
 deep at an enormous cost. He built an engine - 
 shed with a centrifugal pump, which forced 
 water from the stream that ran through the 
 lower ground over the entire property, and 
 even to the topmost story of his liouso. lie 
 laid a light tramwny across the widest pnrt
 
 48 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 of the estate, and sent the labourers to and 
 fro their work in trucks. The chaff-cutters, 
 root-pulpers, the winnowing-machine — every- 
 thing was driven by steam. Teams of horses 
 and waggons seemed to be always going to 
 the canal wharf for coal, which he ordered 
 from the pit wholesale. 
 
 A fine set of steain-ploughing tackle was 
 put to work, and, having once commenced, 
 the beat of the engines never seemed to cease. 
 They were for ever at work tearing up the 
 subsoil and brinoino; it to the surface. If he 
 could have done it, he would have ploughed 
 ten feet deep. Tons of artificial manure came 
 by canal boat — positively boat loads — and 
 were stored in the warehouse. For he put up 
 a reo:ular warehouse for the storao;e of ma- 
 terials ; the heavy articles on the ground floor, 
 the lighter above, hoisted up by a small crane. 
 There was, too, an office, where the ' engineer ' 
 attended every morning to take his orders, as 
 the bailiff might at the back-door of an old 
 farmhouse. Substantial buildings were erected 
 for the shorthorn cattle. 
 
 The meadows upon the estate, like the 
 corn-fields, were all thrown together, such
 
 A JIAN OF PROGRESS. 49 
 
 divisions as were necessary being made by iron 
 railings. Machines of every class and charac- 
 ter were provided — reaping-machines, mowing- 
 machines, horse-hoes, horse-rakes, elevators — 
 everything was to be done by machinery. 
 That nothing might be incomplete, some new 
 and well-designed cottages were erected for 
 the skilled artisans — they could scarcely be 
 called labourers — who were enfjawd to work 
 these engines. Tlie estate had previously con- 
 sisted of several small farms : these were now 
 thrown all into one, otherwise there would not 
 have been room for this great enterprise. 
 
 A complete system of booking was or- 
 ganised. From the sale of a bullock to the 
 skin of a calf, everything was put down on 
 paper. All these entries, made in books spe- 
 cially prepared and conveniently ruled for the 
 purpose, came under Cecil's eye weekly, and 
 Avere by him re-entered in his ledgers. This 
 writing took up a large part of his time, and 
 the labour was sometimes so severe that he 
 could barely get through it : yet he would not 
 allow himself a clerk, being economical in that 
 one thing only. It was a saying in the place 
 that not a speck of dust could be blown on to 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 the estate by tlie wind, or a straw blown off, 
 without it being duly entered in the master's 
 books. 
 
 Cecil's idea was to excel in all things. 
 Some had l^een famous for shorthorns before 
 him, others for sheep, and others again for 
 wheat. He would be cele])rated for all. His 
 shorthorns should fetch fabulous prices ; his 
 sheep should be known all over the world ; his 
 wheat should be the crop of the season. In 
 this way he invested his capital m the soil 
 with a thoroughness unsurpassed. As if to 
 prove that he was right, the success of his en- 
 terprise seemed from the first assured. His 
 crops of wheat, in which he especially put 
 faith, and which he grew year after year upon 
 the same land, totally ignoring the ancient 
 rotations, were the wonder of the neighbour- 
 hood. Men came from far and near to see 
 them. Such was the effect of draining, turning 
 up the subsoil, continual ploughing, and the 
 consequent atmospheric action upon the ex- 
 posed earth, and of liberal manure, that here 
 stood such crops of wheat as had never pre- 
 viously been seen. These he sold, as they 
 stood, by auction ; and no sooner had the
 
 A MAN OF PROGRESS. 51 
 
 purchasers cletired the ground tliaii tlie en- 
 gines went to work again, tearing up the earth. 
 His meadow lands were irrigated by the cen- 
 trifiigal pump, and yielded three crops instead 
 of one. His shorthorns be^-an to wt known 
 — for he spared no expense upon them — and 
 already one or two profitable sales had been 
 held. His sheep prospered ; there was not so 
 much noise made about them, but, perhaps, 
 they really paid better than anything. 
 
 Meantime, Cecil kept open house, with wine 
 and refreshments, and even beds for every- 
 body who chose to come and inspect his place. 
 Nothing gave him such delight as to conduct 
 visitors over the estate and to enter into mi- 
 nute details of his system. As for the neigh- 
 bouring farmers they were only too welcome. 
 These things became noised abroad, and people 
 arrived from strange and far off places, and 
 were shown over tliis Pioneer's Farm, as Cecil 
 loved to call it. His example was trium- 
 phantly quoted by every one who spoke on 
 agricultural progress. Cecil himself Avas the 
 life and soul of tlie farmers' club in tlie ad- 
 jacent market town. It was not so much the 
 speeches he made as his manner. His enthu- 
 
 r, 2
 
 52 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 siasm was contagious. If a scheme was started, 
 if an experiment was suggested, Cecil's cheque- 
 book came out directly, and the thing was set 
 on foot without delay. His easy, elastic step, 
 his bright eye, his warm, hearty handshake, 
 seemed to electrify people — to put some of his 
 own spirit into them. The circle of his in- 
 fluence was ever increasing — the very oldest 
 fogeys, who had prophesied every kind of 
 failure, were being gradually won over. 
 
 Cecil himself was transcendently happy 
 m his work ; his mind was in it ; no exertion, 
 no care or trouble, was too much. He worked 
 harder than any navvy, and never felt fatigue. 
 People said of him — ' What a wonderful 
 man ! ' He was so genuine, so earnest, so 
 thorouo-h, men could not choose but believe 
 in him. The sun shone brightly, the crops 
 ripened, the hum of the threshing-machine 
 droned on the wind — all was life and happi- 
 ness. In the summer evenmgs pleasant groups 
 met upon the lawn ; the song, the jest went 
 round ; now and then an informal dance, 
 arranged with much laughter, whiled away 
 the merry hours till the stars appeared above 
 the trees and the dew descended.
 
 A MAX OF rilOGUKSS. 53 
 
 Yet to-day, as the two leaned over the 
 little gate in the plantation and looked down 
 upon the reaj^ers, the deep groove which con- 
 tinual thought causes was all too visible on 
 Cecil's forehead. He explained to the officer 
 how his difficulties had come about. His 
 first years upon the farm or estate — it was 
 really rather an estate than a farm — had been 
 fairly prosperous, notwithstanding the im- 
 mense outlay of ca])ital. A good per-centage, 
 in some cases a high rate of per-centage, had 
 been returned upon the money put into the 
 soil. The seasons were good, the crops large 
 and superabundant. Men's minds were full 
 of confidence, they bought freely, and were 
 launching out in all directions. 
 
 They w^inted good shorthorn cattle — he 
 sold them cattle ; they wanted sheep — he sold 
 them sheep. They wanted wheat, and he sold 
 them the standing crops, took the money, and 
 so cleared his profit and saved himself trouble. 
 It was, in fact, a period of inflation. Like 
 stocks and shares, everything was going up ; 
 everybody hastening to get rich. Shorthorns 
 with a strain of blue blood fetched fancy 
 prices ; corn crops ruled high ; every single
 
 54 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 thins: sold well. The dry seasons suited the 
 soil of the estate, and the machinery he had 
 purchased was rapidly repaying its first cost 
 in the saving of labour. His whole system 
 was succeedmg, and he saw his way to reahse 
 his cent, per cent. 
 
 But by degrees the dream faded. He 
 attributed it in the first place to the stagna- 
 tion, the almost extinction, of the iron trade, 
 the blowino- out of furnaces, and the conse- 
 quent cessation of the demand for the best 
 class of food on the part of thousands of 
 operatives and mechanics, who had hitherto 
 been the farmers' best customers. They would 
 have the best of everything when their wages 
 were high ; as their wages declined then- pur- 
 chases declined. In a brief period, fiu' briefer 
 than would be imagined, this shrinking of 
 demand reacted upon agriculture. The Eng- 
 Hsh fanner made his profit upon superior 
 articles — the cheaper class came fi'om abroad 
 so copiously that he could not compete against 
 so vast a supply. 
 
 When the demand for high-class products 
 fell, the English fanner felt it directly. Cecil 
 considered that it was the du-e distress in the
 
 A MAN OF PROGRESS. 00 
 
 mamifactiirins; districts, the sta2:nation of 
 trade and commerce, and the gi'eat faihires in 
 business centres, that were the chief causes of 
 low prices and falling agricultural markets. 
 The rise of labour was but a trifling item. 
 He had always paid good wages to good men, 
 and always meant to. The succession of wet 
 seasons was more serious, of course ; it 
 lowered the actual yield, and increased the 
 cost of procuring the yield ; but as his lands 
 were well drained, and had been kept clean, 
 he believed he could have withstood the 
 seasons for awhile. 
 
 The one heavy cloud that overhung agri- 
 culture, in his opinion, was the extraordinary 
 and almost world-spread depression of trade, 
 and his argument was very simple. When 
 men prospered they bought freely, indulged 
 in luxurious li\dng, kept horses, servants, 
 gave parties, and consumed indirectly large 
 quantities of food. As they made fortunes 
 they bought estates and lived half the year 
 like country gentlemen — that competition 
 sent up the price of land. The converse was 
 equally true. In times of pressure iiouse- 
 holds were reduced, servants dismissed, horses
 
 56 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 sold, carriages suppressed. Eicli and poor 
 acted alike in different degrees; but as the 
 working population was so much more 
 numerous it was throug-h the low wao-es of 
 the working population in cities and manu- 
 facturing districts that the formers suffered 
 most. 
 
 It was a period of depression — there was 
 no confidence, no speculation. For instance, 
 a year or two since the crop of standing wheat 
 then growing on the very field before their 
 eyes was sold by auction, and several lots 
 brought from !()/. to 18/. per acre. This year 
 the same wheat would not fetch 8/. per acre ; 
 and, not satisfied with that price, he had de- 
 termined to reap and thresh it himself. It 
 was the same with the shorthorns, with the 
 hay, and indeed with everything except sheep, 
 which had been a mainstay and support to 
 him. 
 
 ' Yet even now,' concluded Cecil, shutting 
 his pocket-book, ' I feel convinced that my 
 j)lan and my system will be a success. I can 
 see that I committed one grreat mistake — 
 I made all my improvements at once, laid out 
 all my capital, and crippled myself I should
 
 A MAN OF rilOGllESS. ( 
 
 have done one thing at a time. I should, as 
 it were, have grown my improvements — one 
 this year, one next. As it wjis, 1 denuded 
 myself of capital. Had the times continued 
 favourable it would not have mattered, as my 
 income would have been large. But the 
 times became adverse before I was firmly 
 settled, and, to be plain, I can but just keep 
 thinfi^s ffoino" without a loan — dear Bella will 
 not be able to go to the sea this year; but 
 we are both determined not to l)orrow. 
 
 ' In a year or two 1 am con^"inced we shall 
 flourish again ; but the waiting, Alick, the 
 waiting, is the trial. You know I am mi- 
 patient. Of course, the old-fashioned people, 
 the farmers, all expect me to go through the 
 Bankruptcy Court. They always said these 
 new-fangled plans would not answer, and now 
 they are sure they were right, ^^^ell, I for- 
 give them their croakino- thouo-h most of 
 them have dined at my table and drank my 
 wine. I foro'ive them their croakino' for so 
 they were bred up from childhood. AVere I 
 ill-natured, I might even smile at them, for 
 they are failing and leaving their farins by 
 the dozen, which seems a pretty good proof
 
 58 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 that their antiquated system is at best no 
 better than mine. But I can see what they 
 cannot see — signs of improvement. The steel 
 industry is giving men work ; the iron in- 
 dustry is revivmg ; the mines are slowly 
 coming into work again ; America is pur- 
 chasing of us largely ; and when other nations 
 purchase of us, part, at least, of the money 
 always finds its way to the farmer. Next 
 season, too, the weather may be more pro- 
 pitious. 
 
 ' I shall hold on, Alick — a depression is 
 certain to be followed by a rise. That has 
 been the history of trade and agriculture for 
 generations. Nothmg will ever convince me 
 that it was intended for Enghsh agriculturists 
 to go on using wooden ploughs, to wear 
 smock-frocks, and plod round and round in 
 the same old track for ever. In no other way 
 but by science, by steam, by machinery, by 
 artificial manure, and, in one word, by the 
 exercise of intelligence, can we compete with 
 the world. It is ridiculous to suppose we can 
 do so by returning to the ignorance and pre- 
 judice of our ancestors. No; we must beat 
 the world by superior intelligence and supe-
 
 A MAN OF rROGRESS. 59 
 
 rior energy. But intelligence, mind, has ever 
 had every obstacle to contend against. Look 
 at M. Lessei)s and his wonderfal Suez Canal. 
 1 tell you that to introduce scientific farming 
 into England, in the face of tradition, custom, 
 and prejudice, is a far harder task than over- 
 coming the desert sand.'
 
 00 HODGE AND IIIS MASTEES. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 GOING DOWNHILL 
 
 An aged man, coming out of an arable field 
 into tlie lane, pauses to look back. He is 
 shabl^ily clad, and there is more than one rent 
 in bis coat ; yet it is a coat that bas once been 
 a good one, and of a superior cut to wbat a 
 labourer would purchase. In the field the 
 ploughman to whom he has been speakmg has 
 started his team again. A lad walks beside 
 the horses, the iron creaks, and the plough- 
 man holding the handles seems now to press 
 upon them with his weight, and now to be 
 himself bodily pulled along. A dull Novem- 
 ber cloud overspreads the sky, and misty skits 
 of small rain sweep across the landscape. As 
 the old man looks back from the gate, the chiH 
 breeze whistles through the boughs of the oak 
 above him., tearing off the brown dry leaves, 
 and shakinG: out the acorns to fall at his feet. It
 
 GOING DOWNHILL. 01 
 
 lifts his o-rey hair, and penetrates the threadbare 
 coat. As he turns to go, something catches 
 his eye on the ground, and from the mud in 
 the gateway he picks up a cast horse-shoe. 
 With the rusty iron in his hand he passes 
 slowly down the lane, and, as he goes, the 
 bitter wind drives the fallen leaves that have 
 been lying beside the way rustling and 
 dancing after him. 
 
 From a farmer occupying a good-sized 
 farm he had descended to be a fiirmer's bailiff 
 in the same locality. But a few months since 
 he Avas himself a tenant, and now he is a 
 bailiff at 15.^. a week and a cottage. There 
 is nothing dramatic, nothing sensational, in 
 the history of his descent ; but it is, perhaps, 
 all the more full of Ijitter human experiences. 
 As a man going down a steep hill, after a 
 long while finds himself on the edge of a pre- 
 cipitous chalk pit, and topples in one fall to 
 the bottom, so, though the process of going- 
 downhill occupied so long, the actual finish 
 came almost suddenly. Thus it was that 
 from beino; a master he found himself a 
 servant. He does not complain, nor appeal 
 for pity. His back is a little more bowed, he
 
 62 HODGE AND HIS MASTEES. 
 
 feels the cold a little more, his step is yet 
 more spiritless. But all he says about it is 
 that ' Hard work never made any money yet.' 
 He has worked exceedingly hard all his 
 life-time. In his youth, though the family 
 were then well-to-do, he was not permitted to 
 lounge about in idleness, but had to work 
 with the rest in the fields. He dragged his 
 heavy nailed shoes over the furrows with the 
 plough ; he reaped and loaded in harvest 
 time ; in winter he trimmed the hedgerows, 
 split logs, and looked after the cattle. He 
 enjoyed no luxurious education — luxurious in 
 the sense of scientifically arranged dormitories, 
 ample meals, and vacations to be spent on 
 horseback, or with the breechloader. Trudg- 
 ing to and fro the neighbourmg country town, 
 in wind, and wet, and snow, to school, his 
 letters were thrashed into him. In holiday 
 time he went to work — his holidays, m fact, 
 were so arranged as to fall at the time when 
 the lad could be of most use in the field. If 
 an occasion arose when a lad was wanted, his 
 lessons had to wait while he lent a hand. He 
 had his play, of course, as boys in all ages 
 have had ; but it was play of a rude character
 
 GOING UOAVNIilLL. G3 
 
 with the plou^^li lads, and the ahnost equally 
 rough sons of farmers, Avho worked like 
 ploughmen. 
 
 In those days the strong made no pretence 
 to protect the ^yeu.k, or to abnegate their 
 natural power. The biggest lad used liis 
 thews and sinews to knock over the lesser 
 without mercy, till the lesser by degrees grew 
 strong enough to retaliate. To be thrashed, 
 beaten, and kicked was so universal an experi- 
 ence that no one ever unagined it was not 
 correct, or thought of complaining. They 
 accepted it as a matter of course. As he grew 
 older his work simply grew harder, and in no 
 respect differed from that of the labourers, 
 except that he directed what should be done 
 next, but none the less assisted to do it. 
 
 Thus the days went on, the weeks, and 
 months, and years. He was close upon forty 
 years old before he liad his own will for a 
 single day. Up to almost that age he worked 
 on his father's farm as a labourer amomr the 
 labourers, as much under parental authority 
 as when he was a boy of ten. When the old 
 man died it was not surprising that the sou, 
 so lono- held down in bonda^'e — bondaLTc from
 
 64 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 which he had not the spirit to escape — gave 
 way for a short period to riotous living. There 
 was hard drinking, horse-racing, and card- 
 playing, and waste of substance generally. 
 
 But it was not for long, for several reasons. 
 In the first place, the lad of forty years, sud- 
 denly broken forth as it were from school, had 
 gone past the age when youth ])lunges beyond 
 recall. He was a gi'own man, neither wise 
 nor clever ; but with a man's sedateness of 
 spirit and a man's hopes. There was no in- 
 nate evil in his nature to lead him into 
 unrighteous courses. Perhaps his fault rather 
 lay in his inoffensive disposition — he submitted 
 too easily. Then, in the second place, there 
 was not much money, and what there was had 
 to meet many calls. 
 
 The son found that the father, though 
 reputed a substantial man, and a man among 
 farmers of high esteem and good family, had 
 been anything but rich. First there were 
 secret debts that had run on for fully thirty 
 years — sums of from fifty to one hundred 
 pounds — borrowed in the days of his youth, 
 when he, too, had at last been released in a 
 similar manner from similar bondage, to meet
 
 GOING DOWNHILL. G5 
 
 the riotous living in which he also liad in- 
 dulged. In those earlier days there had been 
 more substance in cattle and corn, and he had 
 had no ditticulty in borrowing ready money 
 from adjoining farmers, who afterwards helped 
 him to drink it away. These boon comjDanions 
 had now grown old. They had never pressed 
 their ancient comrade for the principal, the 
 interest being paid regularly. But now their 
 ancient comrade was dead thev wanted their 
 money, especially Avlien they saw the son 
 indulging himself, and did not know how far 
 he might go. Their money was paid, and 
 reduced the balance in hand materially. 
 
 Now came a still more serious matter. 
 The old man, years ago, when corn farming 
 paid so handsomely, had been induced by the 
 prospect of profit to take a second and yet 
 larger farm, nearly all arable. To do this he 
 was obliged, in farming phrase, to ' take up ' 
 — i.e. to borrow — a thousand pounds, which 
 was advanced to him by the bank. Bemg a 
 man of substance, well reputed, and at that 
 date with many friends, the thousand pounds 
 was forthcoming readily, jmd on favourable 
 terms. The enterprise, however, did not 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 6Q HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 prosper ; times changed, and wheat was not 
 so profitable. In the end he had the wisdom 
 to accept his losses and relinquish the second 
 farm before it ate him up. Had he only- 
 carried his wisdom a little farther and repaid 
 the whole of the bank's advance, all might yet 
 have been well. But he only repaid five hun- 
 dred pounds, leaving five hundred pounds 
 still owing. The bank having regularly re- 
 ceived the interest, and believing the old 
 gentleman upright — as he was — was not at 
 all anxious to have the money back, as it was 
 earning fiiir interest. So the five hundred 
 remained on loan, and, as it seemed, for no 
 very definite purpose. 
 
 Whether the old gentleman liked to feel 
 that he had so mucii money at command (a 
 weakness of human nature common enough), 
 or whether he thought he could increase the 
 produce of his farm by putting it in the soU, 
 it is not possible to say. He certainly put 
 the five hundred out of sight somewhere, for 
 when his son succeeded him it was nowhere 
 to be found. After repaying the small loans 
 to his father's old friends, upon looking round 
 the son saw cattle, corn, hay, and furniture,
 
 GOING DOWNHILL. f)7 
 
 but no five liundred pounds in ready money. 
 The ready money had been muddled away — 
 simply muddled away, for the old man had 
 worked hard, and was not at all extravaj^ant. 
 'J'he bank asked for the five hundred, but 
 not in a pressing manner, for the belief still 
 existed that there was money in the family. 
 That belief was still further fostered because 
 the old friends whose loans had been repaid 
 talked about that repayment, and so gave a 
 colour to the idea. The heu-, in his slow 
 way, thought the matter over and decided 
 to continue the loan. He could only repay it 
 by instalments — a mode which, to a farmer 
 brought up in the old style, is almost im- 
 possible, for though he might meet one he 
 would be sure to put off the next — or by 
 selling stock (equivalent to giving up his 
 place), or by borrowing afresh. So he asked 
 and obtained a continuation of the loan of 
 the five hundred, and was accommodated, on 
 condition that some one ' backed ' him. Some 
 one in the fiimily did back him, and tlie fatal 
 mistake Avas committed of perpetuating this 
 burden. A loan never remains at the same 
 sum ; it increases if it is not reduced. In 
 
 F -J
 
 68 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 itself the five hundred was not at all a heavy 
 amount for the farm to carry, but it was the 
 nucleus around which additional burdens piled 
 themselves up. By a species of gravitation 
 such a burden attracts others, till the last 
 straw breaks the camel's back. This, how- 
 ever, was not all. 
 
 The heir discovered another secret which 
 likewise contributed to sober him. It ap- 
 peared that the farm, or rather the stock and 
 so on, was really not all his father's. His 
 father's brother had a share in it — a share of 
 which even the most inquisitive gossips of 
 the place were ignorant. The brother being 
 the eldest (himself in business as a farmer at 
 some distance) had the most money, and had 
 advanced a certain sum to the younger to 
 enable him to start his farm, more than a 
 generation since. From that day to this not 
 one shilling of the principal had been repaid, 
 and the interest only partially and at long 
 intervals. If the interest were all claimed it 
 would now amount to nearly as much as the 
 principal. The brother — or, rather, the uncle 
 — did not make himself at all unpleasant m 
 the matter. He only asked for about half
 
 GOING DOWNHILL. 69 
 
 the interest due to him, and at the same time 
 irave the heir a severe caution not to continue 
 the aforesaid riotous living. The heir, now 
 ([uite brought down to eartli after his mo- 
 mentary exaltation, saw the absolute necessity 
 of acquiescence. Witli a little management 
 he paid the interest — leaving himself with 
 barely enough to work the farm. The uncle, 
 on his part, did not act unkindly ; it was he 
 who ' backed ' the heir up at the bank in the 
 matter of the continuation of the loan of the 
 five hundred pounds. This five hundred 
 pounds the heir had never seen and never 
 would see ; so far as he was concerned it did 
 not exist ; it was a mere figure, but a figure 
 for which he must pay. In all these circum- 
 stances there was nothing at all exceptional. 
 
 At this hour throughout the width and 
 breadth of the country there are doubtless 
 many farmers' heirs stepping into their fiithers' 
 shoes, and at this very moment looking into 
 their afiairs. It may be safely said that few 
 indeed are those fortunate individuals Avho 
 find themselves clear of snnilar embarrass- 
 ments. In this particular case detailed above, 
 if the heir's circumstances had been rigidly
 
 70 HODGE AND HIS MASTEES. 
 
 reduced to figures — if a professional ac- 
 countant had examined them — it would have 
 been found that, although in possession of a 
 large farm, he had not got one scrap of 
 capital. 
 
 But he was in possession of the farm, and 
 upon that simple fact of possession he hence- 
 forth lived, like so many, many more of liis 
 class. He returned to the routine of labour, 
 which was a part of liis life. After a while he 
 married, as a man of forty might naturally 
 wish to, and without any imputation of im- 
 prudence so far as his own age was concerned. 
 The wife he chose was one from his own class, 
 a good woman, hut, as is said to l^e often the 
 case, she reflected the weakness of her hus- 
 band's character. He now worked harder 
 than ever — a labourer with the labourers. 
 He thus saved himself the weekl)" expense of 
 the wages of a labourer — perhaps, as labourers 
 do not greatly exert themselves, of a man and 
 a boy. But while thus slaving with his hands 
 and saving this small sum in wages, he could 
 not walk round and have an eye upon the 
 other men. They could therefore waste a 
 large amount of time, and thus he lost twice
 
 GOING DOWNHILL. 71 
 
 Avliat he saved. Still, his intention was com- 
 mendable, and his persistent, unvarying labour 
 really wonderful. Had he but been sharper 
 with his men he might still have got a fair 
 day's work out of them while working him- 
 self. From the habit of associating with 
 them from boyhood he had fallen somewhat 
 into their own loose, indefinite manner, and 
 had lost the prestige which attaches to a mas- 
 ter. To them he seemed like one of them- 
 selves, and they were as much inclined to 
 argue with him as to obey. AVhen he met 
 them in the morning he would say, ' Perhaps 
 we had better do so and so,' or ' Suppose we 
 go and do this or that.' They often thought 
 otherwise ; and it usually ended in a compro- 
 mise, the master having his way in part, and 
 the men in part. This lack of decision ran 
 through all, and undid all that his hard work 
 achieved. Everything was muddled from 
 morn till night, from year's end to year's end. 
 As children came the livino- indoors became 
 harder, and the work out of doors still more 
 laborious. 
 
 If a farmer can ]Mit away fifty pounds a 
 year, after paying his rent and expense^, if he
 
 72 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 can lay by a clear fifty pounds of profit, he 
 thinks himself a prosperous man. If this 
 farmer, after forty years of saving, should 
 chance to be succeeded by a son as thrifty, 
 when he too has carried on the same process 
 for another twenty years, then the family may 
 be, for village society, wealthy, with three or 
 even four thousand pounds, besides goods and 
 gear. This is supposing all things favourable, 
 and men of some ability, making the most of 
 their opportunities. Now reverse the process. 
 When children came, as said before, our hard- 
 working' farmer found the livino; indoors 
 harder, and the labour without heavier. In- 
 stead of saving fifty pounds a year, at first 
 the two sides of the a'^count (not that he ever 
 kept any books) about balanced. Then, by 
 degi'ees, the balance dropped the wrong way. 
 There was a loss of twenty or thirty pounds 
 on the year, and presently of forty or fifty 
 pounds, which could only be made good by 
 borrowmg, and so increasmg the payment of 
 interest. 
 
 Although it takes sixty years — two gene- 
 rations — to accumulate a village fortune by 
 saving fifty pounds a year, it does not occupy
 
 GOING DOWNHILL. 73 
 
 SO long to reduce a farmer to poverty when 
 half tliat sum is annually lost. Tliere was 
 no strong'ly marked and radical defect in 
 his system of farming to account for it ; it 
 was the muddling, and the muddling only, 
 that did it. His work was blind. He would 
 never miss giving the pigs their dinner. 
 He rose at half-past three in the morning, 
 and foddered the cattle in the gi'ey dawn, 
 or milked a certain number of cows, with 
 unvarying regularity. But he Iiad no fore- 
 sight, and no observation whatever. If you 
 saw him crossing a field, and went after 
 him, you might walk close behind, placing 
 your foot in the mark just left ])y his shoe, 
 and he would never know it. With his 
 hands behind his l)ack, and Ids eyes upon the 
 ground, he would plod across the field, per- 
 fectly unconscious that any one was following 
 him. He carried on the old rotation of crop- 
 ping in the })iece of arable land belonging to 
 the form, but in total oblivion of any advan- 
 tage to be obtained by local change of treat- 
 ment. He could plan nothing out for next 
 year. He spent nothing, or next to nothing, 
 on improved implements ; but, on the other
 
 74 nODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 hand, he saved nothing, from a lack of re- 
 source and contrivance. 
 
 As the years went by he fell out of the 
 social life of the times ; that is, out of the 
 social life of his own cu'cle. He regularly fed 
 the pigs ; but when he heard that the neigh- 
 bours were all going in to the town to attend 
 some important agricultural meeting, or to 
 start some useful movement, he put his hands 
 behind his back and said that he should not 
 go ; he did not understand any tiling about it. 
 There never used to be anything of that sort. 
 So he went in to luncheon on bread and cheese 
 and small ale. Such a course could only bring 
 him into the contempt of his fellow-men. He 
 became a nonentity. No one had any respect 
 for or confidence in him. Otherwise, possibly, 
 he might have obtained powerful help, for the 
 memory of what his family had been had not 
 yet died out. 
 
 Men saw that he lived and worked as a 
 labourer; they gave him no credit for the 
 work, but they despised him for the meanness 
 and churlishness of his life. There was neither 
 a piano nor a decanter of sherry in his house. 
 He was utterly out of accord with the times.
 
 GOING DOWNHILL. 75 
 
 By degi'ees, after many years, it became ap- 
 parent to nil that he was going flownhill. 
 The .stock iq)0D the farm was not so large nor 
 of so good a character as had been the case. 
 The manner of men visibly changed towards 
 him. The small dealers, even the very car- 
 riers along the road, the higglers, and other 
 persons who call at a farm on petty business, 
 gave him clearly to know in then* own coarse 
 way that they despised him. They flatly con- 
 tradicted him, and bore him down with loud 
 tongues. He stood it all meekly, without 
 show^ing any spirit ; but, on the other hand, 
 without resentment, for he never said ill of 
 any man behind his back. 
 
 It was put about now that he drank, 
 because some busybody had seen a jar of 
 spirits carried into the house from the wine 
 merchant's cart. A jar of spirits had been 
 delivered at the house at intervals for years 
 and years, far back into his father's time, 
 and every one of those who now expressed 
 their disgust at his supposed drinkmg habits 
 had sipped their tumblers in that house with- 
 out stint. He did not drink — he did not 
 take one half at home what his neighbours
 
 76 HODGE AND HIS MASTEKS. 
 
 imbibed without injury at markets and auc- 
 tions every week of their lives. But he was 
 growing poor, and they called to mmd that 
 brief spell of extravagance years ago, and 
 pointed out to their acquaintances how the sin 
 of the Prodio'al was comino^ home to him. 
 
 No man drinks the bitter cup of poverty 
 to the dreo-s like the declinins; farmer. The 
 descent is so slow ; there is time to drain 
 every drop, and to linger over the flavour. It 
 may be eight, or ten, or fifteen years about. 
 He cannot, like the bankrupt tradesman, even 
 when the fatal notice comes, put up his shut- 
 ters at once and retire from view. Even at 
 the end, after the notice, six months at least 
 elapse before all is over — before the farm is 
 surrendered, and the sale of household furni- 
 ture and effects takes place. He is full in 
 public view all that time. So far as his neigh- 
 bours are concerned he is in public view for 
 years previously. He has to rise in the 
 morning and meet them in the fields. He 
 sees them in the road ; he passes through 
 groups of them in the market-place. As he 
 goes by they look after him, and perhaps 
 audibly wonder how long he will last. These
 
 GOING DOWNHILL. 77 
 
 people all knew him from a lad, and can trace 
 every inch of his descent. The hiljourers in 
 the field know it, and by their manner show 
 that they know it. 
 
 Ilis wife — his wife who worked so hard 
 for so many, many years — is made to know it 
 too. She is conspicuously omitted from the 
 social gatherings that occur from time to time. 
 The neighbours' wives do not call ; their well- 
 dressed daughters, as they rattle by to the 
 town in basket-carriao-e or doo'-cart, look 
 askance at the shabby figure walking slowly 
 on the path beside the road. They criticise 
 the shabby shawl ; they sneer at the slow 
 step which is the inevitable result of hard 
 work, the cares of maternity, and of age. So 
 they flaunt past with an odour of perfume, 
 and leave the ' old lady ' to j^lod unrecognised. 
 
 The end came at last. All this blind 
 work of his was of no avail against the ocean 
 steamer and her cargo of wheat and meat from 
 the teeming regions of the West. Nor was it 
 of avail against the fall of prices, and the de- 
 creased yield consequent upon a succession of 
 bad seasons. The general lack of confidence 
 pressed heavily upon a man who did not even
 
 78 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 attempt to take his natural place among his 
 fellow-men. The loan from the bank had 
 gradually grown from five to seven or eight 
 hundred by thirties, and forties, and fifties 
 added to it by degrees ; and the bank — in- 
 formed, perhaps, by the same busybodies who 
 had discovered that he drank — declined further 
 assistance, and notified that part, at least, of 
 the principal must be repaid. The landlord 
 had long been well aware of the state of 
 affairs, but refrained from action out of a 
 feeling for the old family. But the land, from 
 the farmer's utter lack of capital, was now 
 gomg from bad to worse. The bank having 
 declined to advance further, the rent began to 
 fall into arrear. The landlord caused it to be 
 conveyed to his tenant that if he would quit 
 the farm, which was a large one, he could go 
 into a smaller, and his aff'airs might perhaps 
 be arranged. 
 
 The old man — for he was now growing- 
 old — put his hands behind his back and said 
 nothing, but went on with his usual routine 
 of work. Whether he had become dulled and 
 deadened and cared nothing, whether hope 
 was extinct, or he could not wrench himself
 
 GOING DOWNHILL. 79 
 
 from the old place, he said nothing. Even 
 then some further time elapsed — so slow is 
 the farmer's fall tliat he mig'ht almost be ex- 
 cused for thinkin<»; that it would never come. 
 But now came the news that the old uncle who 
 had ' backed ' him at the bank had been found 
 dead in bed of sheer old age. Tlien the long- 
 kept secret came out at last. The dead man's 
 executors clauned the money advanced so 
 many, many years ago. 
 
 This discovery finished it. The neigh- 
 bours soon had food for gossip in the fact that 
 a load of hay which he had sold was met in 
 the road by the landlord's agent and turned 
 back. By the strict letter of his agreement 
 he could not sell hay off the form ; but it had 
 been permitted for years. When they heard 
 this they knew it was all over. The landlord, 
 of course, put in his claim ; the bank theirs. 
 In a few months the household furniture and 
 effects were sold, and the farmer and his aired 
 wife stepped into the highway in their shabby 
 clothes. 
 
 He did riot, however, starve ; he passed to 
 a cottaire on the outskirts of the villni'-e, and 
 became bailiff for the tenant of that very
 
 80 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 arable farm to work which years ago his father 
 had borrowed the thousand pounds that ulti- 
 nately proved their ruin. He made a better 
 bailiff than a farmer, l^eing at home with 
 every detail of practice, but incapable of ge- 
 neral treatment. His wife does a little washing 
 and charing ; not much, for she is old and 
 feeble. No charity is offered to them — they 
 have outlived old friends — nor do they appeal 
 for any. The people of the village do not 
 heed them, nor reflect upon the spectacle in 
 their midst. They are merged and lost in the 
 vast multitude of the agricultural poor. Only 
 two of their children survive ; but these, having 
 early left the farm and gone into a city, are 
 fairly well-to-do. That, at least, is a comfort 
 to the old folk. 
 
 It is, however, doubtful whether the old 
 man, as he walks down the lane with his 
 hands behind his back and the dead leaves 
 driven by the November breeze rustling after, 
 has much feeling of any kind left. Hard 
 work and adversity have probably deadened 
 his finer senses. Else one would thmk he 
 could nev^er endure to work as a servant upon 
 that farm of all others, nor to daily pass the
 
 GOING DOWNHILL. 81 
 
 scenes of his youth. For yonder, well in 
 sight as he turns a corner of the lane, stands 
 the house where he dwelt so many, many 
 years ; where the events of his life came 
 slowly to pass ; where he was born ; where 
 his bride came home ; where his children 
 were born, and from whose door he went 
 forth penniless. 
 
 Seeing this every day, surely that old 
 man, if he have but one spark of feeling left, 
 must drink the lees of poverty to the last 
 final doubly bitter dregs. 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 HODGE A2sD HIS JMASTEKS. 
 
 CHAPTER y. 
 
 THE BORROWER AND THE GA3IBLER. 
 
 ', Where do lie get the money from, you ? ' 
 ' It be curious, bean't it ; I minds when his 
 father drove folks' pigs to market.' These 
 remarks passed between two old farmers, one 
 standing on the sward by the roadside, and 
 the other talking to him over the low hedge, 
 as a gentleman drove by in a Whitechapel dog- 
 cart, groom behind. The gentleman glanced 
 at the two farmers, and just acknowledged 
 their existence with a careless nod. lookins; at 
 the moment over their heads and far away. 
 
 There is no class so jealous of a rapid 
 rise as old-fashioned farming people. They 
 seem to think that if a man once drove pigs 
 to market he should always continue to do 
 so, and all his descendants likewise. Their 
 ideas in a measure approximate to those of 
 caste among the Hindoos. It is a crime to
 
 THE BORROWER AND THE GAMBLER. 83 
 
 move out of the original groove ; if a man be 
 lowly lie must remain lowly, or never be for- 
 given. The lapse of time makes not the least 
 difference. If it takes the man thirty years to 
 get into a fair position he is none the less 
 guilty. A period equal to the existence of a 
 generation is not sufficient excuse for him. 
 Pie is not one whit better than if he had made 
 his money l)y a lucky bet on a racehorse. 
 Nor can he ever hope to live down this terrible 
 social misdemeanour, especially if it is accom- 
 panied by the least ostentation. 
 
 Now, in the present day a man who gets 
 money shows off more than ever was the case. 
 In the olden time the means of luxury were 
 limited, and the fortunate could do little more 
 than drink, and tempt others to drink. But 
 to-day the fortunate farmer in the dog-cart, 
 dressed like a gentleman, di*ove his thorough- 
 bred, and carried his groom behind. Frank 
 
 1) , Esq., in the slang of the time, ' did the 
 
 thini>' "Tand ! ' The doo-.cart was a first-rate 
 article. The horse was a liigh- stepper, sucli 
 as are not to be bought for a song ; the turn- 
 out was at the first glance perfect. But if you 
 looked keenly at the groom, there was a sus- 
 
 q2
 
 84 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 picion of the plough in his face and attitude. 
 He did not sit like a man to the manner born. 
 He was lumpy ; he lacked the light, active 
 style characteristic of the thoroughbred groom, 
 who is as distinct a breed as the thoroughbred 
 horse. The man looked as if he had been 
 taken from the plough and was conscious of 
 it. His feet were in top-boots, but he could 
 not forget the heavy action induced by a long- 
 course of walking in wet furrows. The critics 
 by the hedge were not capable of detecting these 
 niceties. The broad facts were enough for 
 them. There was the gentleman in his ulster, 
 there was the resplendent turn-out, there was 
 the groom, and there was the thoroughbred 
 horse. The man's father drove their pigs to 
 market, and they wanted to know where he 
 got the money from. 
 
 Meantime Mr. D , having carelessly 
 
 nodded, had gone on. Half a mile farther 
 some of his own fields were contiguous to the 
 road, yet he did not, after the fashion of the 
 farmer generally, pause to gaze at them search- 
 ingly ; he went on with the same careless 
 glance. This fact, which the old-fashioned 
 folk had often observed, troubled them greatly.
 
 THE BORROWEK AND THE GAMBLEK. 85 
 
 It seemed so unnatural, so opposite to the old 
 ideas and ways, that a man should take no 
 apparent interest in his own farm. They said 
 that Frank was nothing of a farmer ; he 
 knew nothing of farming. They looked at his 
 ricks ; they were badly built, and still worse 
 thatched. They examined his meadows, and 
 saw wisps of hay lying about, evidence of 
 neglect ; the fields had not been properly 
 raked. His ploughed fields were full of weeds, 
 and not half worked enough. His labourers 
 had acquired a happy-go-lucky style, and did 
 their work anyhow or not at all, having no 
 one to look after them. So, clearly, it was not 
 Frank's good farming that made him so rich, 
 and enabled him to take so hio'h and leading a 
 position. 
 
 Nor was it his education or his ' company ' 
 manners. The old folk noted his l)oorishness 
 and lack of the little refinements Avhich mark 
 the gentleman. His very voice was rude and 
 hoarse, and seemed either to grumble or to 
 roar forth his meaning. They had frequently 
 heard him speak in public — he was generally 
 on the platform when any local movement was 
 in progi-ess — and could not understand why he
 
 86 HODGE AND HIS MASTEES. 
 
 was put up there to address the audience, 
 unless it was for his infinite brass. The 
 language he employed was rude, his sentences 
 disjomted, his meaning incoherent ; but he had 
 a knack of an apropos jest, not always alto- 
 gether savoury, but which made a mixed 
 assembly laugh. As his pul)lic speeches did 
 not seem very brilhant, they supposed he must 
 have the gift of persuasion in private. He did 
 not even ride well to hounds — an accomplish- 
 ment that has proved a passport to a great 
 landlord's favour before now — for he had an 
 awkward, and to the eye not too secure a seat 
 in the saddle. 
 
 Nor was it his personal appearance. He 
 was very tall and ungamly, with a long neck 
 and a small round head on the top of it. His 
 features were flat, and the skin much wrinkled ; 
 there seemed nothinir in his countenance to 
 recommend him to the notice of the other sex. 
 Yet he had been twice married ; the last time 
 to a comparatively young lady with some 
 money, who dressed in the height of fashion. 
 
 Frank had two families — one, grown up, 
 by his first wife, the second in the nursery — 
 but it made no difference to him. All were
 
 THE BORROWER AND THE GAMBLER. 87 
 
 well dressed and well educated ; the nursery- 
 maids and the infants went out for their ainnffs 
 
 in a carriage and pair. Mrs. D , gay as a 
 
 Parisian belle, and not without pretensions to 
 beauty, was seen at balls, parties, and every 
 other social amusement. She seemed to have 
 the entree everywhere in the county. All this 
 gi-eatly upset and troubled the old folk, whose 
 heads Frank looked over as he carelessl}?- 
 nodded them good morning driving by. The 
 cottage people from whose ranks his family 
 had so lately risen, however, had a veiy 
 decided opinion upon the subject, and ex- 
 pressed it forcibly. ' 'Pendupon it,' they said, 
 ' 'pend upon it, he have zucked zumbody in 
 zumhow.' 
 
 This unkind conclusion was perhaps not 
 quite true. The fact was, that Frank, aided 
 by circumstances, had discovered the ease 
 with which a man can borrow. That was his 
 secret — his philosopher's stone. To a certain 
 extent, and in certain ways, he really was a 
 clever man, and he had the luck to beirin 
 many years ago when farming was on the 
 ascending side of the cycle. The single solid 
 basis of his success was his thorouu'h know-
 
 88 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 ledge of cattle — his proficiency in dealership. 
 Perhaps this was learnt while assisting his 
 father to drive other folks' pigs to market. 
 At all events, there was no man in the 
 county who so completely understood cattle 
 and sheep, for Ijuying and selling purposes, 
 as Frank. At first he gained his reputation 
 by advising others what and when to buy ; 
 by degrees, as people began to see that he was 
 always right, they felt confidence in him, and 
 assisted him to make small investments on his 
 own account. There were then few auc- 
 tioneers, and cattle were sold in open market. 
 If a man really was a judge, it was as good 
 to him as a reputation for good ale is to an 
 innkeeper. Men flock to a barrel of good ale, 
 no matter whether the inn be low class or 
 high class, j\Ien gather about a good judge 
 of cattle, and will back him up. By degrees 
 
 D managed to rent a small farm, more 
 
 for the purpose of having a place to turn his 
 cattle into than for farming proper — he was, 
 in fact, a small dealer. 
 
 Soon afterwards there was an election. 
 During the election, Frank gained the good 
 will of a local solicitor and jiolitical agent.
 
 THE BORROWER AND THE GA.MBLER. 89 
 
 He proved himself an active and perhaps a 
 discreetly imscrupulons assistant. The soli- 
 citor thought he saw in Frank talent of a cer- 
 tain order — a talent through which he (the soli- 
 citor) might draAv imto himself a sliare of other 
 people's money. The lawyer's judgment of 
 men was as keen as Frank's judgment of 
 cattle. He helped Frank to get into a large 
 farm, advancing the money with which to work 
 it. He ran no risk ; for, of course, he had 
 Frank tight in the grasp of his legal fist, and 
 he was the agent for the landlord. The 
 secret was this — the lawj'^er paid his clients 
 four per cent, for the safe investment of their 
 money. Frank had the money, worked a 
 large farm witli it, and speculated in the cattle 
 markets, and realised some fifteen or perhaps 
 twenty per cent., of which the lawyer took 
 the larger share. Somethino^ of this sort has 
 been done in other businesses besides farminjr. 
 
 &* 
 
 Frank, however, was not the man to remain 
 in a state of tutela2:e, workino- for another. 
 His forte was not saving — simple accumula- 
 tion was not for him ; but he looked round 
 the district to discover those who had saved. 
 Now, it is a fact that no man is so foolish
 
 90 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 with his money as the working farmer in a 
 small way, who has pnt by a little coin. He 
 is extremely careful about a fourpenny piece, 
 and will wrap a sovereign up in several scraps 
 of j)aper lest he should lose it ; but with his 
 hundred or two hundred pounds he is quite 
 helpless. It has very likely occupied him the 
 best part of his lifetime to add one five pound 
 note to another, money most literally earned 
 in the sweat of his brow ; and at last he lends 
 it to a man like Frank, who has the wit to 
 drive a carriage and ride a thoroughbred. 
 With the strange inconsistency so character- 
 istic of human nature, a half-educated, work- 
 ing farmer of this sort will sneer in his rude 
 way at the pretensions of such a man, and at 
 the same time bow down before him. 
 
 Frank knew this instmctively, and, as soon 
 as ever he began to get on, set up a blood-horse 
 and a turn-out. By dint of such vulgar show 
 and his own plausible tongue he persuaded 
 more than one such old fellow to advance him 
 money. Mayhap these confiding persons, like 
 a certain Shallow, J. P., have since earnestly 
 besouofht him in vain to return them five 
 liundred of their thousand. In like manner
 
 THE BORROWER AND THE GAMBLER. 91 
 
 one or two elderly maiden Indies — cunning as 
 magpies in their own conceit — let him have 
 a few spare hundreds. They thought they 
 could lay out this money to better advantage 
 than tlie safe family adviser ' uncle Jolni,' 
 with his talk of the Indian railways and a 
 guaranteed five jier cent. They thought (for 
 awhile) that they had done a very clever thing 
 on the sly in lending their spare hundreds to 
 
 the great Mr. Frank D at a high rate of 
 
 interest, and by this time "would perhaps be 
 glad to get the money back again in the tea- 
 caddy. 
 
 But Frank was not the man to be satisfied 
 with such small game. After a time he suc- 
 ceeded in getting at the ' squire.' The s(pnre 
 had nothing but the rents of his farms to live 
 upon, and was naturally anxious for an im- 
 proving tenant who would lay out money and 
 put capital into the soil. lie was not so 
 foolish as to think that Frank was a safe man, 
 and of course he had legal advice upon the 
 matter. The squire thouglit, in fact, that 
 although Frank himself had no money, Frank 
 could get it out of others, and spend it upon 
 his place. It did not concern the squire
 
 92 HODGE AKD HIS MASTERS. 
 
 where or how Frank got his money, provided 
 he had it — he as landlord was secure in case 
 of a crash, because the law gave him pre- 
 cedence over all other creditors. So Frank 
 ultimately stepped into one of the squire's 
 largest farms and cut a finer dash than ever. 
 
 There are distinct social deg-rees in agji- 
 culture. The man who occupies a great farm 
 under a squire is a person of much more im- 
 portance than he who holds a little tenancy 
 of a small proprietor. Frank began to take 
 the lead among; the farmers of the neio-hbour- 
 hood, to make his appearance at public meet- 
 ings, and to become a recognised politician — of 
 course upon the side most powerful in that 
 locality, and most likely to serve his own in- 
 terest. His assurance, and, it must be owned, 
 his ready wit, helped him in coming to the 
 front. When at the front, he was invited 
 to the houses of really well-to-do country 
 people. They condoned his bluff manners — 
 they were the mark of the true, solid British 
 agriculturist. Some perhaps in their hearts 
 thought that another day they might want a 
 tenant, and this man would serve their turn. 
 As a matter of fact, Frank took every unoc-
 
 THE liOKUOWEK AND TllK GAMBLHK. 1)3 
 
 ciii)ie(l farm wliicli he could get at a tolerably 
 reasonable rent. He never seemed satisfied 
 with tlie acreage he held, l)ut was ever de- 
 sirous of extending it. lie took farm after 
 farm, till at last he held an area equal to a 
 fine estate. For some years there has been a 
 disposition on the part of landlords to throw 
 farms together, making many small ones into 
 one large one. For the time, at all events, 
 Frank seemed to do very well with all these 
 farms to look after. Of course the same old- 
 fashioned folk made ill-natured remarks, and 
 insisted upon it that he merely got what he 
 could out of the soil, and did not care in the 
 least how the farming was done. Neverthe- 
 less, he flourished — the high prices and 
 general inflation of the period playing into 
 his hand. 
 
 Frank was now a very big man, the big- 
 gest man thereabout. And it was now that 
 he began to tap another source of suj)ply — to, 
 as it were, open a fresh cask — i.e. the local 
 bank. At first he only asked for a hundred 
 or so, a mere bagatelle, for a few days — only 
 a temporary convenience. The bank was 
 glad to get hold of what really looked like
 
 94 HODGE AND HIS MASTEES. 
 
 legitimate business, and he obtained the baga- 
 telle in the easiest manner — so easily that it 
 surprised him. He did not himself yet quite 
 know how completely his showy style of life, 
 his large acreage, his speeches, and poHtics, 
 and familiarity with great peoj)le, had im- 
 posed upon the world in which he lived. He 
 now began to realise that he was somebody. 
 He repaid the loan to the day, waited awhile 
 and took a larger one, and from that time the 
 frequency and the amount of his loans went 
 on increasing. 
 
 We have seen m these latter days bank 
 directors bitterly complaming that they could 
 not lend money at more than ^ or even ^ j)er 
 cent., so little demand was there for accom- 
 modation. They positively could not lend 
 their money ; they had millions in their tills 
 unemployed, and practically going a-begging. 
 But here was Frank paymg seven per cent, 
 for short loans, and upon a continually en- 
 larging amount. His system, so far as the 
 seasons were concerned, was something like 
 this. He took a loan (or renewed an old one) 
 at the bank on the security of the first 
 draught of lambs for sale, say, in June. This
 
 THE BORKOWEll AND THE GAMBLER. 95 
 
 paid the labourers and the working expenses 
 of the hay harvest, and of i)reparino- for the 
 corn. He took the next upon the second 
 draught of hunbs in August, which paid the 
 reapers. He took a third on the security of 
 the crops, partly cut, or in process of cutting, 
 for liis Michaelmas rent. Then for the fall of 
 the year he kept on threshmg out and sellmg 
 as he required money, and had enough left to 
 pay for the winter's work. This was Frank's 
 system — the system of too many farmers, far 
 more than would be believed. Details of 
 course vary, and not all, like Frank, need 
 three loans at least in the season to keep 
 them going. It is not every man who mort- 
 gages his lambs, his ewes (the draught from 
 a flock for sale), and the standing crops m 
 succession. 
 
 But of late years farming has been carried 
 on in such an atmosphere of loans, and credit, 
 and percentage, and so forth, that no one 
 knows what is or what is not mortefaired. 
 You see a flock of sheep on a farm, but you 
 do not know to whom they belong. You see 
 the cattle in the meadow, but you do not 
 know who has a lien u])on them. You see
 
 96 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 the farmer upon his thoroughbred, but you 
 do not know to whom in reality the horse 
 belongs. It is all loans and debt. The ven- 
 dors of artificial manure are said not to be 
 averse sometimes to make an advance on 
 reasonable terms to those enterprising and 
 deserving farmers who grow so many tons of 
 roots, and win the silver cups, and so on, for 
 the hugest mangold grown with their par- 
 ticular manure. The proprietors of the milk- 
 walks in London are said to advance money 
 to the struggling dairymen who send them 
 their milk. And latterly the worst of usurers 
 have found out the farmers — i.e. the men who 
 advance on bills of sale of furniture, and sell 
 up the wretched client who does not pay to 
 the hour. Upon such bills of sale English 
 farmers have been borrowing money, and 
 with the usual disastrous results. In fact, 
 till the disastrous results became so consj^i- 
 cuous, no one guessed that the farmer had 
 descended so far. Yet, it is a fact, and a sad 
 one. 
 
 All the while the tradespeople of the mar- 
 ket-towns — the very people who have made 
 the loudest outcry about the depression and
 
 THE BORROWEli AND THE GAMBLER. 97 
 
 tlie losses they have sustained — these very 
 people have been pressing their goods upon 
 the farmers, "whom tlioy must have known 
 were many of them liardly able to pay their 
 rents. Those who have not seen it cannot 
 imagine wliat a struggle and competition has 
 been going on in little places where one would 
 think the very word was unknown, just tc 
 persuade the farmer and tlie farmer's family 
 to accept credit. But there is another side 
 to it. The same tradesman who to-day begs 
 — positively begs — the farmer to take his 
 goods on any terms, in six months' time 
 sends his l)ill, and, if it ])e not i)aid imme- 
 diately, puts the County Court machinery in 
 motion. 
 
 Now this to the old-fashioned farmer is 
 a very bitter thing. lie lias never had the 
 least experience of the County Court ; his 
 family never were sued for debt since they 
 can remember. They have always been used 
 to a year's credit at least — often two, and 
 even three. To he threatened with public 
 exposure in the County Court because a little 
 matter of five pounds ten is not sottUnl in- 
 stantly is bitter indeed. And to be sued 
 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 98 HODGE AXD HIS MASTERS. 
 
 SO arbitrarily by the very tradesman who 
 almost stuffed his goods down their throats is 
 more bitter still. 
 
 Frank D , Esq.'s coarse grandeur an- 
 swered very well indeed so long as prices were 
 high. While the harvests were large and the 
 markets mflated ; while cattle fetched good 
 money ; while men's hearts were full of mirth 
 — all went well. It is whispered now that 
 the grand Frank has secretly borrowed 25/. 
 of a little cottage shopkeeper in the adjacent 
 villa o'c — a man who sells farthmij: candles and 
 ounces of tea — to pay his reapers. It is also 
 currently whispered that Frank is the only 
 man really safe, for the foUowmg reason — 
 they are all ' m ' so deep they find it ne- 
 cessary to keep him going. The squire is 
 'in,' the bank is ' m,' the lawyer is 'in,' the 
 small farmers with two hundred pomids capi- 
 tal are ' m,' and the elderly ladies who took 
 their bank-notes out of their tea-caddies are 
 ' in.' That is to say, Mr. Frank owes them 
 so much money that, rather than he should 
 come to grief (when they must lose pretty 
 well all), they prefer to keep him afloat. It 
 is a noticeable fact, that Frank is the only man
 
 TITK HOimOWKlt AND THE GAMBLER. 1)9 
 
 Avho has not raised his voice and shouted 
 ' Depression.' Perhaps the squire tliinks 
 that so repellent a note, if struck by a leading 
 man like Frank, might not be to his mterest, 
 and has conveyed that thought to the gentle- 
 man in the doo:-cart with the "Toom behind. 
 There are, however, various species of the 
 facade farmer. 
 
 ' What kind of agriculture is practised 
 here ? ' the visitor from town naturally asks 
 his host, as they stroll towards the turnips 
 (in another district), with shouldered guns. 
 
 ' Oh, you had better see Mr. X ,' is the 
 
 reply. ' He is our leading agriculturist ; he'll 
 tell you all about it.' Everybody repeats the 
 
 same story, and once Mr. X 's name is 
 
 started everybody talks of him. The squire, 
 the clergyman — even in casually calling at 
 a shop in the market town, or at the hotel 
 (there are few inns now) — wherever he goes 
 
 the visitor hears from all of Mr. X . A 
 
 successful man — most successful, progressive, 
 scientific, intellectual. ' Like to see him ? 
 Nothing easier. Introduction ? Nonsense. 
 Why he'd be delighted to see you. Come 
 with me.' 
 
 h2
 
 100 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 Protesting feebly against intruding on 
 privacy, the visitor is hurried away, and ex- 
 pecting to meet a solid, sturdy, and somewhat 
 gruff old gentleman of tlie John Bull type, 
 endeavours to hunt up some ideas about short- 
 horns and bacon pigs. He is a little astonished 
 upon entering the pleasure grounds to see one 
 or more gardeners 1:>usy among the parterres 
 and shrubberies, the rhododendrons, the cedar 
 deodaras, the laurels, the pampas grass, the 
 ' carpet gardening ' l^eds, and the glass of 
 distant hot-houses c^litterino- in the sun. A 
 carriage and pair, being sloT^ly driven by a 
 man in livery from the door down to the ex- 
 tensive stabling, passes — clearly some of the 
 family have just returned. On ringing, the 
 callers are shown through a spacious hall with 
 a bronze or two on the marble table, into a 
 drawing-room, elegantly furnished. There is 
 .a short iron grand open with a score care- 
 lessly left by the last player, a harp in the 
 corner, half hidden by the curtains, some 
 pieces of Nankin china on the side tables. 
 
 Where are the cow-sheds ? Lookino- out 
 of window a level lawn extends, and on it 
 two young gentlemen are playing tennis, in
 
 THE BORROWER AND THE GAMBLER. 101 
 
 appropriate custuiue. The luljoured platitudes 
 that had been prepared about shorthorns and 
 bacon pigs are quite forgotten, and tlie visitor 
 is just about to risk tlie question if his guide 
 has not missed the farm-liouse and called at 
 
 the squire's, when Mr. X comes briskly 
 
 in, and laughs all apology about intrusion to 
 the winds in his i>'enial manner. He insists 
 on his friends taking some refreshment, will 
 not take refusal ; and such is the power of his 
 vivacity, that they find themselves sipping 
 Madeira and are pressed to cnmo and dine in 
 the evening, before one at least knows exactly 
 where he is. ' Just a homely spread, you 
 know ; pot -luck ; a bit of fish and a glass of 
 Moet ; now do come.' This curious mixture 
 of bluft' cordiality, with unexpected snatches 
 
 of refinement, is Mr. X 's o-reat charm. 
 
 ' Style of farming ; tell you with pleasure.' 
 [Rings the bell.] ' John ' (to the man ser- 
 vant), ' take this key and bring me account 
 book Xo. 6 B, Copse Farm ; that will be the 
 best way to begin.' 
 
 If the visitor knows anything of country 
 life, he cannot help recollecting that, if the 
 old tyjic of farmer was close and mysterious
 
 102 HODGE AND IIIS MASTEES. 
 
 about anything, it was his accounts. Not a 
 word could be got out of him of profit or loss, 
 or revenue ; he would barely tell you his rent 
 per acre, and it was doubtful if liis very wife 
 ever saw his pass-book. Opening account 
 book I^o. 6 B, the exj^lanation proceeds. 
 
 ' My system of agriculture is simplicity 
 itself, sir. It is all founded on one beautiful 
 commercial precept. Our friends round about 
 here [with a wave of the hand, indicating the 
 country side] — our old folks — whenever they 
 got a guinea put it out of sight, made a hoard, 
 hid it in a stocking, or behind a brick m the 
 chimney. Ha ! ha ! Consequently their ope- 
 rations were always restricted to the same 
 identical locality — no scope, sir, no expansion. 
 Now my plan is — invest every penny. Make 
 every shilling inij for the use of half a crown, 
 and turn the half-crown into seven and six- 
 pence. Credit is the soul of business. There 
 you have it. Simplicity itself. Here are the 
 books ; see for yourself. I publish my balance 
 half-yearly — like a company. Then the public 
 see what you are doing. The earth, sir, as I 
 said at tlie dinner the other day (the idea was 
 mucli ap[)lauded), the earth is like the Bank of
 
 THE BOIllJOWEll AND THE GAMBLEll. 103 
 
 England — you may draw on it to any extent ; 
 there's always a reserve to meet yon. Yon 
 l^ositively can't overdraw tlie acconiit. Yon 
 see there's such a solid seenrity iK'liiiid vou. 
 The fact is, T bring commercial })rin(:'iples into 
 agriculture ; the result is, grand success. How- 
 ever, here's the book ; just glance over tlic 
 fio'ures.' 
 
 Tlic said figures utterly bewilder the visi- 
 tor, A\]i() in courtesy runs his eye from top to 
 bottom of the lonii' columns — farmino; accounts 
 are really the most complicated that can be 
 imagined — so he, meantime, while turning 
 over the pages, mentally absorbs the per- 
 sonality of the commercial agriculturist. He 
 sees a tall, thin farmer, a brown face and 
 neck, long restless sinewy hands, perpetually 
 twiddlintr with a ciii"ar or a irold iiencil-case — 
 generally the cigar, or rather the extinct stump 
 of it, which he every now and then sucks 
 abstractedly, in total oblivion as to its condi- 
 tion. Ills dress would pass nnister in towns 
 — well cut. and probably from llond Street. 
 He affects a frock and hii>li hat one dav. and 
 knickerbockers and sun helmet the next. His 
 pockets are full of papers, letters, c^-c., and as
 
 10-4 HODGE AND HIS :\rASTERS. 
 
 he searches amid tlie mass for some memoran- 
 dum to show, glimpses may be seen of certain 
 oblong strips of blue paper with an impressed 
 stamp. 
 
 ' A^ry satisfactory,' says the visitor, hand- 
 back No. G B ; • may I inquire how many 
 acres you occupy ? ' 
 
 Out comes a note-book. ' Hum I There's a 
 thousand down in the vale, and fifteen hun- 
 dred upland, and the new place is about nine 
 hundred, and the meadows — I've mislaid the 
 meadows — but it's near about four thousand. 
 Different holdino's, of course. Great nuisance 
 that, sir ; transit, you see, costs money. City 
 gentlemen know that. Absurd system in this 
 country — the land parcelled out in little allot- 
 ment o-ardens of two or three hundred acres. 
 Why, there's a little paltry hundred and twenty 
 acre freehold dairy farm lies between my vale 
 and upland, and the fellow won't let my wag- 
 gons or plouglmig-tackle take the short cut. 
 Ridiculous. Time it was altered, sir. Shoot- 
 ing ? Why, yes ; I have the shooting. Glad 
 if you'd come over.' 
 
 Then more Madeira, and after it a stroll 
 throuo-h the orardens and shrubberies and down
 
 TIIK ROHROWER AND TIIK GAMBLE1{. 105 
 
 to the sheds, a mile, or nearly, distant. Tliere, 
 a somewhat confused vision of ' ij;rand short- 
 liorns,' and an inexplicable jumble of ])edi- 
 ffrees, m-and-dams, and ' o:-<j:-i'--o:-S''-"'-dams,' as 
 the catalogues liave it ; handsome hunters 
 paraded, steam-engines pumping water, steam- 
 engines slicing up roots, distant columns of 
 smoke where steam-engines are tearing up the 
 soil. All the while a scientific disquisition on 
 ammonia and tlie constituent parts and ])roba- 
 ble value of town sewage as compared with 
 guano. And at intervals, and at parting, a 
 pressing invitation to dinner [when pine- 
 apples or hot-house grapes are certain to 
 make tlieir a})pearance at dessert] — such a 
 flow of genial eloquence surely was never 
 heard before! 
 
 It requires a week at least of cjdm reflec- 
 tion, and many questions to his host, before 
 the visitor — quite carried away — can begin to 
 arrange his ideas, and to come slowly to the 
 
 opinion that though Mr. X is as open as 
 
 the day and frank to a fault, it will take hiui 
 a precious long time to get to the bottom of 
 
 Mr. X 's system ; that is to say, if there 
 
 is any bottom at all to it.
 
 106 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 Mr. X is, in brief, a gambler. Not in 
 
 a dishonest, or even snspicious sense, but a 
 pure gambler. He is a gigantic agricultural 
 speculator ; his system is, as he candidly told 
 you, credit. Credit not only Trith the bank, 
 but with everybody. He has actually been 
 making use of you, his casual and unexpected 
 visitor, as an instrument. You are certain to 
 talk about him ; the more he is talked of the 
 better, it gives him a reputation, which is be- 
 li'innino' to mean a o-reat deal in ao-riculture as 
 it has so long in other pursuits. You are 
 sure to tell everybody who ever chooses to 
 converse with you about the country of Mr. 
 
 X , and Mr. X 's engines, cattle, 
 
 horses, profase hospitality, and progressive 
 science. 
 
 To be socially popular is a part of his 
 system ; he sows corn among society as freely 
 as over his land, and looks to some grains to 
 take root, and bring him increase a hundred- 
 fold, as indeed they do. Whatever movement 
 is originated in the neighbourhood finds him 
 occupying a prominent position. He goes to 
 London as the representative of the local 
 agricultural cbaml)er ; perhaps waits upon a
 
 THE BORKOWEB AND THE GAMBLER. 107 
 
 Cabiuet ^Minister as oiie uf the. (leputiition. He 
 speaks regularly at the local chamber meet- 
 ings ; his name is ever in the papers. The 
 press are invited to inspect his farms, and are 
 fnrnished with minute details. Every now 
 and then a sketcli of his life and doings, per- 
 haps illustrated with a portrait, appears in 
 some agricultural periodical. At certain sea- 
 sons of the year parties of gentlemen are con- 
 ducted over his place. In j)ar()ehlal or district 
 matters he is a leading man. 
 
 Is it a cottage flower-show, a penny read- 
 ing, a cricket club, a benefit society — it does 
 not matter what, his subscriptions, his name, 
 and his voice are heard in it. He is the life 
 and soul of it ; the energy comes from him, 
 though others lilgher in the scale niay be the 
 nominal lieads. And the nominal heads, 
 knowing that he can be relied u})on politically, 
 are grateful, and give him their good word 
 freely. He hunts, and is a welcome com- 
 l)anion — the meet frecpiently takes place at his 
 house, or some of the huntsmen call for lunch; 
 in fact, the latter is an invarial)le thing. 
 |]verybody calls for lunch wlio hap})ens to 
 pass near any day ; the house has a reputation
 
 108 iiodgp: and his masters. 
 
 for hospitality. He is the clergyman's right 
 hand — as in manaoino; the school committee. 
 When the bishop comes to the confirmation, 
 he is introduced as ' my chief lay supporter.' 
 At the Rural Diaconal Conference, ' my chief 
 supporter ' is one of the lay speakers. Thus 
 he obtains every man's good word whose good 
 word is worth anything. Social credit means 
 commercial credit. Yet he is not altogether 
 acting a part — he really likes taking the lead 
 and pushing forward, and means a good deal 
 of what he says. 
 
 He is especially quite honest in his hos- 
 pitality. All the same, so far as business is 
 concerned, it is pure gambling, which may 
 answer very well in favourable times, but is 
 not unlikely to end in failure should the strain 
 of depression become too severe. Personal 
 popularity, however, will tide him over a great 
 deal. When a man is spoken highly of by 
 gentry, clergy, literally everybody, the bank is 
 remarkably acconnnodating. Such a man may 
 get for his bare signature — almost pressed 
 on him, as if his acceptance of it were a 
 favour — what another would have to deposit 
 solid security for.
 
 TIIK liOIillOWKll AND TllK UAMliLKU. iUlJ 
 
 In plain lani;-uag'e, he ])orrows money and 
 invests it in every possible way. His farms 
 are simply the basis of his credit. He buys 
 blood shorthorns, he buys blood horses, and 
 he sells them again. lie buys wheat, hay, 
 &c., to dispose of them at a profit. If he 
 chose, he could explain to you the meaning 
 of contango, and even of that mysterious term 
 to the uninitiated, ' backwardation.' His 
 speculations for the ' account ' are sometimes 
 heavy. So much so, that occasionally, with 
 thousands invested, he has hardly any ready 
 money. But, then, there are the crops ; he 
 can get money on the coming crops. There 
 is, too, the live stock — money can be bor- 
 rowed on the stock. 
 
 Here lies the secret reason of the dread of 
 foreign cattle disease. The increase of our 
 flocks and herds is, of course, a patriotic cry 
 (and founded on fact) ; but the secret pinch 
 is this — if foot and mouth, pleuro-pneumonia, 
 or rinderpest threaten the stock, the tenant- 
 farmer cannot borrow on that security. 
 The local bankers shake their heads — three 
 cases of rinderpest are equivalent to a 
 reduction of 25 per cent, in the borrowing
 
 110 IIODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 power of the agriculturist. The auctioneers 
 and our friend have large transactions — 
 ' paper ' here again. With certain members 
 of the hunt he books bets to a high amount ; 
 his face is not unknown at Tattersall's, or at 
 the race-meetings. But he does not flourish 
 the betting-book in the face of society. He 
 bets — and holds his tongue. Some folks have 
 an ancient and foolish prejudice against bet- 
 ting ; he respects smcere convictions. 
 
 Far and away he is the best fellow, the most 
 pleasant company in the shire, always wel- 
 come everywhere. He has read widely, is well 
 educated ; but, above all, he is ever jolly, and 
 his jollity is contagious. Despite his invest- 
 ments and speculations, his brow never wears 
 that sombre aspect of gloomy care, that knitted 
 concentration of wrinkles seen on the face of 
 the City man, who goes daily to his ' office.' 
 The out-of-door bluffness, the cheery ringmg 
 voice, and the upright form only to be gained 
 in the saddle over the breezy uplands, cling to 
 him still. He wakes everybody up, and, risky 
 as perhaps some of his speculations are, is 
 socially enlivening. 
 
 The two young gentlemen, by-the-bye,
 
 'J UK iJomiowEU and the ua.mblek. Ill 
 
 observed playing lawn-tennis from the draA^•- 
 ing-rooni window, are two of his pnpils. 
 whose high preniiiinis and payments assist to 
 keep up the free and generous table, and who 
 find fanning a very pleasant profession. The 
 most striking characteristic of their tutor is 
 his Yankee-like fertility of resource and bold 
 innovations — the very antipodes of the old 
 style of ' clod-compeller.'
 
 112 IIODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 AN AGPvICULTUEAL GENIUS — OLD STYLE. 
 
 TowAEDS the hour of noon Harry Hodson, of 
 Upcourt Farm, was slowly ascendmg the long 
 slope that led to his dwellmg. In his left 
 hand he carried a hare, which swung slightly 
 to and fro as he stepped out, and the black- 
 tipped ears rubbed now and then against a 
 bunch of grass. His double-barrel was under 
 his right arm. Every day at the same hour 
 Harry turned towards home, for he adhered to 
 the ways of his fathers and dined at half-past 
 twelve, except when the stress of harvest, or 
 some important agTicultural operation, dis- 
 turbed the usual household arrangements. It 
 was a beautiful October day, sunny and almost 
 still, and, as he got on the high ground, he 
 paused and looked round. The stubbles 
 stretched far away on one side, where the 
 country rose and fell in undulations. On the
 
 AN AGUICULTUHAL GENIUS OLD SiVLK. 11;) 
 
 distant horizon a column of smoke, broack'ninu" 
 at the to}), Kfted itself into the sky ; lie knew 
 it was from the funnel of a steam-plough, 
 M'hose furnace had just been replenished witli 
 coal. The apjiearance of the smoke somewhat 
 resembled that left 1)y a steauici- at sea when 
 the vessel is just below the horizon. On the 
 other hand were wooded meadows, where the 
 rooks were cawin"- — some in the oaks, some 
 as they wheeled round in the air. Just be- 
 neatli him stood a row of wheat ricks — his 
 own. His gaze hnally rested upon their conical 
 roofs with satisfaction, and lie then resumed 
 his walk. 
 
 Even as he moved he seemed to bask in 
 the sunshine ; the sunshine pouring down from 
 the sky above, the material sunshine of the 
 goodly wheat ricks, and the physical sunshine 
 of personal health and vigour. His walk was 
 the walk of a strong, pros])erous man — each 
 step long, steady, and iirm, but (piite devoid 
 of haste. He was, perhaps, forty years of age, 
 in the very prime of life, and thougli stooping 
 a little, like so many countrymen, very tall, 
 and built i>roportionately broad across the 
 shoulders and chest. His features were hand- 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 IIODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 some — perhaps there was a trace of indolence 
 in their good-hiimonred expression — and he 
 had a thick black beard j ast marked with one 
 thin wavy line of grey. That trace of snow, 
 if anything, rather added to the manlmess of 
 his aspect, and conveyed the impression that 
 he was at the fulness of life when youth and 
 experience meet. If anything, indeed, he 
 looked too comfortable, too placid. A little 
 ambition, a little restlessness. Avould perhaps 
 have been good for him. 
 
 By degrees he got nearer to the house 5 but 
 it was by degrees only, for he stayed to look 
 over every gate, and up into almost every tree. 
 He stopped to listen as his ear caught the 
 sound of hoof-< on the distant road, and agam 
 at the faint noise of a gun fired a mile away. 
 At the corner of a field a team of horses — his 
 own — were restmcf awhile as the carter and 
 his lad ate their luncheon. Harry stayed to 
 talk to the man, and yet again at the barn 
 door to speak to his men at work withhi with 
 the winnowino- machme. The homestead 
 stood on an eminence, but was hidden by elms 
 and sycamores, so that it was possible to pass 
 at a distance without observing it.
 
 AN AGKICULTUUAL GENIUS — ol.D STYLE. 115 
 
 Oji entt'i'inir the sittinii:-room Harry leaned 
 liis oun jiu'ninst the wall in the an^'le between 
 it and the l)ureaii, from Avhich action alone it 
 niiglit ha\e been known that he was a bachelor, 
 and that there were no children about the 
 house to o'et into dani-'er with fire-arms. His 
 elderly aunt, who acted as housekeeper, was 
 already at table waiting for him. It was 
 spread with a snow-white cloth, and almost 
 equally snow-white platter for bread — so much 
 and so well was it cleaned. They ate home- 
 baked bread ; they were so many miles from a 
 town or baker that it was difficult to i>et served 
 regularly, ji circumstance which preserved that 
 wholesome institution. There was a chine of 
 bacon, small ale. and a plentiful supply of 
 good potatoes. The farmer did full justice 
 to the sweet })icking off the chine, and then 
 lingered over an old cheese. Very few words 
 were spoken. 
 
 Then, after his dinner, he sat in his arm- 
 chair — the same that he had used for many 
 years — and took a book. For Harry rather 
 enjoyed a book, provided it was not too neAv. 
 He read works of science, thirty years old, 
 solid and correct, but somewhat behind the 
 
 I -1
 
 116 HODGE AND HIS ma.8ti:es. 
 
 age ; he read histories, such as were eurrent 
 in the early part of tlie present century, but 
 none of a later date than the end of the wars 
 of the First Napoleon. The only thing modern 
 he cared for in Hteratnre was a ' society ' 
 journal, sent weekly from London. These 
 publications are widely read in the better class 
 of farmsteads now. Harry knew something 
 of most things, even of geology. He could 
 show you the huge vertebra3 of some extinct 
 saurian, found A\'liile drjiinino; was beino- done. 
 He knew enough of archaeology to be able to tell 
 any enthusiastic student who chanced to come 
 alono; where to find the tumuli and the earth- 
 works on the Downs. He had several lloman 
 coins, and a fine bronze spearhead, which had 
 been found upon the farm. These were kept 
 with care, and produced to visitors with pride. 
 Harry really did possess a wide fund of solid, 
 if quiet, knowledge. Presently, after reading 
 a chapter or two, he would drop of into a 
 siesta, till some messaii'e came from the men 
 or the bailiff, askini>: for instructions. 
 
 The farmstead was, in fact, a mansion of 
 larG:e size, an old manor-house, and had it been 
 situate near a fashionable suburb and been
 
 AN AUiaCLLTLUAL UKML.S OLD hTYLi:. 117 
 
 placed ill repair would have been worth t(j let 
 as much ])er annum as the rent of a small 
 larm. liiil it stood in a singularly lonely and 
 outlying position, far from any village of size, 
 much less a town, and the very highway even 
 was so distant that you could only hear the 
 horse's hoofs when the current of air came 
 from that direction. This was his aunt's — 
 the housekeeper's — g'reat com})laint, the dis- 
 tance to the highway. She grumbled because 
 she could not see the carriers' carts and the 
 teams go by ; she wanted to know what was 
 ji;oin2: on. 
 
 Harry, however, seemed contented with 
 the placi<l calm of the vast house that was 
 practically cuipty, and rarely left it, except 
 for his regular weekly visit to market. After 
 the fashion of a thoroughbred farmer he was 
 often rather late home on market nights. 
 There were three brothers, all in farms, and 
 all well to do ; the other t^V() were married, 
 and Harry was finely })lagued about being a 
 bachelor, liut the placid life at the old place 
 — he hatl succeeded to his father — somehow 
 seemed to content him. He had visitors at 
 Christmas, he read his books of winter even-
 
 118 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 ino's and after dinner : in autumn he strolled 
 round with liis double-barrel and knocked over 
 a hare or so, and so slumbere'l away the days. 
 But he never neglected the fanning — every- 
 thmg was done almost exactly as it had been 
 done by his father. 
 
 Old Harry Hodson was in his time one of 
 the characters of that country side. He was 
 the true founder of the Hodson family. They 
 had been yeomen in a small way for genera- 
 tions, farming little holdings, and workmg 
 like labourers, plodding on, and never heard 
 of outside their fifty-acre farms. So they 
 might liave continued till this day had not 
 old Harry Hodson arose to be the genius — 
 the verv Xapoleon — of farmino- in tlmt district. 
 When the present Harry, the younger, had a 
 visitor to his taste — I.e. one who was not in 
 a hurry — he would, in the evening, pull out 
 the books and papers and letters of his late 
 father from the bureau (beside which stood 
 the gun), and explain how the money was 
 made. The logs crackled and sparkled on 
 the hearth, the lamp burnt clear and bright ; 
 there was a low singing sound in the chimney; 
 the elderly aunt nodded and w^orked in her
 
 AN AGRICULTUKAL GENIUS — OLD STYLE. 119 
 
 nriH-chair, and woke np and mixed fresh 
 spirits and water, and went <jfF to sleep 
 again ; and still Harry would sit and smoke 
 and sip and talk. I)y and by, the aunt would 
 wish the visitor good night, draw up the 
 clock, and depart, after mixmg fresh tumblers 
 and casting more l(\gs upon the fire, for well 
 she knew her ne})hew's ways. Harry was no 
 tippler, he never got mtoxicated ; but he 
 would sit and smoke and sip and talk with a 
 friend, and tell him all about it till the white 
 daylight came peeping through the chinks in 
 the shutters. 
 
 Old Harry Hodson, tlicn, made the money, 
 and put two of his sons in large farms, ;nid 
 paid all their expenses, so rliat they started 
 fair, besides leavino; his own farm to the third. 
 Old Harry Hodson made the money, yet he 
 could not have done it had he not married the 
 exact woman. AVomen have made the for- 
 tunes of Emperors by their advice and assist- 
 ance, and the greatest men rlie Avorld has 
 seen have OAvned that their success was owing 
 to feminine counsel. In like manner a woman 
 made the policy of an obscure farmer a suc- 
 cess. AVhen the old irentleman ben'an to .u^et
 
 120 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 well to do, and when he found his teeth not 
 so strong as of yore, and liis palate less able to 
 face the coarse, fat, yellowy bacon that then 
 formed the staple of the household fare, he 
 actually ventured so far as to have one jomt 
 of butcher's meat, generally a leg of mutton, 
 once a week. It was cooked for Sunday, and, 
 so far as that kmd of meat was concerned, 
 lasted till the next Sunday. But his wife 
 met this extravagant innovation with furious 
 opposition. It was sheer waste ; it was some- 
 thing almost unpardonably prodigal. They 
 had eaten bacon all their lives, often bacon 
 with the bristles thick upon it, and to throw 
 away mone}^ like this was positively wicked. 
 However, the old gentleman, bemg stubborn 
 as a horse-nail, persisted ; the wife, still grumb- 
 ling, calmed down ; and the one joint of meat 
 became an institution. Harrv, the youngfer, 
 still kept it up ; but it had lost its signifi- 
 cance in his day, for he had a fowl or two m 
 the week, and a hare or a partridge, and, be- 
 sides, had the choicest hams. 
 
 Now, this dispute between the old gentle- 
 man and his wife — this dispute as to which 
 should be most parsimonious — was typical of
 
 AX AGUICULTURAL GENIUS OLD STVLi:. 121 
 
 their -whole course of lite. If one saved 
 cheese-parin<»'s, the other would go ^^•itllout 
 cheese at all. and be content with dry bread. 
 They lived, indeed, harder than their own 
 labourers, and it sometimes happened that the 
 food they thought good enough was refused 
 by a cottager. AVhen a strange carter, or 
 shepherd, or other labourer came to the lioute 
 from a chstance, perhai)s with a waggon for a 
 load of produce or witli some shee}), it was 
 the custom to give them some lunch. These 
 men, unaccustomed even in their own cottages 
 to such coarse food, often declined to eat it, 
 and went away empty, but not before deliver- 
 ing their opinion of the fare, expressed in 
 language of the rudest kind. 
 
 No economy was too small for old Hodson ; 
 in the house his wife did almost all the work. 
 Now-a-days a farmer's house alone keeps the 
 women of one, or even two, cottages fully en> 
 ployed. The Avashing is sent out, and occupies 
 one cottage woman the best i)art of her spare 
 time. Other women come in to do the extra 
 work, the cleaning up and scouring, and so on. 
 The expense of employing these women is not 
 great ; but still it is an expense. Old Mrs.
 
 122 HODGE AND HIS MASTEKS. 
 
 Hodson did eveiytliing herself, and the child- 
 ren roughed it how they could, playing in the 
 mire with tlie pigs and geese. Afterwards, 
 when old Hodson began to get a little money, 
 they were sent to a school in a market town. 
 There they certainly did pick up the rudi- 
 ments, but lived almost as hard as at home. 
 Old Hodson, to give an mstance of his me- 
 thod, would not even fatten a pig, because it 
 cost a trifle of ready money for ' toppings,' 
 or meal, and nothing on earth could induce 
 hhn to part with a com that he had once 
 grasped. He never fattened a pig (meaning 
 for sale), but sold the young porkers dii'ectly 
 they were large enough to fetch a sovereign 
 a-piece, and kept the money. 
 
 The same system was carried on through- 
 out the farm. The one he then occupied was 
 of small extent, and he did a very large pro- 
 portion of the work liimself. He did not 
 purchase stock at all in the modern sense ; he 
 grew them. If he went to a sale he bought 
 one or two despicable-looking cattle at the 
 lowest price, drove them home, and let them 
 gradually gather condition. The grass they 
 ate grew almost as they ate it — in his own
 
 AN AGRICULTURAL GENIUS OLD STYLE. 123 
 
 words, ' Tlicy cut their own victuals ' — i.e. 
 witli their teeth. lie did not iniss the m-ass 
 l)lades, l)ut had he paid a liigh price then he 
 would have missed the money. 
 
 Here he was in direct conflict with modern 
 farminii'. The theory of the farming of the 
 present day is that time is money, and, ac- 
 cordinii' to this, Hodson made a "Teat mistake. 
 He should have given a high price for his 
 stock, have paid for cake, &c., and fattened 
 them up as fast as possible, and then realised. 
 The logic is correct, and in any business or 
 manufiicture could not be gainsaid. Jjut Hod- 
 son did just the reverse. He did not mind 
 his cattle takino; a little time to "-et into con- 
 dition, provided they cost him no ready money. 
 Theoretically, the grass they ate represented 
 money, and might have been converted to a 
 better use. But in practice the reverse came 
 true. He succeeded, and other men failed. 
 His cattle and his sheep, which he bought 
 cheap and out of condition, quietly improved 
 (time being no object), and he sold them at a 
 profit, from which there wore no long bills to 
 deduct for cake. 
 
 He purchased no machinery whilst in this
 
 124 IIODGK AND HLS MASTERS. 
 
 small place — wliicli was chiefly grass land — 
 with the exception of a second-hand hay- 
 making machine. The money he made he 
 put ont at interest on mortgage of real pro- 
 perty, and it hronght in about -1 per cent. 
 It was said that in some few cases where 
 the security was good he lent it at a much 
 higher rate to other farmers of twenty times 
 the outward show. After a while he went 
 into the great farm now occupied by his son 
 Harry, and commenced operations without 
 borroAvino- a sinf^le shillin";. The reason was 
 because he was in no hurry. He slowly grew 
 his money in the little farm, and then, and 
 not till then, essayed the greater. Even then 
 he would not have ventured had not the cir- 
 cumstances been peculiarly favourable. Like 
 the present, it was a time of depression gene- 
 rally, and in this particular case the former 
 tenant had lived high and formed bad. The 
 land was in the worst possible state, the land- 
 lord could not let it, and Hodson was given 
 to understand that he could have it for next 
 to nothing at first. 
 
 Xow it was at this crisis of his life that 
 he showed that in his own sphere he possessed
 
 AN A(iKlCULTUUAL GKXIUS OLD STVLK. 125 
 
 the true attribute of irenius. Most uien wlio 
 liad practised rii-id economy for twenty years, 
 whose hours, and days, and weeks had been 
 occupied with Uttle petty details, how to save 
 a penny liere and a fourpennj^ bit yonder, 
 wouhl have become fossilised in the process. 
 Their minds would have l)ecome as narrow as 
 their ways. They Avoidd have shrunk from 
 any venture, and continued in the old course 
 to the end of their time. 
 
 Old Hods(m, mean to the last degree hi 
 his way of living, narrow to the narrc^west 
 point where sixpence could be got, neverthe- 
 less had a mind. He saw that his opportunity 
 had come, and he struck. He took the great 
 corn farm, and left his little place. The whole 
 country side at once pronounced him mad, 
 and naturally anticipated his failure. The 
 country side did not yet understand two 
 things. They did not know how much money 
 he had saved, and they did not know the 
 capacity of his mind. He had not only saved 
 money, and judiciously invested it, but he 
 had kept it a profound secret, because he 
 feared if his landlord learnt that lie was 
 saving money so fast the rent of the little
 
 126 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 farm would have been speedily raised. Here. 
 again, he was m direct conflict with the modern 
 farmer. The modern man, if he has a good 
 harvest or makes a profit, at once buys a ' turn- 
 out,' and grand furniture, and in every way 
 ' exalts his gate.' When landlords saw their 
 tenants living in a style but little inferior to 
 that they themselves kept up, it was not 
 really very surprismg that the rents a few 
 years back began to rise so rapidly. In a 
 measure tenants had themselves to blame for 
 that upward movement. 
 
 Old Hodson carried his money to a lono- 
 distance from home to invest, so anxious was 
 he that neither his landlord nor any one else 
 should know how quickly he was getting rich. 
 So he entered upon his new venture — the 
 gTcat upland farm, with its broad cornfields, 
 its expanse of sheep walk and down, its 
 meadows in the hollow, its copses (the copses 
 alone almost as bio^ as his oriodnal holdhio-) 
 with plenty of money m his pocket, and 
 without being beholden to bank or lawyer for 
 a single groat. Men thought that the size of 
 the place, the big manor-house, and so on, 
 would turn his head. Nothing of the kind ;
 
 AN AGRICULTUUAL GEXIUS — OLD STYLK. 127 
 
 he proceeded as cautiously and prudently as 
 previously. He began by degrees. Instead of 
 investing some thousand pounds in implements 
 and machinery at a smgic swoo}), instead of 
 purchasmg three hundred sheep right off with 
 a single cheque, he commenced with one thmg 
 at a time. In this coiu'se he was favoured by 
 the condition of the land, and by the condi- 
 tions of the agreement. lie got it, as it were, 
 gi-adually into cultivation, not all at once ; he 
 o'ot his stock too-ether, a score or two at a 
 time, as he felt they would answer. By the 
 year the landlord was to have the full rent 
 the new tenant was quite able to pay it, and 
 did pay it without hesitation at the very 
 honr it was due. He bought verj^ little 
 machinery, nothmg but what was absolutely 
 necessary — no expensive steam-plough. His 
 one great idea was still the same, i.e. spend 
 no money. 
 
 Yet he was not bigoted or prejudiced to 
 the customs of his ancestors — another proof 
 that he was a man of mind. Hodson foresaw, 
 before he had been long at U^'court Farm, 
 that corn was not o-oinsx in future to be so all 
 in all important as it had been. As he said
 
 128 iiODGE a>:d his masters. 
 
 himself, ' We must go to our flocks now for our 
 rent, and not to our l^arn doors.' His aim, 
 therefore, became to farm into and through 
 his flock, and it paid him welL Here was a 
 man at once economical to the verge of mean- 
 ness, prudent to the edge of timidity, yet 
 capable of venturing when he saw his chance ; 
 and above all, when that venture succeeded, 
 capable of still living on bacon and bread and 
 cheese, and putting the money by. 
 
 In his earlier days Hodson was as close of 
 speech as of expenditure, and kept his pro- 
 ceedings a profound secret. As he grew older 
 and took less active exercise — the son resident 
 at home carrying out his instructions — he 
 became more garrulous and liked to talk about 
 his system. The chief topic of his discourse 
 was that a farmer in his day paid but one rent, 
 to the landlord, whereas now, on the modern 
 ])lan, he paid eight rents, and sometimes nine. 
 First, of course, the modern farmer paid his 
 landlord (1); next he paid the seedsman (2); 
 then the manure manufacturer (3); the imple- 
 ment manufacturer (4) ; the auctioneer (5); 
 the railroad, for transit (6) ; the banker, for 
 short loans (7) ; [the lawyer or wlioever
 
 AN AGRICULTURAL GENIUS OLD STYLK. 129 
 
 advanced half his original capital (8) ; the 
 schoohnaster (9). 
 
 To begin at the end, the rent paid ])y the 
 modern farmer to the schoolmaster included 
 the payment for the parish school ; and, se- 
 condly, and far more important, the sum paid 
 for the education of his own children. Hodson 
 maintained that many formers paid as much 
 hard cash for the education of their children, 
 and for the necessary social surroundings m- 
 cident to that education, as men used to pay 
 for the entire sustenance of theii* households. 
 Then there was the borrowed capital, and the 
 short loans from the banker ; the mterest on 
 these two made two more rents. Farmers 
 paid rent to the railroad for the transit of 
 their goods. The auctioneer, whether he sold 
 cattle and sheep, or whether he had a depot 
 for horses, was a new man whose profits were 
 derived from the farmers. There were few or 
 no auctioneers or horse depositories when he 
 began business ; now the auctioneer was every- 
 where, and every country town of any conse- 
 quence hail its establishment for the reception 
 and sale of horses. Farmers sunk enough 
 capital in steam-plouglis and machinery to 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 IIODGE AND HIS MASTEES. 
 
 stock a small farm on the old system, and 
 the mterest on this sunk capital represented 
 another rent. It was the same with the arti- 
 ficial manure merchant and with the seedsman. 
 Farmers used to grow their own seed, or, at 
 most, bought from the corn dealers or a neigh- 
 bour if by chance they were out. Now the 
 seedsman was an important person, and a 
 grand shop might be found, often several 
 shops, in every market town, the owners of 
 which shops must likewise hve upon the 
 farmer. Here were eight or nine people to 
 pay rent to instead of one. 
 
 No wonder farming nowadays was not 
 profitable. No wonder farmers could not put 
 their sons into farms. Let any one look round 
 their own neighbourhood and count up how 
 many farmers had managed to do that. Why, 
 they were hardly to be found. Fanners' sons 
 had to go mto the towns t<j get a livelihood 
 now. Farming was too expensive a business 
 on the modern system — it was a luxury for a 
 ■rich man, who could afibrd to pay eight or nme 
 landlords at once. The way he had got on 
 was by paymg one landlord only. Old Hod- 
 gson always finished his lecture by thrusting
 
 AN AGUiCULTUKAL GENIUS — OLD STYLE. 131 
 
 both hands into his breeches pockets, and 
 wliispcring to you confidentially that it was 
 not the least use for a man to go mto fanning 
 now unless he had got ten thousand pounds. 
 
 It was through the genius of this man 
 that his three sons were doing so well. At 
 the present day, Harry, the younger, took his 
 ease in his arm-chair after his substantial but 
 plain dinner, with little care about the markets 
 or the general de])ression. For much of the 
 land was on high ground and dry, and the 
 soil there benefited by the wet. At the same 
 time sheep sold well, and Harry's flocks were 
 larsre and noted. So he sauntered round with 
 his jrim, and knocked over a hare, and came 
 comfortably home to dinner, easy in his mmd, 
 body, and pocket. 
 
 Harry w^as not a man of energy and in- 
 tense concentrated purpose like his father. He 
 could never have built up a fortune, but, the 
 money beuig there, Harry was just the man 
 to keep it. He was sufliciently prudent to 
 run no risk and to avoid speculation. He was 
 sufficiently frugal not to waste his substance 
 on riotous living, and he was naturally of a 
 placid temperament, so that he was satisfied to 
 
 K 2
 
 132 HODGE AND IIIS MASTERS. 
 
 silently and gradually accumulate little by 
 little. His knowledge of farming, imbibed 
 from his father, extended into every detail. If 
 he seldom touched an implement now, he had 
 in his youth worked like the labourers, and 
 literally followed the plougli. He was con- 
 stantly about on the place, and his eye, by 
 keeping the men employed, earned far more 
 money than his single arm could have done. 
 Thus he dwelt m the lonely manor-house, a 
 living proof of the wisdom of his father's 
 system. 
 
 Harry is now looking, in his slow com- 
 placent way, for a wife. Being forty years of 
 age, he is not in a great hurry, and is not at 
 all inclined to make a present of himself to 
 the first pretty face he meets. He does not 
 like the girl of the period ; he fears she would 
 spend too much money. Xor, on the other 
 hand, does he care for the country hoyden, 
 whose mind and person have never risen above 
 the cheese-tub, with red hands, awkward gait, 
 loud voice, and limited conversation. He has 
 read too much, in his quiet way, and observed 
 too much, in his quiet way also, for that. He 
 wants a girl well educated, but not above her
 
 AN AGRICULTURAL GKNIUS — OLD STYLE. 133 
 
 station, iniafflrtcd and yet comely, fond of 
 home and home duties, and yet not homely. 
 And it would be Avell if she had a few Imn- 
 dreds — a very small sum wonld do — for her 
 dower. It is not that he wants the money, 
 which can he settled on herself ; but there is a 
 vein of the old, ])riident common sense rnn- 
 ning thronii'li Harry's character. He is in no 
 hurry ; in time he will meet with her some- 
 where.
 
 134 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 THE GIG AND THE FOUR-IN-HAND. 
 A BICYCLE FARMER. 
 
 Two vehicles were gTadually approacliing 
 each other from opposite directions on a long, 
 straight stretch of country road, which, at the 
 first glance, appeared level. The glare of the 
 August sunshine reflected from the white dust, 
 the intense heat that caused a flickering motion 
 of the air like that which may l3e seen over a 
 flue, the monotonous low cropped hedges, the 
 scarcity of trees, and boinidless plain of corn- 
 fields, all tended to deceive the eye. The road 
 was not really level, but rose and fell m nar- 
 row, steep valleys, that crossed it at right 
 angles — the glance saw across these valleys 
 without recognising their existence. It was 
 curious to observe how first one and then the 
 other vehicle suddenly disappeared, as if they 
 had sunk into the ground, and remamed hidden
 
 THE GIG AND THE FOUR-IX-IIANU. 135 
 
 for some time. During the disappearance the 
 vehicle was occupied in cautiously going down 
 one steep slope and slowly ascending the other. 
 It then seemed to rapidly come nearer till 
 another hollow mtervened, and it was al^ruptly 
 checked. The people who were driving conld 
 observe each other from a long distance, and 
 might naturally think that they should pass 
 directly, instead of which they did not seem to 
 get much nearer. Some miles away, Avherc; 
 the same road crossed the Downs, it looked 
 from afor like a white line draT\ii perpendicu- 
 larly up the hill. 
 
 The road itself was narrow, liardly wider 
 than a lane, but <m either side was a broad 
 strip of turf, each strij) quite twice the width 
 of the metalled portion. On the verge of the 
 dust the red pimpernel opened its flowers to 
 the bright blue cloudless sky, and the lowly 
 convolvulus grew thickly among the tall dusty 
 bennets. Sweet short clover flowers stood but 
 a little way back ; still nearer the hedges the 
 grass was coarser, long, and wire-like. Tall 
 thistles stood beside the water furrows and 
 beside the ditch, and round the hawthorn 
 bushes that trrew at intervals on the sward
 
 136 HODGE AXD HIS MASTERS. 
 
 isolated from the hedge. Loose flints of great 
 size lay here and there among the grass, 
 perhaps rolled aside surreptitiously hy the 
 stone-breakers to save themselves trouble. 
 Everything hot and dusty. The clover 
 dusty, the convolvulus dusty, the brambles 
 and hawthorn, the small scattered elms all 
 dusty, all longing for a shower or for a cool 
 breeze. 
 
 The reapers were at work in the wheat, 
 but the plain was so level that it was not 
 possible to see them without mounting upon a 
 flint heap. Then their heads were just visible 
 as they stood upright, but when they stooped 
 to use the hook they disappeared. Yonder, 
 however, a solitary man in his shirt- sleeves 
 perched up above the corn went round and 
 round the field, and beside him strange awk- 
 Avard arms seemed to beat down the wheat. 
 He was driving a reaping machine, to which 
 the windmill-like arms belona'ed. Beside the 
 road a shepherd lingered, leaning on a gate, 
 while his flock, which he was driving just as 
 fast and no faster than they cared to eat their 
 way along the sward, fed part on one side and 
 part on the other. Now and then two or three
 
 THE GIG AND TlllO FUUK-I\-IIAN1). 137 
 
 sheep crossed over witli the tiiiklinu" of a hell. 
 In the silence and stilhiess and broodinii' lioat, 
 the larks came and dusted themselves in the 
 white impalpable powder ol" the road. Farther 
 away the partridges stole quietly to an ant- 
 hill at the edge of some barley. I'v tlie Avhite 
 road, a white milestone, eliippe(l and defaced, 
 stood almost hidden among tlii sties and 
 brambles. Some white railino-s o-uarded the 
 sides of a l^ridire, or rather a low arch over a 
 dry watercourse. Jleat, dust, a glaring white- 
 ness, and a boundless expanse of golden wheat 
 on either hand. 
 
 After a while a towerin<i- fonr-in-liand 
 coach rose out of the hollow when- it had 
 been hidden, and came bowlino- aloni;' the 
 level. The rajud hoofs beat the dust, which 
 sprang u]) and followed behind in a cloud, 
 stretching far in the rear, for in so still an 
 atmosphere the particles were long before they 
 settled ao'ahi. White ])arasols and li<>'ht dust 
 coats — everything that coidd be contrived for 
 coolness — gay feathers and tlutterhig fringes, 
 whose wearers sat in easy attitudes enjoying 
 the breeze created by the swift motion. I j)on 
 such a day the roof of a coach is more j>lea-
 
 138 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 sant than the thickest shade, because of that 
 current of au', for the same leaves that keep off 
 the sun also prevent a passmg zephyr from 
 refreshmo; the forehead. But the swifter the 
 horses the sweeter the fresh wind to fan the 
 delicate cheek and drooping eyelid of indolent 
 beauty. So idle were they all that they barely 
 spoke, and could only smile instead of laugh 
 if one exerted himself to utter a good jest. 
 The gentleman who handled the ribbons was 
 the only one thoroughly awake. 
 
 His eyes were downcast, indeed, because 
 they never left his horses, but his ears were 
 sharply alive to the rhythmic beat of the 
 hoofs and the faint creak and occasional imo-je 
 of the harness. Had a smoie shoe failed to 
 send forth the proper sound as it struck the 
 hard dry road, had there been a creak or a 
 jmgle too many, or too few, those ears would 
 instantly have detected it. The downcast 
 eyes that looked neither to the right nor left 
 — at the golden wheat or the broad fields of 
 barley — were keenly watching the ears of the 
 team, and noting how one of the leaders 
 lathered and flung white froth upon the dust. 
 From that hei2;ht the bowed backs of the
 
 TIIK GIG AND THE FOUIMX-IIAXI). 139 
 
 reapers were visible in the corn. The reapers 
 canirht siii'lit of the coach, and stood ni) to 
 look, and wiped their brows, and a distant 
 hurrali came from the boys among them. In 
 all ilu' j)()mp and glory of pamt and varnish 
 the tall coach rolled on, gently swaying from 
 side to side as the springs yielded to the irre- 
 gularities of the road. It came with a heavy 
 rumble like far-aw^ay thunder over the low 
 arch that spanned the dry watercourse. 
 
 IVIeantime the vehicle approaching from 
 the opposite direction had also appeared out 
 of a hollow. It was a hi<>-h narrow gia' of 
 ancient make, drawn by a horse too Ioav for 
 the shafts and too fat for work. In the (Aii: 
 sat two people closely pressed together by 
 reason of its narrow^ dimensions. The lady 
 wore a black sdk dress, of good and mdeed 
 costly material, but white with the dust that 
 had settled upon it. Her hands were covered 
 with black cotton j^loves. and she held a black 
 umbrella. Her face was hidden by a black 
 veil ; thin corkscrew curls fringed the back 
 of her head. She was stout, and sat heavily 
 in the gig. The man wore a grey suit, too 
 short in the triMiscrs — :it least tlu>y n])peared
 
 140 H(3DGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 SO as lie sat with his knees wide ajiart, and the 
 toe of one heavy boot partly projecting at the 
 side of the dash-hoard. A mnch-wom straw 
 hat was drawn over his eyes, and he held a 
 short Avhip in his red hand. He did not press 
 his horse, but allowed the lazv animal to o-q 
 jog-trot at liis own pace. The panels of the 
 g:i<r had lost their original shinino: polish : the 
 varnish had cracked and worn, till the surface 
 was rough and grey. The harness Avas equally 
 bare and worn, the reins mended more than 
 once. The whole ramshackle concern looked 
 as if it would presently fall to pieces, but the 
 horse was in much too o'ood a condition. 
 
 AVhen the four-in-hand had come within 
 about a hundred yards, the farmer pulled his 
 left rein hard, and drew his ""ii? rio-ht out of 
 the road on to the sward, and then stopped 
 dead, to give the coach the full use of the way. 
 As it passed he took oif his straw hat, and his 
 wife stooped low, as a makeshift for bowing. 
 An outsider miofht have thouo-ht that the 
 aristocratic coach would have gone by this 
 extremely humble couple without so much as 
 noticino^ it. But the gentleman who was 
 driving lifted his hat to the dowdy lady, with
 
 THE GIG AND THE FOUll-IX-HAM). 141 
 
 a gesture of marked politeness, and a young 
 and elegantly-dressed lady, his sister, nodded 
 and smiled, and waved her hand to her. After 
 the coacli liad rolled some fifty yards away, 
 the farmer jndled into the road, and went on 
 through the cloud of dust it had left behmd 
 it, with a complacent smile u])on his liard and 
 weather-worn features. ' A' be a nice young 
 gentleman, the Honourable be,' said he pre- 
 sently. ' So be Lady P>lanche,' replied his 
 wife, lifting her veil and looking back after 
 the four-in-hand. ' I'm sure her smile's that 
 sweet it be a pleasure for to see her.' 
 
 Half a mile farther the farmer drew out 
 of the road agaui, drove close to the hedge, 
 stopped, and stood up to look over. A 
 strongly-built young man, who had been 
 driving the reapmg machine in his shirt- 
 sleeves, alighted from his seat and came across 
 to the hedge. 
 
 ' Goes very well to-day,' he said, meaning 
 that the machine answered. 
 
 ' You be got into a good upstanding piece, 
 John,' replied the old man sharply in his thin 
 jerky voice, which curiously contrasted with 
 his still powerful frame. ' You take un in
 
 142 IIODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 there and try un ' — pointing to a piece where 
 the crop had been beaten down by a storm, 
 and where the reapers were at work. ' You 
 had better put the rattletrap thing away, John, 
 and go m and help they. Never wasted 
 money in all my life over such a thmg as that 
 before. What be he going to do all the whi- 
 ter ? Bide and rust, I 'spose. Can you put un 
 to cut off they nettles along the ditch among 
 they stones? ' 
 
 ' It would break the knives,' said the son. 
 
 ' But you could cut uni with a hook, 
 couldn't you? ' asked the old man, m a tone 
 that was meant to convey withermg contempt 
 of a machine that could only do one thing, 
 and must perforce lie idle ten months of the 
 year. 
 
 ' That's hardly a fair way of looking at it,' 
 the son ventured. 
 
 ' John,' said his mother, severely, ' I can't 
 think how you young men can contradict 
 your father. I'm sure young men never spoke 
 so in my time ; and I'm sure your father has 
 been prospered in his farmmg (she felt her 
 silk dress), and has done very well without 
 any machmes, which cost a deal of money —
 
 TlIK GIG AND TIIK FOUK-IN- 11 AM). 143 
 
 and Heaven knows tliere's a vast amount 
 going out every day.' 
 
 A gruff voice interrupted lier — one of the 
 reapers had advanced ixlong the hedge, Avith a 
 large earthenware jar in his hand. 
 
 ' Measter,' he shouted to the farmer in thi' 
 gig, ' can't you send us out some better tackle 
 than tin's yer stuff ? ' 
 
 He poured some ale out of the jar on the 
 stubble with an expression of utter disgust. 
 
 ' It be the same as I drink myself,' said 
 the farmer, sharply, and immediately sat down, 
 struck the horse, and drove off. 
 
 His son and the labourer — who could 
 hardly have been disthiguished ajjart so far as 
 their dress went — stood gazing after him for a 
 few minutes. They then turned, and each 
 went back to his work without a word. 
 
 The farmer drove on steadily homewards 
 at the same jog-trot pace that had been his 
 wont these forty years. The house stood a 
 considerable distance back from the road : it 
 was a gabled building of large size, and not 
 without interest. It was approached by a 
 drive that crossed a green, where some ilucks 
 were waddling about, and entered the fi'ont
 
 144 PIODGE AND IIIS MASTERS. 
 
 garden, which was surrounded hy a low wall. 
 Withm was a lawn and an ancient yew tree. 
 The porch was overgrown with ivy, and the 
 trees that rose behind the grey tiles of the 
 roof set the old house in a frame of foHage. 
 A fine old English homestead, where any man 
 might be proud to dwell. But the farmer did 
 not turn up the drive. He followed the road 
 till he came to a gate leading into the rickyard, 
 and, there getting out of the gig, held the gate 
 open while the horse walked through. He 
 never used the drive or the front door, but 
 always came in and Avent out at the back, 
 through the rickyard. 
 
 The front garden and lawn were kept m 
 good order, but no one belongmg to the house 
 ever frequented it. Had any stranger driven 
 up to the front door, he might have hammered 
 away with the narrow knocker — there was no 
 bell — for half an hour before makmg any one 
 hear, and then probably it would have been 
 by the accident of the servant going by the 
 passage, and not by dint of noise. The house- 
 hold lived in the back part of the house. 
 There was a parlour well furnished, sweet with 
 flowers placed there fresh daily, and with the
 
 THE GIG AND TIIK FOUR-IN-IIAND. 145 
 
 odour of tliose in the iiiirden, whose scent 
 came in at the ever open window ; but no 
 one sat in it from week's end to week's end 
 The wliole life of the im nates passed in twc 
 back rooms — a sitting-room and kitchen. 
 
 With some slight concessions to the times 
 
 only, Farmer M h^l the life liis fathers 
 
 led before him, and farmed his tenancy upon 
 the same principles. lie did not, indeed, 
 dine with the labourers, but he ate very much 
 the same food as they did. Some said he 
 would eat what no labourer or servant would 
 touch ; and, as he had stated, (h-ank the same 
 smallest of small beer. His wife made a 
 large quantity of home-made wine every year, 
 of which she partook m a moderate degree, 
 and which was the liquor usually set before 
 visitors. They rose early, and at once went 
 about their work. He saw his men, and then 
 o-ot on his horse and rode round the farm. 
 He returned to luncheon, saw the men again, 
 and as'ain went out and took a turn of work 
 with them. He rode a horse because of the 
 distance — the farm being large — not for plea- 
 sure. Without it he could not have visited 
 his lields often enough to satisfy himself that 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 IIODGE AXD HIS MASTERS. 
 
 the Inboiirers were ffoino; on with their work. 
 He did not hunt, nor shoot — he had the ri2:ht. 
 but never exercised it ; though occasionally he 
 was seen about the newly- sown fields with a 
 sinoie-barrel s'un, firino; at the birds that con- 
 gregated in crowds. Xeither would he allow 
 his sons to shoot or hunt. 
 
 One worked with the labourers, actinsr as 
 workino- bailiff — it was he who drove the 
 reaping raachme, which after long argument 
 and much persuasion the farmer bought, only 
 to grumble at and abuse every day afterwards. 
 The other was apprenticed as a lad to a builder 
 and carpenter of the market town, and learned 
 the trade exactly as the rest of the men did 
 there. He lodged in the town m the cheapest 
 of houses, ate hard bread and cheese with the 
 carpenters and masons and bricklayers, and 
 was glad when the pittance he received was 
 raised a shilling a week. Once now and then 
 he walked over to the farm on Sundays or 
 holidays — he was not allowed to come too 
 often. They did not even send him in a 
 basket of apples from the great orchard ; all 
 the apples were carefully gathered and sold. 
 
 These two sons were now 2;rown men.
 
 TlIK GIG AM) TIIK FOUK-IN-IIAND. 147 
 
 stroiiu' and robust, and l^etter educated than 
 would liave been imagined — thanks to their 
 own industry and good sense, and not to any 
 schoolmg they received. Two finer specimens 
 of physical manhood it would have been 
 difficult to find, yet their wages were no 
 more than those of orduiary labourers and 
 workmen. The bailiff, the eldest, had a 
 pound a week, out of which he had to pur- 
 chase every necessary, and from which five 
 shillings were deducted for lodgings. It may 
 be that he helped himself to various little per- 
 quisites, but his income from every source 
 was not equal to that of a junior clerk. The 
 other nominally received more, being now a 
 skilled workman ; but as he had to pay for 
 his lodgings and food in town, he was really 
 hardly so well off. Neither of these young 
 men had the least chance of marrying till 
 their father shoidd die ; nothing on earth 
 would induce him to part with tlie money 
 required to set the one u[) in l)usiness or the 
 other in a separate farm. He had worked all 
 his time under his father, and it seemed to 
 him i)erfectly natural that his sons should 
 work all their time under him.
 
 148 HODGE AND HIS mastp:ks. 
 
 There was one daughter, and she, too, was 
 out at work. She was housekeeper to an m- 
 firm okl farmer ; that is to say, she superin- 
 tended the dairy and tlie kitchen, and received 
 liardly as much as a cook in a London estab- 
 lishment. Like the sons, she was finely de- 
 veloped physically, and had more of the man- 
 ners of a lady than seemed possible under the 
 circumstances. 
 
 Her father's principles of farmmg were 
 much the same as his plan of housekeeping 
 and family government. It consisted of never 
 spending any money. He bought no ma- 
 chines. The reaping machine was the one 
 exception, and a bitter point with the old 
 man. He entered on no extensive drammg 
 works, nor worried his landlord to begin 
 them. He was content with the old tumble- 
 down sheds till it was possible to shelter 
 cattle in them no lono'er. Sometimes he was 
 compelled to purchase a small quantity of 
 artificial manure, l)ut it was with extreme 
 reluctance. He calculated to ])roduce suffi- 
 cient manure in the stalls, for he kept a large 
 head of fattening cattle, and sheep to the 
 greatest extent possible. He would rather let
 
 THE GIG AND THE I'OUK-IN-HAND. 149 
 
 a Held lie fallow, and <^o without the crop 
 from it, till nature had restored the exhausted 
 fertility, than su})ply that fertility at the cost 
 of spcndinf^ money. Tho one guiding motto 
 of his life was ' Save, not invest.' When once 
 he got hold of a sovereign he parted with it 
 no more ; not though all the scientific pro- 
 fessors in the world came to him with their 
 analyses, and statistics, and discoveries. He 
 put it in the bank, just as his fother would 
 have i)ut it into a strong box under his bed. 
 There it remained, and the interest that ac- 
 crued, small as it was, was added to it. 
 
 Yet it was his pride to do his land well. 
 He manured it well, because he kept cattle 
 and sheep, especially the latter, to the fullest 
 capacity of his acreage ; and because, as said 
 before, he could and did afford to let land lie 
 follow, when necessary. He was in no hurry. 
 He was not anxious for so much immediate 
 per-centage upon an investment in artificial 
 manure or steam -plough. He might have 
 said, with a greater man, * Time and I are 
 two.' It was Time, the slow passage of the 
 years, that gave him his profit. He was 
 always providing for the future ; he was
 
 150 HODGE AND IllS MASTERS. 
 
 never out of anytliing, because lie was never 
 obliged to force a sale of produce in order to 
 get the ready cash to pay the bank its interest 
 upon borrowed money. He never borrowed ; 
 neither did he ever make a speech, or even so 
 much as attend a farmers' club, to listen to a 
 scientific lecture. But his teams of horses 
 were the admiration of the country side — no 
 such horses came mto the market town. His 
 rent was paid punctually, and always with 
 country bank-notes — none of your clean, new- 
 fangled cheques, or Bank of England crisp 
 paper, but soiled, greasy country notes of 
 small denommation. 
 
 Farmer M never asked for a return 
 
 or reduction of his rent. The neighbours 
 said that he was cheaply rented : that was not 
 true in regard to the land itself. But he cer- 
 tainly was cheaply rented if the condition of 
 the farm was looked at. In the course of 
 so many long years of careful farming he had 
 got his place into such a state of cultivation 
 that it could stand two or three bad seasons 
 without much deterioration. The same bad 
 seasons quite spoiled the land of such of his 
 neighbours as had relied upon a constant
 
 THE GIG AND THE FOUR-IX-HANI). 151 
 
 application of stimiilant.s to the soil. The 
 stiniuhitino; subsfcanccs being no longer ap- 
 plied, as they could not afford to buy them, 
 the land fell l)ack and appeared poor. 
 
 Farmer M , of course, grumbled at the 
 
 weather, but the crops belied his lips. He 
 was, in fact, wcaltliy — not tlie wealtli that is 
 seen in cities, but rich for a countryman. He 
 could have started Ijoth his sons in business 
 with solid capital. Yet he drardv small beer 
 which the reapers despised, and drove about 
 in a rusty old gig, with thousands to his 
 credit at that old C(juntry bank. When he 
 got home that afternoon, he carefully put 
 away some bags of coin for the wages of the 
 men, which he had l)een to fetch, and at once 
 started out for the rickyard, to see how things 
 were progressing. So the Honourable on the 
 tall four-in-hand, saluted Avith marked em- 
 phasis the humble gig that pulled right out 
 of the road to give him the way, and the Lady 
 Blanche waved her hand to the dowdy in rhc 
 dusty black silk with her sweetest smile. The 
 Honourable, when he went over the farm A\ith 
 his breechloader, mvariably came in and drank 
 a glass of the small beer. The Lady Blanche,
 
 152 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 at least once in the autumn, rode up, alighted, 
 and drank one glass of the home-made wine 
 with the dowdy. Her papa, the landlord, was 
 an invalid, but he as invariably sent a splen- 
 did basket of hot-house grapes. But Farmer 
 
 M was behind the age. 
 
 Had he looked over the hedge in the even- 
 ing, he might have seen a row of reapers 
 walkino* down the road at the sudden sound 
 of a jmgling bell behind them, open their Ime, 
 and wheel like a squad, part to the right and 
 part to the left, to let the bicj^cle pass. After 
 it had gone by they closed their rank, and 
 trudged on toward the village. They had 
 been at work r.ll day in the uplands among 
 the corn, cutting away with their hooks low 
 down the yellow straw. They began in the 
 early morning, and had first to walk two 
 miles or more up to the harvest field. Stoop- 
 ing, as they worked, to strike low enough, 
 the hot sun poured his fierce rays upon their 
 shoulders and the backs of their necks. The 
 sinews of the right arm had contmually to 
 drive the steel through straw and tough weeds 
 entanijled in the wheat. There was no shadow 
 to sit under for luncheon, save that at the side
 
 A lilCVCLK FAR.MEK. 15 
 
 ^Q 
 
 of the sliocks, where the sheaves nuliatcd 
 heat and inteiTU])ted the light air, so that 
 the sha(h)\v was wanner than the sunshine. 
 Coarse cold bacon and bread, cheese, and a 
 jar of small beer, or a tin can of weak cold 
 tea, were all they had to sui)ply them with 
 fresh strength for farther labour. 
 
 At last the evening came, the jackets so 
 lon<'- thrown aside were resumed, and the 
 walk home began. After so many hours of 
 wearisome labour it was hardly strange that 
 their natural senses were dulled — that they 
 did not look about them, nor converse gaily. 
 J>y mutual, if unexpressed consent, they in- 
 tended to call at the wayside inn when they 
 reached it, to rest on the hard bench outside, 
 and take a quart of stronger ale. Thus 
 truduinu' homewards after that exhausting 
 day, they did not hear the almost silent ap- 
 proach of the bicycle behind till the rider rang 
 his bell. When he had passed, the rider 
 worked his feet faster, and swiftly sped away 
 along the dry and dusty road, lie was a tall 
 young gentleman, whose form was well set 
 off and shown by the tight-litthig bicycle cos- 
 tume, lie rode well :ind with perfect com-
 
 154 llODGE AND HIS MASTEKS. 
 
 mand — the track left in the dust was straight, 
 there was no wobbling* or uncertamty. 
 
 ' That be a better job than ourn, you,' said 
 one of the men, as they watched the bicycle 
 rapidly proceedmg ahead. 
 
 ' Ay,' replied his mate, 'he be a vine 
 varnier, he be.' 
 
 Master Phillip, having a clear stretch of 
 road, put on his utmost speed, and neither 
 heard the comments made upon him, nor would 
 have cared if he had. He was in haste, for he 
 was late, and feared every minute to hear the 
 distant dmner bell. It was his vacation, and 
 Master Phillip, having temporarily left his 
 studies, was visitino* a gentleman who had 
 taken a country mansion and shootmg for the 
 season. His host had accumulated wealth m 
 the ' City,' and naturally considered himself an 
 authority on country matters. Master Phillip's 
 ' governor ' was likewise in a large way of 
 business, and possessed of wealth, and thought 
 it the correct thing for one of his sons to ' go 
 in ' for agriculture — a highly genteel occupa- 
 tion, if rightly followed, with capital and 
 intelligence. Phillip liked to ride his bicycle 
 an the cool of the evenmg, and was su23posed
 
 A BICYCLE J'AIJMKK. 155 
 
 ill these excursion's to be taking- a survey of 
 the soil ami the fr()])s, and to he comparing 
 the style of agriculture in the district to that 
 to which he had been trained while pursuing 
 his studies. He slipped past the wayside inn ; 
 he glided by the cottages and gardens at the 
 outskirts of the village ; and then, leaving 
 the more thickly inhabited part on one side, 
 went by a rickyard. Men were busy m the 
 yard putting up the last load of the evening, 
 and the farmer hi his shirt- sleeves was working 
 among and directing the rest. The bicyclist 
 \vith.out a glance rode on, and shortly after 
 reached the lodge gates. They were open, in 
 anticipation of his arrival. 
 
 He rode u}) the long drive, across the park . 
 under the old elms, and alighted at the man- 
 sion before the dinner l^ell rang, much to his 
 relief; for his host had more than one daugh- 
 ter, and Phillii) liked to arrange his toilet to 
 perfection before he johied their society. His 
 twenty-five-guinea dressing-case, elaborately 
 fitted up — too completely, indeed, for ho had 
 no use for the razor — soon enabled him to 
 trim and prepare for the duiing-room. His 
 five-guinea coat, elegant studs, sj)otless shirt
 
 156 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 and wristbands, valuable seal ring on one 
 finger, patent leather boots, keyless watch, 
 eye-glass, gold toothpick in one pocket, were 
 all carefully selected, and in the best possible 
 style. Mr. Phillip — he would have scorned 
 the boyish ' master ' — was a gentleman, from 
 the perfumed locks above to the polished 
 patent leather below. There was ton in his 
 very air, in the ' ah, ah,' of his treble London 
 tone of voice, the antithesis of the broad 
 country bass. He had a firm belief m the 
 fitness of thmgs — in the unities, so to speak, 
 of suit, action, and time. 
 
 When his team were struo-o-lin"- to force 
 the ball by kick, or other permitted means, 
 across the tented field, Phillip was arrayed in 
 accurate football costume. When he stood on 
 the close-mown lawn within the white-marked 
 square of tennis and faced the net, his jacket 
 was barred or striped with scarlet. Then 
 there was the bicycle dress, the morning coat, 
 the shooting jacket, and the dinner coat, not 
 to mention the Ulster or Connaught overcoat, 
 the dust coat, and minor items innumerable. 
 Whether Phillip rolled in the mire at football, 
 or bestrode a bicycle, or sat down to snow-
 
 A BICYCLE FAILMKK. 157 
 
 wliitc tablcflotli and nn|)kin, lie conscientiously 
 dressed the part. The very conii)leteness of 
 his prescril)ed studies— the exhaustive cha- 
 racter of the curricuhun — naturally induced a 
 frame of mind not to l)e satisticd witli any- 
 thinu" short of absolute ])rocision. and |)('rha])s 
 even apt to extend itself into dilettantism. 
 
 Like ii'eoloa'V. the science of aiiTicnltnre is 
 so vast, it embraces so wide a raniic. that one 
 really hardly knows where it ])e;i-ins or ends. 
 Philli])'s knowledg'e was universal. He under- 
 stood all about astronom}^, and had ])re])ared 
 an al)stract of tig'iuTs provinui; the connection 
 of sun-spots, rainfall, and the price of wheat. 
 Alerebra was the easiest and at the same time 
 the most accurate mode of condnctino- the in- 
 tricate calculations arising out of the compli- 
 cated question of food — of tlesh formers and 
 heat generators — that is to say, how much a 
 sheep increased in weight by gnaAving a turni}). 
 Nothing could be more useful than botimy — 
 those who could iK^t distinguish l)otween a 
 dicotyledon and a monocotyledon eoiild cer- 
 tainly never rightly grasp the nature of a 
 hedgerow. P>vllis perenma and S/'jutpi-! (irrru.^is 
 were not to be confounded, and Trlticam repcns
 
 158 HODGE AND HIS MASTEES. 
 
 was a sure sign of a bad farmer. Chemistiy 
 proved that too small a quantity of silicate 
 made John Barleycorn weak in the knee : 
 ammonia, animal phosphates, nitrogen, and so 
 on, were mere names to many ignorant folk. 
 The varions stages and the diiferent develop- 
 ments of msect life were next to be considered. 
 As to the soil and strata — the very ground- 
 work of a farm — geology was the true guide 
 to the proper selection of suitable seed. Crops 
 had been garnered by the aid of the electric 
 light, the plough had l^een driven by the 
 Gramme machine ; electricity, then, would 
 play a foremost j^nrt in future farmmg, and 
 should be studied with enthusiasm. Without 
 mathematics nothing could be done ; without 
 ornithological study, how know which bu'd re- 
 velled on grain and which destroyed injurious 
 insects ? Spectrum analysis detected the adul- 
 teration of valuable compounds ; the photo- 
 gTapher recorded the exact action of the 
 trottmg horse ; the telephone might convey 
 orders from one end of an estate to the other ; 
 and thus you might go through the whole 
 alphabet, the whole cyclopedia of science, and 
 apply every single branch to agriculture.
 
 A BICYCLE FAiniEli. 150 
 
 It is to be hoped that l^hilUp's conversa- 
 tional account of his studies has been correctly 
 re])roduced here. The chemical terms look 
 rather weak, but the memory of an ordinary 
 listener can hardly be expected to retain such 
 a mass of technicalities. He had piles of 
 strongly-bound books, the reward <^f successful 
 exammations, besides diplomas and certificates 
 of proficiency. These subj ects coidd be pursued 
 under cover, but there was besides the field 
 work, which liad a more i)ractical sound ; 
 model farms to be visited : steam-eno-ines to 
 be seen at work ; lectures to be listened to on 
 the spot ; deep-drainage ojDerations, a new 
 drill, or a new sheaf-binder to be looked at. 
 Then there were the oxperimontal plots — 
 something like the little parterres seen at the 
 edge of lawns. 
 
 One plot was sown without manure, 
 another was sown with manure, a third had 
 a different kind of manure. The dozen man- 
 golds grown in one patch were pulled up and 
 carefully weighed. The grains of wheat in 
 an ear standing in an adjacent patch were 
 counted and recorded. As these plots were 
 about a yard wide, and could l)e kept clean,
 
 160 IIODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 no matter what tlie weather ; and as a wheel- 
 barrow load of clay, or chalk, or sand thrown 
 down Avonld alter the 2:eolog,ical formation, 
 the results obtained from them were certainly 
 instrnctive, and would l)e very useful as a 
 guide to the cultivation of a thousand acres. 
 There was also a laro'o. heavy iron roller, 
 which the scholars could if they chose drag 
 round and round the gravel path. 
 
 Architecture, ao'ain. touches the airricul- 
 turist nearly. He requires buildings for the 
 pigs, cattle, horses, labourers, engine and ma- 
 chinery, lastly, for himself. Out of doors 
 almost any farmhouse that could be visited 
 might be made by a lecturer an illustrative 
 example of what ought to be avoided. Scarcely 
 one could be found that was not full of mis- 
 takes — utterly wrong, and erected regardless 
 of design and utility. Within doors, with ink, 
 tracing paper, compasses, straight-edge and 
 ruler, really valuable ground plans, front ele- 
 vations, and so on, could be laid down. Al- 
 together, with this circle of science to study, 
 the future farmer liad verv hard work to face. 
 Such exhaustive mental labour induced a 
 certain nervousness that coidd only be allayed
 
 A BICYCLE FARMER. IGl 
 
 « 
 
 by relaxation. The bicycle afforded a grateful 
 change. Monnted upon the slender, swift- 
 revolvmg wheel, Mr. Phillij) in the cool of 
 the evening, after the long day of study, 
 sometimes proceeded to stretch his limbs. The 
 light cigar soothed his weary and over- strained 
 mind. 
 
 The bicycle by-and-by, as if drawn by 
 the power of gravitation, approached more 
 and more nearly to the distant town. It 
 threaded the streets, and finally stopped in 
 the archway of an inn. There, leaned against 
 the wall, under the eye of the respectful ostler, 
 the bicycle reposed. The owner strolled up- 
 stairs, and in the company of choice spirits 
 studied the laws of rio'ht ano-les, of motion, 
 and retarding friction, upon the level surface 
 of the billiard table. Somewhere in a not 
 much frequented street there could be seen a 
 small window in which a coloured plate of 
 fashions was always displayed. There were 
 also some bonnets, trimmings, and tasteful 
 feathers. Nothing could be more attractive 
 than this window. The milliner was young 
 and pretty, and seemed to have a cousin equally 
 young and pretty. Poor lone'y. friendless 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 creatures, it was not surprising they should 
 welcome a little flirtation. The bicycle which 
 so swiftly carries the young man of the present 
 day beyond the penetrating vision of his aunt 
 or tutor has much to answer for. 
 
 But, as pointed out previously, such ex- 
 haustive scientific training naturally tends to 
 make the mmd mathematical. It cannot be 
 satisfied unless its siuToimdings — the sub- 
 stantial realisation of tlie concrete — are perfect. 
 So Mr. Phillip had a suit for every purpose 
 — for football, cricket, tennis, bicycle, shoot- 
 ing, dinmg, and strollmg about. In the 
 same way he possessed a perfect armoury of 
 athletic and other useful implements. There 
 were fine bats by the best makers for cricket, 
 rods for trout fishing, splendid modified 
 choke-bores, saddles, jockey caps, and so on. 
 A gentleman like this could hardly long re- 
 main in the solitary halls of learning — society 
 must claim him for parties, balls, dmners, and 
 the usual round. It was understood that his 
 ' governor ' was a man of substantial wealth ; 
 that Phillip would certainly be placed m an 
 extensive farm, to play the pleasant part of a 
 gentleman farmer. People with marriageable
 
 A BICYCLE FARMEli. 163 
 
 daughters looked upon the clever scholar as a 
 desirable addition to their drawing-rooms. 
 Phillip, in short, found himself by degrees in- 
 volved in a whirl of festivities, and was never 
 at a loss where to go for amusement when he 
 could obtain leave to seek relaxation. If such 
 social adidation made him a little vain, if it led 
 to the purchase of a twenty-five-guinea dress- 
 mg-case, and to frequent consultations with 
 the tailor, it really was nut Phillip's fault. He 
 felt himself popular, and accepted the position. 
 
 When the vacation came, gathering up a 
 fresh pile of grandly- bound prize books, 
 broad sheets of diplomas, and certificates, 
 Phillip departed to his friend's mansion for the 
 partridge shooting. Coming doAvn the road 
 on the bicycle he overtook the reapers, and 
 sprang his bell to warn them. The reapers 
 thought Phillip's job better than theirs. 
 
 At dumer, while sipping his claret, Phillip 
 delivered his opmion upon the agriculture of 
 the district, which he had surveyed from his 
 bicycle. It was incomplete, stationary, or re- 
 trograde. The form of the fields alone was 
 an index to the character of the farmers who 
 cultivated them. Not one had a regular shape. 
 
 H 2
 
 164 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 The fields were neither circles, scjuares, 
 parallelograms, nor triangles. One side, per- 
 haps, might be straight ; the hedgerow on the 
 other had a dozen curves, and came up to a 
 pomt. With such irregular enclosures it was 
 impossible that the farmer could plan out his 
 course with the necessary accuracy. The same 
 incompleteness ran through everything — one 
 field was well tilled, the next indifferently, the 
 third full of weeds. Here was a good modern 
 cattle-shed, well designed for the purpose ; 
 yonder was a tumble-down building, with 
 holes in the roof and walls. 
 
 So, too, with the implements — a farmer 
 never seemed to have a complete set. One 
 farmer had, perhaps, a reaping machine, but 
 he had not got an elevator ; another had an 
 elevator, but no steam-plough. No one had a 
 full set of machinery. If they drained, they 
 only drained one field ; the entire farm was 
 never by any possibihty finished straight off. 
 If the farmer had two new light carts of ap- 
 proved construction, he was sure to have three 
 old rumbling waggons, in drawing which there 
 was a great waste of power. Why not have 
 all light carts ? There was no uniformity.
 
 A BICYCLE FARMER. 165 
 
 The farming mind lacked breadth of view, and 
 dwelt too much on detail. It was not, of 
 course, the fault of tlie tenants of the present 
 day, but the very houses they inhabited were 
 always put in the Avrong place. Where the 
 ground was low, flat, and liable to be flooded, 
 the farmhouse was always built by a brook. 
 When the storms of winter came the brook 
 overflowed, and the place was ahnost macces- 
 sible. In hilly districts, where there was not 
 much water, the farmhouse was situate on the 
 slope, or perhaps on the plateau above, and in 
 summer very likely every drop of water used 
 had to be drawn up there from a distance in 
 tanks. 
 
 The whole of rural England, in short, 
 wanted rearranging upon mathematical prin- 
 ciples. To begin at the smallest divisions, the 
 fields should be mapped out like the squares 
 of a chessboard ; next, the parishes ; and, 
 lastly, the counties. You ought to be able to 
 work steam-ploughing tackle across a whole 
 parish, if the rope could be made strong 
 enough. If you talked with a farmer, you 
 found him somehow or other quite incapable 
 of following a logical sequence of argument.
 
 166 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 He got on very well for a few sentences, but, 
 just as one was going to come to the conclu- 
 sion, his mind seized on some little paltry de- 
 tail, and refused to move any farther. He 
 positively could not follow you to a logical 
 conclusion. If you, for instance, tried to show 
 him that a certain course of cropping was the 
 correct one for certain fields, he would listen 
 for a while, and then suddenly declare that the 
 turnips in one of the said fields last year were 
 a failure. That particular crop of turnips had 
 nothing at all to do with the system at large, 
 but the farmer could see nothins; else. 
 
 What had struck him most, however, in 
 that particular district, as he traversed it on 
 the bicycle, was the great loss of time that 
 must result from the absence of rapid means 
 of communication on lari^e farms. The dis- 
 tance across a large farm might, j^erhaps, be a 
 mile. Some forms were not very broad, but 
 extended in a narrow strip for a great way. 
 Hours were occupied in riding round such 
 farms, hours which might be saved by simple 
 means. Suppose, for example, that a gang of 
 labourers were at work in the harvest-field, 
 three-quarters of a mile from the farmhouse.
 
 A BICYCLE FAllMEK. 1G7 
 
 Now, wliy not have n field telegraph, like tliat 
 employed in military operations? The cable 
 or wire was rolled on a drum like those used 
 for watering- a la^vn. All that was needed was 
 to harness a pony, and the drum would unroll 
 and lay the wire as it revolved. The farmer 
 could then sit in his office and telegraph his 
 instructions without a moment's delay. He 
 could tap the barometer, and wire to the bailiff 
 in the field to be expeditious, for the mercury 
 was falling. Practically, there was no more 
 necessity for the farmer to go outside his office 
 than for a merchant hi Mincing Lane. The 
 merchant did not sail in every ship whose 
 cargo was consigned to him : why should the 
 farmer watch every waggon loaded? Steam 
 could drive the farmer's plough, cut the chaff, 
 pump the water, and, m short, do everything. 
 The field telegraph could be laid down to any 
 requu'ed spot with the gTcatest ease, and thus, 
 sitting in his office chah-, tlie farmer could 
 control the operations of the farm ^\'ithout 
 once soiling his hands. Mr. Phillij), as he 
 concluded his remarks, reached his glass of 
 claret, and thus uicidentally exhibited his own 
 hand, which was as white as a lady's.
 
 1G8 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 HAYMAKING. ' THE JUKE's COUNTRY.' 
 
 A RATTLING, tliumping, booming noise, like 
 tlie beating of their war drums by savages, 
 comes over the hedge where the bees are busy 
 at the bramble flowers. The bees take no 
 heed, they pass from flower to flower, seeking 
 the sweet honey to store at home in the hive, 
 as their bee ancestors did before the Roman 
 legions marched to Cowey Stakes. Their 
 habits have not changed ; their ' social ' rela- 
 tions are the same ; they have not called in 
 the aid of machinery to enlarge their liquid 
 wealth, or to increase the facility of collectmg 
 it. There is a low murmur rather than a buzz 
 along the hedgerow ; but over it the hot 
 summer breeze brings the thumping, rattling, 
 booming sound of hollow metal striking 
 against the ground or in contact with other 
 metal. These rinjjin"' noises, which so little 
 
 Oil '
 
 HAYMAKING. 169 
 
 accord with the sAveet-scented hay and green 
 hedg'erows, are caused by the careless handling- 
 of milk tins dragged liitlier and thither by the 
 men who are getting the afternoon milk ready 
 for transit to the railway station miles away. 
 Each till bears a brazen bado-e eno-raved with 
 the name of the milkman who will retail its 
 contents in distant London. It may be de- 
 livered to the conntess in Belgravia, and reach 
 her dainty lip in the morning chocolate, or it 
 may be eagerly swallowed ii|) by the half- 
 starved children of some back court in the 
 purlieus of the Seven Dials. 
 
 Sturdy milkmaids may still be seen in 
 London, sweeping the crowded pavement clear 
 before them as they walk with swinging tread, 
 a yoke on their shoulders, from door to door. 
 Some remnant of the traditional dairy thus 
 survives in the stony streets that are separated 
 so widely from the country. But here, beside 
 the hay, the hedgerows, the bees, the flowers 
 that precede the blackberries— here in the 
 heart of the meadows the romance has departed. 
 Everything is mechanical or scientific. From 
 the refrigerator that cools the milk, the ther- 
 mometer that tests its temperature, the lacto-
 
 170 IIODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 meter that j^roves its quality, all is mechanical 
 precision. The tms themselves are metal — 
 wood, the old country material for almost 
 every purpose, is eschewed — and they are 
 swung up into a waggon specially built for 
 the purpose. It is the very antithesis of the 
 joltmg and cumbrous waggon used for gene- 
 rations m the hay-fields and among the com. 
 It is light, elegantly proportioned, painted, 
 varnished — the work rather of a coachbuilder 
 than a cartwright. The horse harnessed in it 
 is equally unlike the cart-horse. A quick, 
 wiry horse, that may be driven m a trap or 
 gig, is the style — one that will rattle along 
 and catch the train. 
 
 The driver takes his seat and handles the 
 reins with the air of a man drivmg a trades- 
 man's van, mstead of walking, like the true 
 old carter, or sitting on the shaft. The 
 vehicle rattles off to the station, where ten, 
 fifteen, or j^erhaps twenty such converge at 
 the same hour, and then ensues a scene of 
 bustle, chafi*, and rough language. The tins 
 are placed in the van specially reserved for 
 them, the whistle sounds, the passengers — who 
 have been wondering why on earth there was
 
 HAYMAKING. 171 
 
 all this noise and delay at a little roadside 
 station without so mueli as a visible steeple — 
 withdraw their heads from the windows ; the 
 wheels revolve, and, gathermg speed, the train 
 disappears round the curve, hastening to the 
 metropolis. Then the empty tms returned 
 from town have to be conveyed home with 
 more rattlmg, thumping, and booming of 
 hollow tin — there to be carefully cleansed, for 
 which- i)urpose vast quantities of hot water 
 must be ready, and coal, of course, must be 
 consumed in proportion. 
 
 This beautiful afternoon the booming seems 
 to sound more than usual ; it may perhaps be 
 the wind that carries the noise alonii'. But 
 Mr. George, the farmer, who has been working 
 among the haymakers, steps out from the rank, 
 and going some way aside pauses awhile to 
 consider. You should not address him as 
 Farmer George. Farmer as an affix is not 
 the thing now ; formers are ' Mr. So-and-so.' 
 Not that there is any false pride about the 
 present individual ; his memory goes back too 
 far, and he has had too much experience of 
 the world. He leans on his prong — the sharp 
 forks worn bright as silver from use — stuck in
 
 172 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 the sward, and his chest pressing on the top 
 of the handle, or rather on both hands, with 
 which he holds it. The handle makes an 
 angle of forty-five degrees with his body, and 
 thus gives considerable support and relief 
 while he reflects. 
 
 He leans on his prong, facing to wind- 
 ward, and gazing straight into the teeth of 
 the light breeze, as he has done these forty 
 and odd summers past. Like the captain of 
 a sailing ship, the eye of the master hay- 
 maker must be always watching the horizon 
 to windward. He depends on the sky, like 
 the mariner, and spreads his canvas and 
 shapes his course by the clouds. He must 
 note their varying form and drift ; the 
 hei2:ht and thickness and hue ; whether 
 there is a dew in the evenings ; whether 
 the distant hills are clearly defined or misty ; 
 and what the sunset portends. From the 
 signs of the sunset he learns, like the antique 
 Roman husbandman — 
 
 * When the south projects a stormy day, 
 And when the clearing north will pufF the clouds away.' 
 
 According as the interpretation of the signs
 
 HAYAIAKING. 173 
 
 be favourable, adverse, or doubtful, so lie gives 
 his orders. 
 
 This afternoon, as he stands leaning- on the 
 prong, he marks the soft air whieh seems itself 
 to be heated, and renders the shade, if you 
 seek it f<ir coolness, as sultry as the open field. 
 The flies are numerous and busy — the horses 
 can barely stand still, and nod their heads to 
 shake them off. The liills seem near, and the 
 trees on the sunnnit are distinctly visible. 
 Such noises as are heard seem exaggerated and 
 hollow. There is but little cloud, mere thin 
 flecks ; but the horizon has a brassy look, and 
 the blue of the sky is hard and opaque. 
 Farmer George recollects that the barometer 
 he tapped before coming out showed a falluig 
 mercury ; he does not like these appearances, 
 more especially the heated breeze. There is a 
 large (piantity of hay in the meadow, much of 
 it quite ready for carting, indeed, the waggons 
 are picking it up as fast as they can, and the 
 rest, if left spread about through next day — 
 Sunday — would be fit on Monday. 
 
 On Sunday there are no wages to pay to 
 the labourers ; but the sun, if it shines, works 
 as hard and eftectually as evTr. It is always
 
 174 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 a temptation to the haymaker to leave his 
 half-made hay spread about for Sunday, so 
 that on Monday morning he may find it made. 
 Another reason why he hesitates is because 
 he knows he will have trouble with the la- 
 bourers, who will want to be off early as it is 
 Saturday. They are not so ready to work an 
 hour or two overtime as when he was a boy. 
 On the other hand, he recollects that the 
 weather cableo'rams from America foretell the 
 arrival of a depression. What would his 
 grandfather have thought of adjusting the 
 work in an English meadow to the tenour of 
 news from the other side of the Atlantic ? 
 
 Suddenly, while he ponders, there arises 
 a shout from the labourers. The hay in one 
 spot, as if seized by an invisible force, lifts 
 itself up and revolves round and round, rising 
 higher every turn. A miniature cyclone is 
 whirling it up — a column of hay twistmg m 
 a circle and rising above the trees. Then the 
 force of the whirlwind spends itself ; some of 
 the hay falls on the oaks, and some drifts 
 with the breeze across the field before it 
 sinks. 
 
 This decides him at once. He resolves to
 
 HAYMAKING. 175 
 
 have all the liay carted that he can, and tlie 
 remainder put u}) mto haycocks. The men 
 grumble when they hear it ; perhaps a year 
 ago they woidd have openly nuitinied, and 
 refused to work beyond the usual hour. But, 
 thouffh wao-es are still hi^'h, tlie labcjurers feel 
 that they are not so much the masters as they 
 were — they grumble, but obey. The hay- 
 cocks are put up, and the rick-cloth unfolded 
 over the partly made rick. Farmer George 
 hunself sees to it that the cloth does not touch 
 the rick at the edges, or the rain, if it comes, 
 will ii'o throuoh instead of shootmo- off, and 
 that the ropes are taut and firmly belayed. 
 His caution is justified in the night by a vio- 
 lent thunderstorm, and in the morning it is 
 rainmg steadily. 
 
 It rains again on Monday, Tuesday, and 
 Wednesday. Thursday it does not ram, but 
 the hedges are wet, the ground is soaked, the 
 grass hung with raindrops, the sky heavy 
 with masses of driftmg cloud. The hay can- 
 not be touched ; it must lie a day till suffi- 
 ciently dry. Friday is more hopeful. He 
 walks out into the fields, and kicks a haycock 
 half over. The hay is still wet, but he con-
 
 >> 
 
 176 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 gratulates himself that not much damage is 
 done. Saturday is warm and fine — work goes 
 on again. But Sunday is near. Sunday is 
 fiery hot. Monday, the rain pours down with 
 tropical vehemence. 
 
 Thus the monotonous, heart-breaking 
 days go by and lengthen into weeks, and the 
 weeks extend into months. The wheat is 
 turning colour, and still the hay lies about, 
 and the farmer has ceased even to tap the ba- 
 rometer. Those fields that are not cut are 
 brown as brown can be — the grass has seeded 
 and is over ripe. The labourers come every 
 day, and some trifling job is found for them — 
 the garden path is weeded, the nettles cut, and 
 such little matters done. Their wao'es are 
 paid every week in silver and gold — harvest 
 wao:es, for which no stroke of harvest work 
 has been done. He must keep them on, be- 
 cause any day the weather may brighten, and 
 then they will be wanted. But the weather 
 does not brighten, and the drain of ready 
 cash contmues. Besides the men, the mow- 
 ing machine is idle in the shed. Even if the 
 rain ceases, the crops are so laid that it is 
 doubtful if it can be employed. The horse-
 
 HAYMAKING. 177 
 
 rake is idle, the elevator is idle, the hay- 
 iiiukin^' inachine is idle, and these represent 
 cajntal, if not to a large amount. He notes 
 the price of hay at the market. For months 
 past it has been low — so low that it has 
 hardly paid him to sell that portion of old 
 hay which he felt he could spare. From 
 October of last year to June of this [1879] 
 the price remained about the same. It is 
 now rising, but he has no more old hay to 
 part with, and the new is not yet made. He 
 has to bear in mind that his herd of cows 
 has to be kept in high feed all the winter, to 
 supply an unvarying quantity of milk to the 
 London purchaser. 
 
 These wet days, forcing him unwillingly 
 to stay within doors, send him to his books 
 and accounts, and they tell a story somewhat 
 at variance with the prevalent behef that 
 dairy-farming is tlie only branch of farmino- 
 that is still profitable. First, as to the milk- 
 selling. Cows naturally yield a larger suj^ply 
 in the summer than in winter, but by the 
 provisions of the contract between the farmer 
 and the milkman the quantity sent in summer 
 is not to exceed, and the (luantity in winter 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 not to fall short of, a stipulated amount.^ 
 The price received in summer is about five- 
 pence or fivepence-halfpenny per imperial gal- 
 lon, afterwards retailed in London at about one 
 shilling and eightpence. When the cost of 
 conveyance to the station, of the horses, of 
 the wear and tear, of the men who have to be 
 paid for doing nothing else but look after the 
 milk, is deducted, the profit to the farmer is 
 but small. He thinks, too, that he notices a 
 decided fallin2;-off in the demand for milk 
 even at this price. 
 
 Some dairies find a difficulty m disposing 
 of the milk — they cannot find a purchaser. 
 He has himself a considerable surplus over 
 and above what the contract allows hun to 
 send. This must either be wasted entirely or 
 made into butter and cheese. In order to 
 make cheese, the plant, the tubs, vats, presses, 
 and so on, must be kept in readiness, and 
 there must be an experienced person to super- 
 
 ^ An improvement upon this system lias been introduced bv 
 the leading metropolitan dairy company. The farmer is asked 
 to fix a minimum quantity which he will engage to supply 
 daily, but he can send as much more as he likes. This permits 
 of economical and natural management in a dairy, which was 
 very difficult under the rigid rule mentioned above.
 
 HAYMAKING. 179 
 
 intend the work. This person mnst be paid 
 a salary, and lodge and board in the house, 
 representing therefore a considerable outlay. 
 The cheese, when made and sent to market, 
 fluctuates of course in price : it may be as 
 low as fourpence a pound wholesale ; it may 
 go as high as sixpence. Fourpence a pound 
 wholesale will not pay for the making ; six- 
 l)cnce will leave a jirofit ; but of late the 
 price has gone rather to the lower than the 
 higher figure. A few years since, when the 
 iron industries flourished, this kind of cheese 
 had a good and ready sale, and there was a 
 profit belonging to it ; but since the iron 
 trade has been in so depressed a condition 
 this cheese has sold badly. The surplus milk 
 consequently brings no profit, and is only made 
 into cheese because it shall not be wasted, and 
 in the hope that possibly a favourable turn of 
 the cheese market may liappen. Neither the 
 summer cheese nor the summer milk is brino- 
 ing him in a fortune. 
 
 Mcanthne the hay is spoiling in the fields. 
 But a few years ago, when agricultural prices 
 were inflated, and men's minds were full of 
 confidence, he recollects seeing standing grass 
 
 :!T 2
 
 180 HODGE AN]) HIS MASTERS. 
 
 crops sold by auction for 5/. the acre, and 
 in some cases even higher prices were realised. 
 This year similar auctions of standing grass 
 crops hardly realised 30n. an acre, and in some 
 instances a purchaser could not be found even 
 at that price. The difference in the value of 
 grass represented by these prices is very great. 
 He has no pigs to sell, because, for a long- 
 while past, he has had nothmg upon which 
 to feed them, the milk being sold. The pig- 
 sties are full of weeds ; he can hardly fatten 
 one for his own use, and has scarcely better 
 facilities for keeping pigs than an agricultural 
 labourer. The carriao'e of the milk to the 
 station requires at least two quick horses, and 
 perhaps more ; one cannot do it twice a day, 
 even with a very moderate load. The hard 
 highway and the incessant work would soon 
 knock a single horse up. The mowmg ma- 
 chine and the horse-rake must be drawn by a 
 similar horse, so that the dairy farm may be 
 said to require a style of horse like that em- 
 ployed by omnibus proprietors. The acreage 
 being limited, he can only keep a certam num- 
 ber of horses, and, therefore, has no room for 
 a brood mare.
 
 HAYMAKING. 181 
 
 Farmer George is aware that notliing now 
 pays like a brood cart mare with fair good 
 hick. The colt born in April is often sold 
 six months afterwards, in September, for 20/. 
 or 25/., and even up to oO/., according to ex- 
 cellence. The value of cart-horse colts has 
 risen greatly, and those who are fortunately 
 able tc mamtain a brood mare have reaped the 
 profit. But Mr. George, selling the milk, and 
 keepmg a whole stud of nags for the milk 
 cart, the mowing machine, the horse-rake, and 
 so forth, cannot maintain a l^rood mare as 
 well. In the whiter, it is true, the milk may 
 sell for as high a price as 10^/. per gallon of 
 four quarts, but then he has a difficulty in 
 procuring the quantity contracted for, and 
 may perhaps have to buy of neighbours to 
 keep up the precise supply. 
 
 His herd must also be manaf>-ed for the 
 purpose, and must be well fed, and he will 
 probably have to buy food for them in addi- 
 tion to his hay. The nag horses, too, that 
 draw the milk wao-o-on, have to be fed durino- 
 the winter, and are no slight expense. As 
 for fattening a beast in a stall, with a view to 
 take the jirize at Christmas at the local show,
 
 182 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 he has abandoned that, findmg that it costs 
 more to bring the animal up to the condition 
 required than he can afterwards sell it for. 
 There is no profit in that. America presses 
 upon him hard, too — as hard, or harder, than 
 on the wheat-grower. Cases have been known 
 of American cheese beincf sold in manufac- 
 turing towns as low as 2d. per pound retail 
 — given away by despairing competition. 
 
 How, then, is the dairyman to succeed 
 when he cannot, positively cannot, make 
 cheese to sell at less than Ad. per pound 
 wholesale ? Of course such instances are ex- 
 ceptional, but American cheese is usually sold 
 a penny or more a pound below the Enghsh 
 ordinary, and this cuts the ground from under 
 the dairyman's feet ; and the American cheese 
 too is acquiring a reputation for richness, and, 
 price for price, surpasses the English in qua- 
 lity. Some people who have long cherished 
 a prejudice agamst the American have found, 
 upon at last bemg induced to try the two, 
 that the Canadian cheddar is actually superior 
 to the English cheddar, the English selling at 
 10(7. per pound and the Canadian at Id. 
 
 Mr. George finds he pays a very high rent
 
 HAYMAKING. 183 
 « 
 
 for his o-rass land — some oOv. per acre — and 
 upon reckoning up the figures in his account- 
 books heaves a sigh. His neighbours per- 
 chance may be making fortunes, though they 
 tell quite a different tale, but he feels that he 
 is not growing rich. The work is hard, or 
 rather it is contmuous. Xo one has to attend 
 to his duties so regularly all the year round as 
 the man who looks after cows. They cannot 
 be left a single day from the 1st of January 
 to the 31st of December. Nor is the social 
 state of things altogether pleasant to reflect 
 on. His sons and daughters have all left 
 home ; not one would stay and take to the 
 dairy work. They have gone into the towns, 
 and found more congenial employment there. 
 He is himself growing in years. His wife, 
 having once left off making cheese when the 
 milk selling connnenced, and havmg tasted 
 the sweets of rest, is unwillmg to return to 
 that hard labour. Wlien it is done he must 
 pay some one to do it. 
 
 In every Avay ready money is gomg out 
 of the house. Cash to pay the haymakers 
 idlhig about ui the sheds out of the rain ; 
 cash to pay the men who manag(> tlie milk ;
 
 184 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 cash to pay the woman who makes the cheese 
 out of the surpkis milk ; cash to pay the 
 blacksmith for continually re-shoeing the milk- 
 cart nasfs and for mendino; machines ; cash to 
 pay tlie brewer and the butcher and the 
 baker, neither of whom took a sovereign here 
 when he was a lad, for his father ate his own 
 bacon, brewed his own beer, and baked his 
 own bread ; cash to pay for the education of 
 the cottagers' children ; cash, a great deal of 
 cash, to pay the landlord. 
 
 Mr. George, having had enough of his 
 accounts, rises and goes to the window. A 
 rain cloud sweeping along the distant hills 
 has hidden them from sio^ht, and the rack 
 hurries overhead driven before the stormy 
 wind. There comes a knock at the door. It 
 is the collector calling the second time for 
 the poor rates, which have grown heavier of 
 late. 
 
 But, however delayed, the haymaking is 
 finished at last, and by-and-by, when the 
 leaves have fallen and the hunting com- 
 mences, a good run drives away for the time 
 at least the memory of so unpropitious a 
 season. Then Mr. George some mild morn-
 
 'the juke's country.' 185 
 
 ing forms one of a little group of well -mounted 
 fanners waiting at a quiet corner while the 
 hounds draw a great Avood, Two of them 
 are men long past middle age, whose once 
 tawny beards are grizzled, but who are still 
 game, perhaps more so than the rising gene- 
 ration. The rest have followed them here, 
 aware that these old hands know every inch 
 of the country, and are certain to be in the 
 right ])lace. The sjiot is not far from the 
 park wall, wlicre the wood runs up into a 
 wedge-shaped point, and ends m a low mound 
 and hedge. Most of the company at the meet 
 in the park have naturally cantered across the 
 level sward, scattering the sheep as they go, 
 and are now assembled along the side of the 
 wood, near where a green ' drive ' goes 
 through it, and apparently gives direct access 
 to the fields beyond. From thence they can 
 see the huntsman in the wood occasionally, 
 and trace the exact course the hounds are 
 taking in their search. 
 
 A gallant show it is by the wood ! Horse- 
 men and horsewomen, late comers hastening 
 up, restless horses, a throng for ever in 
 motion, ami every now and then the blast
 
 186 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 of a horn rising up from the trees beneath. 
 A gallant sliow indeed, but the two old 
 cunning ones and their followers have slipped 
 away down to this obscure corner, where 
 they can see nothing of it, and are them- 
 selves hidden. They know that the wood 
 is triangular in shape, and that from this, the 
 apex, they have merely to pass the low hedge 
 in front, and, turning to the left, ride along 
 the lower side, and so bisect the course the 
 fox will probably take. They know that 
 the ' drive,' which offers so straight and easy 
 a descent through the wood from the park, 
 is pleasant enough till the lower ground is 
 reached. There the soft, oozy earth, which 
 can never dry under the trees, is poached mto 
 a slough through which even timber carriages 
 cannot be drawn. Nor can a horseman slip 
 aside, because of the ash poles and thorn 
 thickets. Those who are trapped there must 
 return to the park and gallop all round the 
 wood outside, unless they like to venture a 
 roll m that liquid mud. Any one can go to a 
 meet, but to know all the peculiarities of the 
 covers is only given to those who have ridden 
 over the country these forty years. In this
 
 'the juke's country. 187 
 
 corner a detached copse of spruce fir keeps off 
 the wind — the direction of which they have 
 noted — and m this shelter it is almost warm. 
 
 The distant crack of a whip, the solitary 
 cry of a hound, a hollow shout, and similar 
 sounds, come frequently, and now and then 
 there is an irrepressible stir in the little group 
 as they hear one of the many false alarms that 
 always occur in drawing a great wood. To 
 these noises they are keenly sensitive, l)ut 
 utterly ignore the signs of other life around 
 them. A pheasant, alarmed by the hounds, 
 comes running quietly, thinking to escape 
 into the line of isolated copses that commences 
 here ; but, suddenly confronted by the horse- 
 men just outside, rises with an uproar, and 
 goes sailing down over the fields. Two squir- 
 rels, happy in the mild weather, frisk out of 
 the copse into the dank grass, till a curvet of 
 one of the horses frightens them up into the 
 firs again. 
 
 Horses and men are becoming impatient. 
 ' That dalk'd keeper lias left an earth <^pen,' 
 remarks one of the riders. His companion 
 points with his whip at the hedge just where 
 it joins the wood. A lonu* slender nuizzle is
 
 188 HODGE AND HIS MASTEKS. 
 
 thrust for a moment cautiously over the bare 
 sandy mound under cover of a thorn stole. 
 One sniff, and it is withdrawn. The fox 
 thought also to steal away along the copses, 
 the worst and most battling course he could 
 choose. Five minutes afterwards, and there 
 is this time no mistake. There comes from 
 the park above the low, dull, rushing roar of 
 hundreds of hoofs, that strike the sward to- 
 gether, and force by sheer weight the reluc- 
 tant earth to resound. The two old hands 
 lead over the hedge, and the little company, 
 slipping along below the wood, find them- 
 selves well on the track, far in front of the 
 main body. There is a block in the treacherous 
 ' drive,' those who were foremost struggling 
 to get back, and those behmd strugglmg to 
 come down. The rest at last, learning the 
 truth, are galloping round the outside, and 
 taking it out of their horses before they get 
 on the course at all. 
 
 It is a splendid burst, and the pace is 
 terrible. The farmers' powerful horses find 
 it heavy gomg across the fresh ploughed fur- 
 rows and the wet ' squishey ' meadows, where 
 the double mounds cannot be shirked. Now
 
 'the juke's country.' 189 
 
 a lull, and the two old hands, a little at 
 fault, make for the rising- ground, where 
 are some ricks, and a tlireshing machine at 
 work, thinking from thence to see over the 
 tall hedgerows. Upon the rick the labourers 
 have stopped work, and are eagerly watching 
 the chase, for from that height they can see 
 the whole field. Yonder the main body have 
 found a succession of fields with the gates all 
 open : some carting is in progress, and the 
 gates have been left open fi^i- the carter's con- 
 venience. A hundred horsemen and eight or 
 ten ladies are galloping in an extended line 
 along this route, riding hardest, as often hap- 
 pens, when the hounds are quiet, that they 
 may be ready wlien the chiding recommences. 
 Suddenly the labourers exclaim and point, 
 the hounds open, and the farmers, knowing 
 from the direction they point where to ride, 
 are ofi^. But this time the fox has doubled, 
 so that the squadrons hitlierto behind are now 
 the closest up, and the farmers in the rear : 
 thus the fortune of war cliano-es, and tlie race 
 is not to the swift. The hibourers on the rick, 
 which stands on the side of a hill, are fully as 
 excited as the riders, and they can see what
 
 190 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 the hunter himself rarely views, i.e., the fox 
 slipping ahead before the hounds. Then they 
 turn to alternately laugh at, and shout direc- 
 tions to a disconsolate gentleman, who, ignorant 
 of the district, is pounded in a small meadow. 
 He is riding frantically round and round, 
 afraid to risk the broad brook which encircles 
 it, because of the treacherous bank, and mad- 
 dened by the receding sound of the chase. A 
 boy gets off the rick and runs to earn sixpence 
 by showing a way out. So from the rick 
 Hodge has his share of the sport, and at that 
 elevation can see over a wide stretch of what 
 he — changing the ' d ' into a ' j ' — calls ' the 
 juke's country.' 
 
 It is a famous land. There are spaces, 
 which on the map look large, and yet have 
 no distinctive character, no individuality as it 
 were. Such broad expanses of plain and vale 
 are usefully employed in the production of 
 cattle and corn. Villages, hamlets, even towns 
 are dotted about them, but a list of such places 
 would not contain a single name that would 
 catch the eye. Though occupymg so many 
 square miles, the district, so far as the world 
 is concerned, is non-existent. It is socially a
 
 i mrrr:, TTTrrT.'r. r^^TTxrr^r^^r ' 
 
 THE JUKES COUNTRY. 191 
 
 blank. But ' the juke's country ' is a well- 
 knoTm land. There are names connected witli 
 it wliich are familiar not only in England, but 
 all the world over, where men — and where do 
 they not ? — converse of sport. Something 
 beyond mere utility, l^eyond plougliing and 
 sowing', has given it within its bounds a 
 species of separate nationality. The personal 
 influence of an acknowledged leader has or- 
 ganised society and impressed it with a quiet 
 enthusiasm. Even the bitterest Radical for- 
 gives the patrician who shoots or rides excep- 
 tionally well, and liunting is a jiursuit which 
 brings the peer and the commoner side by 
 side. 
 
 The agricultural population speak as one 
 man upon the subject. The old farmer will 
 tell you with pride how his advice was sought 
 when disease entered the kennels, and how his 
 remedy saved the lives of valuable hounds. 
 The farmer's son, a mere lad, whose head 
 barely rises to his saddle, talks of ' the duke ' 
 as his hero. This boy knows the country, 
 and can ride straight, better than many a gen- 
 tleman with groom and second horse behind. 
 Already, like his elders, he looks forward im-
 
 192 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 patiently to the fall of the leaf The tenants' 
 wives and daughters allude with pleasure to 
 the annual social gatherings at the mansion, 
 and it is apparent that something like a real 
 bond exists between landlord and tenant. No 
 false pride separates the one from the other — 
 intercourse is easy, for a man of high and 
 ancient lineage can speak freely to the humblest 
 labourer without endangering his precedence. 
 It needs none of the parvenu's hauteur and 
 pomp to support his dignity. Every tenant 
 is treated alike. 
 
 On small estates there is sometimes a com- 
 plaint that the largest tenant is petted while 
 the lesser are harshly treated. Nothing of 
 that is known here. The tenants are as well 
 content as it is possible for men to be who are 
 passmg under the universal depression. No- 
 blesse oblige — it would be imj)ossible for that 
 ancient house to stoop to meanness. The 
 head rides to the hunt, as his ancestors rode 
 to battle, with a hundred horsemen behind 
 him. His colours are like the cockades of 
 olden times. Once now and then even Royalty 
 honours the meet with its presence. Round 
 that ancient house the goodwill of the county
 
 'the juke's country.' 10.'> 
 
 gathers ; and wlien any family event — as a 
 marriage — takes place, tlie hearty congratula- 
 tions offered come from far beyond the actual 
 ])roperty. His pastime is not witliout its use 
 — all are agreed tliat hunting really does im- 
 prove the breed of horses. Certainly it gives 
 a life, a go, a social movement to the country 
 which nothing else imparts. 
 
 It is a pleasant land withal — a land of hill 
 and vale, of Avood and copse. How well re- 
 membered are the copses on the liills. and the 
 steeples, those time-honoured landmarks to 
 wandering riders ! The small meadows with 
 doable mounds have held captive many a 
 stranger. The river that winds throu2:h them 
 enters by-and-by a small but ancient town, 
 with its memories of the fierce Danes, and its 
 present talk of the hunt. About five o'clock 
 on winter afternoons there is a clank of spurs 
 in the courtynrd of the old inn, and the bar is 
 crowded witii men in breeches and top-boots. 
 As they refresh themselves there is a ceaseless 
 lium of conversation, how so-and-so came a 
 cropper, liow another Avent at the brook in 
 (Style, or how some poor horse got staked and 
 was mercifully shot. A talk, in slxn-t, like 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 IIODGE AlsD HIS MASTERS. 
 
 that in camp after a battle, of wounds and 
 glory. Most of these men are tenant farmers, 
 and reference is sure to be made to the price 
 of cheese, and the forthcoming local agri- 
 cultural shov^'. 
 
 This old market town has been noted for 
 generations as a great cheese centre. It is 
 not, perhaps, the most convenient situation 
 for such a market, and its population is incon- 
 siderable ; but the trade is. somehow or other, 
 a tradition of the place, and traditions are 
 hard to shake. Efforts have been made to 
 establish rival markets in towns nearer to the 
 modern resorts of commerce, but in vain. The 
 attempt has always proved a failure, and to 
 this day the prices quoted at this place rule 
 those of the adjoining counties, and are watched 
 in distant cities. The depression made itself 
 felt here in a very practical manner, for prices 
 fell to such an extent that the manufacture of 
 the old style of cheese became almost a dead 
 loss. Some formers abandoned it, and at much 
 trouble and expense changed their system, and 
 began to produce Cheddar and Stilton. But 
 when the Stilton was at last ready, there was 
 •no demand for it. Almost suddenly, however,
 
 'the juke's couxTiiY.' 195 
 
 and quite recently, a demand sjirang up, and 
 the price of tliat clieese rose. They say here 
 in tlu" har that this probably saved many 
 from ditticulties ; large stocks that had been 
 lying on hand unsaleable for months going 
 off at a good price. They hope that it is an 
 omen of returning pros])erity, and do not fail 
 t» observe the remarkable illustration it affords 
 of the close connection between trade and 
 agriculture. For no sooner did the iron trade 
 revive than the price of cheese responded. 
 The elder men cannot refrain from chuckling 
 over the altered tone of the uihabitants of 
 cities towards the farmers. ' Years ago,' they 
 say, ' we were held up to scorn, and told that 
 we were (piite useless ; there was nothing so 
 contemptible as the British farmer. Now 
 they have discovered that, after all, we arc- 
 some good, and even Manchester sympathises 
 with us.' 
 
 It is now hoped that the forthcoming local 
 show — largely patronised and promoted by the 
 chief of the hunting field— will be better than 
 was at one time anticipated. Those who would 
 like to see the real working' of nu a<'Ticultural 
 show such as this should contrive to visit the
 
 196 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 yard early in the morning of the opening day, 
 some few hours before the pnblic are admitted. 
 The bustle, the crush of excited exhibitors, 
 the cries of men in charge of cattle, the 
 apparently inextricable confusion, as if every- 
 thing had been put off to the last moment — 
 the whole scene is intensely agricultural. 
 Every one is calling for the secretary. A 
 drover wants to know where to put his fat 
 cattle ; a carter wants to ask where a great 
 cart-horse is to stand — he and his horse to- 
 gether are hopelessly floundering about in the 
 crowd. The agent of a firm of implement 
 manufacturers has a telegram that another 
 machine is coming, and is anxious for extra 
 space ; the representative of an artificial manure 
 factory is vamly seeking a parcel that has got 
 mislaid. The seedsman requires permission 
 to somewhat shift liis stall ; wherever is the 
 secretary ? 
 
 When he appears, a clergyman at once 
 pounces on him, to apply for tickets for 
 the dinner, and is followed by a farmer, who 
 must have a form and an explanation how to 
 fill it up. One of his labourers has decided at 
 the last minute to enter for a prize — he has
 
 'thk juke's country. Iii7 
 
 h;i(l a year to make u\) his mind in. A crowd 
 of members of tlie Society are pusliing- round 
 for a ])rivate view, and Avatchiiig the judges 
 at their Avork. They all turn to tlie secretary 
 to ask where such and such an exhibit may 
 be found, and demand why on earth the cata- 
 logues are not ready ? Mr. Secretary, a stout 
 tenant farmer, in breeches and top-boots, whose 
 broad face beams with good nature (selected, 
 perhaps, for that very quality), pants and 
 wipes his forehead, for, despite the cold, the 
 exertion and the universal flurry have made 
 him ([uiti' hot. lie gives every inquirer a 
 civil answer, and affably begs the eager folk 
 that press upon him to come up into the 
 committee-room. 
 
 At this a satisfied smile replaces the 
 troubled ex])ression u})on their faces. They 
 feel that their dihicultics are at an end ; they 
 have iTot hold of the riii'ht man at last — there 
 is something soothing in the very sound of 
 the committee -room. "\\'hcn they get up into 
 this im})ortant a})artment tliey find it ([uite 
 empty. There is a blazing tire in the grate, 
 and littered on the long table is a mass of 
 forms, letters, lists, and proofs of the cata-
 
 198 HODGE AND HIS IMASTERS. 
 
 logne waiting for tlie judges' decision to be 
 entered. After half an hour or so their hopes 
 begin to fall, and possibly some one goes down 
 to try and haul the secretary up mto his office. 
 The messenger finds that much-desired man 
 in the midst of an excited group ; one has 
 hhn by the arm puUmg liim forward, another 
 by the coat dragging him l)ack, a third is 
 bawling at him at the top of a powerful voice. 
 
 By-and-by, however, the secretary comes 
 panting up into the committee-room with a 
 letter in his hand and a pleased expression on 
 his features. He announces that he has just 
 had a note from his Grace, who, with his part}^, 
 will be here early, and who hopes that all is 
 gomg on well. Then to business, and it is 
 surprismg how quickly he disposes of it. A 
 farmer himself, lie knows exactly what is 
 wanted, and gives the right order without a 
 moment's liesitation. It is no new experience 
 to him, and despite all this apparent confusion, 
 everythmg presently falls into its place. 
 
 After the opening of the show there is a 
 meeting, at which certain prizes are distributed, 
 among them rewards to the l^est ploughman 
 in the 'juke's country,' and to those labourers
 
 'the jukes (JOL^ITliY. 19U 
 
 who have remained longest in the service of 
 one master. For the oTaeeful duty of presen- 
 tation a marehioness lias been selected, wlio, 
 Avith other visitors of hio-h social rank, has 
 come over from that famous huntinu" mansion. 
 To meet that brilliant party the whole agricul- 
 tural interest hns assendjled. The room is 
 crowded with tenant farmers, the entire hunt- 
 ing field is present, j^^very clergyman in tlie 
 district is here, together with the gentry, and 
 many visitors for the hunting season. Among 
 them, shoulder to shoulder, are numbers of auri- 
 cultural labourers, their wives, and daughters, 
 dressed in their best for the occasion. After 
 some speeches, a name is called, and an aged 
 labourer steps forward. 
 
 His oTandcliildren are behind him : two of 
 his sons, qidte elderly tliemselves, attend him 
 almost to the front, so that he may have to 
 make but a few steps unsupported. The old 
 man is frosted Avith age, and m(.)ves stiiily, 
 like a piece of mechanism ratlier than a living 
 creature, nor is there any ex])ression — neither 
 smile nor interest — upon his absolutely inuno- 
 bile features. He wears breeches and gaiters, 
 and a blue coat cut in the style of two gene-
 
 200 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 rations since. There is a small clear space in 
 the midst of the well-dressed thronii'. There 
 he stands, and for the moment the hum is 
 hushed. 
 
 For sixty years that old man laboured 
 upon one farm ; sixty years of ploughing and 
 sowing, sixty harvests. What excitement, 
 what discoveries and inventions — with what 
 giant strides the world has progressed while 
 he quietly followed the plough I An acknow- 
 ledgment has been publicly awarded to him 
 for that long and faithful service. He puts 
 forth his arm : his dry, horny fingers are 
 crooked, and he can neither straighten nor 
 bend them. Not the least sign appears upon 
 his countenance that he is even conscious of 
 what is passing. There is a quick flash of 
 jewelled rings ungloved to the light, and the 
 reward is placed in that claw-like grasp by 
 the white hand of the marchioness. 
 
 Not all the gallant cavahy of the land 
 fearlessly charging hedge and brook can, how- 
 ever, repel the invasion of a foe mightier than 
 their chief. Frost sometimes comes and checks 
 their gaiety. Snow falls, and levels every 
 furrow, and then Hodsfe o'oino; to his work in
 
 THE '.jukk's country.' 201 
 
 the mornino' can clearly trace the track of one 
 of his most powerful masters, Scjidre Reynard, 
 who has been abroad in the niiiht, and, likely 
 enouo-h, throttled the traditional grey goose. 
 The farmer watches for the frozen thatch to 
 drip ; the gentleman visiting the stable looks 
 up disconsolately at the icicles dependent from 
 the slated eave with the same hope. The 
 sight of a stray seagull wandering inland is 
 gladly welcomed, as the harbinger of drench- 
 ing clouds SAveeping up on soft south-westerly 
 gales from the nearest coast. 
 
 The hunt is uji once more, and so short 
 are the hours of the day in the dead of the 
 year, that early night often closes round the 
 chase. From out of the li'looni and the mist 
 comes the distant note of the horn, with a 
 weird and old-world sound. l)y-and-1)y the 
 labourer, trudging homeward, is overtaken by 
 a hunter whose horse's neck dr()()])s with 
 weariness. His boots are splashed with nnid, 
 his coat torn by the thorns. He is a visitor, 
 vainly tryhig to find his way lionic. having 
 come some ten or tifteen miles across country 
 since the morninj'-. The labourer shows the 
 route — the longest way round is the shortest
 
 202 IIODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 at night — and as they go listens eagerly to 
 the hunter's tale of the run. At the cross 
 roads they ^Dart with mutual goodwill towards 
 each other, and a shilling, easily earned, pays 
 that night for the cottager's pipe and glass of 
 ale.
 
 203 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE FINE LADY FARMER. COUNTRY GIRLS. 
 
 A FAIR of well-iiuitclicd bays iii silver-plated 
 harness, and driven by a coachman in hvery, 
 tnrn an easy curve round a corner ot" tlie nar- 
 row country road, forcing- you to step on the 
 sward by the crimson-leafed bramble bushes, 
 and sprinkling the dust over the })reviously 
 glossy surface of the newly fallen horse- 
 chestnuts. Two ladies, elegantly dressed, 
 lounge hi the carriage w4th that graceful 
 idleness — that indifferent indolence — only to 
 be acquired in an atmosphere of luxury. 
 Before they pass out of sight round another 
 turn of the road it is possible to observe that 
 one at least possesses hair of the fashionable 
 hue, and a complexion delicately brilliant — 
 whether wholly natural or partly aided by art. 
 The other nnist be pronounced a shade less 
 rich hi the colours of youth, but is perhai)s
 
 204 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 even more expensively dressed. An expe- 
 rienced observer would at once put them down 
 as mother and daughter, as, indeed, they are. 
 
 The polished spokes of the wheels glitter 
 in the sun, the hoofs of the high- stepping pair 
 beat the firm road in regular cadence, and 
 smoothly the carriage rolls on till the brown 
 beech at the corner hides it. But a sense of 
 wealth, of social station, and refinement — 
 strano'e and in stron"; contrast to the rustic 
 scene — ^lingers behind, like a faint odour of 
 perfume. There are the slow teams pulling 
 stolidly at the ploughs — they were stopped, 
 of course, for the carters to stare at the 
 equipage ; there are the wheat ricks : yonder 
 a lone farmstead, and black cattle grazing in 
 the pasture. Surely the costly bays, whose 
 hoofs may even now be heard, must belong to 
 the lordly owner of these broad acres — this 
 undulating landscape of grass and stubble, 
 which is not beautiful, but evidently fertile ! 
 
 A very brief inquiry at the adjacent mar- 
 ket town disposes of this natural conclusion. 
 It is the carriage of a tenant farmer — but what 
 a tenant ! The shopkeepers here are eloquent, 
 positively gratefully eloquent, in the praise of
 
 THE FINE LADY FAIJMKK. 205 
 
 his wife and daughter. Customers ! — no such 
 customers had been known in the old l)orouo-h 
 from time immemorial. The tradesman as lie 
 speaks involuntarily pulls out his till. ;j;'lances 
 in, and shuts it up with a satisfied bani;-. The 
 old style of farmer, solid and substantial 
 enouirh, fumblini*- at the bottom of \\h canvas 
 bag" for silver and gold, was a crusty cur- 
 mudgeon ^vhere silk and satin, kid gloves, and 
 so forth were concerned. His wife had to 
 look sharp after her ])onltry, geese, and tin-- 
 keys, and such similar perquisites, in order to 
 indulge in any innocent vanity, notwitli- 
 standing that the rent was paid and a heavy 
 balance at the bank. 
 
 Then he would have such a length of 
 credit — a year at least — and nowadays a 
 shopkeeper, though sure of his money, cannot 
 wait long for it. But to ask for the account 
 would give mortal offence. The l)ill would 
 be paid with the remark, intended to be 
 intensely sarcastic, ' Supjiose you thought we 
 was a-gomg to run away — eh?' and the 
 door would never again be darkened by 
 those antique breeches and gaiters. As for 
 the common run of ordinary farmers, their
 
 206 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 wives bought a good deal, but wanted it 
 cheap, and, looking at the low price of corn 
 and the ' paper ' there was floating about, it 
 did not do to allow a long bill to be run up. 
 But the Grange people — ah ! the Grange 
 people put some life mto the place. ' Money ! 
 they must have heaps of money (loweruig 
 
 his voice to a whisper). Why, Mrs. 
 
 brought him a fortune, sir ; why, she's got a 
 larger iucome than our squire (as if it were 
 
 rank treason to say so). Mr. has got 
 
 money too, and, bless you, they holds their 
 heads as high as their landlord's, and good 
 reason they should. They spend as much iii 
 a week as the squire do in a month, and don't 
 cheapen nothing, and your cheque just when- 
 ever you like to ask for it. That's what I 
 calls gentlefolks.' For till and counter gauge 
 long descent, and heraldic quartermgs, and 
 ancestral Crusaders, far below the chink of 
 ready money, that synonym for all the virtues. 
 The Grange people, indeed, are so con- 
 spicuous, that there is little secrecy about 
 them or their affairs. The house they reside 
 in — it cannot be called a farmstead — is a lare'e 
 villa-like mansion of recent erection, and fitted
 
 THE FINE LADY FAIOIEK. 207 
 
 with every modern convenience. The real 
 farmstead which it supphmted lies in a hollow 
 at some distance, and is occupied by the head 
 bailiff, for there are several employed. As the 
 architecture of the villa is consonant with 
 modern ' taste,' so too the interior is furnished 
 in the ' best style,' of course mider the super- 
 vision of the mistress. Mrs. lias filled 
 
 it with rosewood and ormolu, with chairs 
 completely gilt, legs, back, seat, and all, with 
 luxurious ottomans, ' occasional ' tables inlaid 
 Avith mother-o' -pearl, soft carpets, polished 
 brazen grate-fittmgs, semi-ecclesiastical, semi- 
 mediaeval, and so forth. 
 
 Everj^where the ghtter of glass, mirrors 
 over the manteli^ieces, mirrors let into panels, 
 glass chiffoniers, and pendent prisms of glass 
 round the ornamental candlesticks. Mixed 
 with this some of the latest productions of 
 the new English Renaissance — stiff, straight- 
 back, plain oak chau-s, such as men in armour 
 may have used — together with Japanese 
 screens. In short, just such a medley of 
 artistic styles as may he seen in scores of 
 suburban villas where money is of little ac- 
 comit, and even in houses of hi<>her social
 
 208 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 pretensions. There is the usual illustrated 
 dining-room literature, the usual bric-a-brac, 
 the usual cabinet series of poets. There are 
 oil paintings on the walls ; there is an im- 
 mense amount of the most expensive electro- 
 plate on the dinner table ; the toilet acces- 
 sories in the o-uest chambers are ' eleofant ' 
 and recherche. The upholsterer has not been 
 ffrudii'ed. 
 
 For Mrs. is the dauoiiter of a com- 
 
 mercial man, one of the principals of a great 
 firm, and has been accustomed to these things 
 from her youth upwards. She has no sympa- 
 thies with the past, that even yet is loth to 
 quit its hold of the soil and of those who are 
 bred upon it. The ancient simplicity and 
 plainness of country life are positively repul- 
 sive to her ; she associates them with poverty. 
 Her sympathies are with warm, well-lighted 
 rooms, full of comfort, shadowless because of 
 the glare of much gas. She is not vulgar, 
 just the reverse — she is a thorough lady, but 
 she is not of the country and its traditions. 
 She is the city and the suburb transplanted 
 to the midst of corn, and grass, and cattle. 
 She has her maid, skilled in the toilet, her
 
 THE FINE LADY FARMER. 209 
 
 carria<^'e and ])air and pony carriage, grooms, 
 footmen, just exactly as she would have done 
 had she brought her magnificent dowry to a 
 ^■illa at Sydenham. 
 
 In the season, with her daugliter, she goes 
 to town, and drives daily in the ]^ark. just the 
 same as to-day she has driven through the 
 leaf- strewn country lane to the market town. 
 They go also to the sea-side, and now and 
 then to the Continent. I'liey are, of course, 
 invited to the local balls, and to many of the 
 best houses on more private occasions. '\hv 
 ramifications of finance do not except the 
 proudest descendants of the Crusaders, and 
 ' the firm ' has its clients even among them. 
 Bonnets come down fiv^m Madame Louise, 
 boxes of novels from Mudie's ; ' Le Follet ' is 
 read in the original, and many a Parisian 
 romance as well. Visitors are continuallv 
 coming and going — the carriage is perpetualh' 
 backwards and forwards to the distant railwav 
 station. Friends come to the shootinii", the 
 hunting, the fishing ; there is never any lack 
 of society. 
 
 The house is full of servants, and n"( <1 be, 
 to wait upon these people. Xow, in former 
 VOL. L r
 
 210 HODGE AND HIS MASTEKS. 
 
 (lays, and not sQch a great while since, the best 
 of servants came from the country. Mistresses 
 sought for them, and mourned when, having im- 
 bibed town ways and town independence, they 
 took their departure to ' better ' themselves. 
 But that is a thmg of the past ; it is gone with 
 the disappearance of the old style of country 
 life. Servant girls in farmhouses when young- 
 used to have a terribly hard life : hard work, 
 hard fare, up early of a morning, stone flags 
 under foot by day, bare boards under foot up- 
 stairs, small pay, and hard words too often. 
 But they turned out the best of women, the 
 healthiest and strongest, the most sought after. 
 Now they learn a great deal about Timbuctoo, 
 and will soon, no doubt, about Cyprus ; but 
 the ' servant from the country ' is no more. 
 Nothuig less will suit them to begin with 
 than the service of the parish clergyman, then 
 they aspire to the Grange, get there, and re- 
 ceive a finishing education, and can never 
 afterwards condescend to go where a footman 
 is not kept. They become, in short, fine 
 ladies, whose fiithers are stiU at the plough — 
 ladies who at home have been glad of bread 
 and bacon, and now cannot 23ossibly survive
 
 TllK FINE LADY FARMER. 211 
 
 witlioiit ]i()t l)utclier's meat eveiy day, and 
 ii'amc and fish in their seasons. 
 
 lUit to return. Mrs. and her daughter 
 
 have also their saddle horses. They do not 
 often hunt, but frequently go to the meet. 
 They have, it is true, an acceptable excuse for 
 preferring riding to walking — the fashion of 
 tying the dress back so tightly makes it ex- 
 tremely difficult for a lady to get over a 
 country stile. The rigours of winter only 
 enable them to appear even yet more charming 
 in furs and sealskin. In all this the Grange 
 people have not laid themselves open to any 
 rej^roach as to the extravagance or pretension 
 of their doings. With them it is genuine, 
 real, unaffected : in brief, they have money, 
 and have a right to what it can purchase. 
 
 Mr. is not a tenant farmer from ne- 
 cessity ; personally he is not a farmer at all, 
 and knows no more of shorthorns than the 
 veriest ' City ' man. He has a certain taste for 
 country life, and this is his way of enjo^Tiig 
 it — and a very acute way, too, when you 
 come to analyse it. The major portion of 
 his capital is, with his wife's, in the ' firm ; ' 
 it is administered and employed for liim l)y 
 
 r 2
 
 212 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 men whose flunily interests and his are iden- 
 tical, whose knowledge of business is pro- 
 found, whose own capital is there too. It is 
 a fortunate state of thmgs, not brought about 
 in a day, but the growth of more than one 
 generation. Kow this man. as has been re- 
 marked, has fi taste for country Hfe — that is 
 to say, he is an enthusiast over horses — not 
 bettmg, but horses in their best form. He 
 likes to ride and drive about, to shoot, and 
 fish, and hunt. There is nothmg despicable in 
 this, but, after the manner of men, of course 
 he must find an excuse. 
 
 He found it in the children Avhen they 
 were young — two boys and one girl. It was 
 better for them to have country air, to ride 
 about the country lanes, and over the hiUs. 
 The atmosphere altogether was more healthy, 
 more manly than in the suburbs of a city. The 
 excuse is a good one. Now come the means ; 
 two plans are open to him. He can buy an 
 estate, or he can rent a large farm, or rather 
 series of farms. If he purchases a fine estate 
 he must withdraw his capital from business. 
 In the first place, that would be inconvenient 
 to old friends, and even unjust to them ; in the
 
 THE FINE LADY FAKMEK. 213 
 
 second place, it "would reduce his income most 
 materially. Suppose we say, not for absolute 
 exactness, but for the sake of present contrast, 
 that capital well invested in business brings 
 in ten per cent. The same capital invested 
 in land brings in, say, three per cent, nomi- 
 nally ; but is it as much in reality if you 
 deduct those expensive improvements u2)on 
 which tenants insist nowadays, and the five 
 per cents, and ten per cents. alloAved off the 
 rent in bad years ? At all events, it is cer- 
 tain that landlords, as a class, are invest- 
 ing more and more every year in business, 
 which looks as if they did not consider land 
 itself sufficiently remunerative. In addition, 
 when you have bought your estate, should 
 you subsequently wish to realise, the diffi- 
 culties and delays are very trying. You 
 cannot go down to your l)roker and say, ' Sell 
 me a thousand acres this morning.' Capital 
 in land is locked up. 
 
 ]Mr. , havino* been trained in trmli- 
 
 tions of ready money and easy transfer, does 
 not like this prospect. r)ut as the tenant of 
 a great farm it is quite another matter. The 
 larger part oi his capital still remains in the
 
 214 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 ' firm,' and earns him a handsome income. 
 That which is invested in stock, cattle, horses, 
 implements, &c., is in a sense readily nego- 
 tiable if ever he should desire to leave. In- 
 stead of having to pet and pamper discontented 
 tenants, his landlord has to pet and pamper 
 him. He has, in fact, got the upper hand. 
 There are plenty of landlords who would be 
 
 only too glad to get the rich Mr. to 
 
 manure and deep-plough their lands ; but 
 
 there are comparatively few Mr. 's whose 
 
 rent- day payments can be implicitly relied on. 
 
 Mr. , in point of fact, gets all the sweets 
 
 of the country gentleman's life, and leaves the 
 owner all the sour. He has no heir pre- 
 sumptive to check his proceedings ; no law of 
 entail to restrain him ; no old settlements to 
 bmd him hand and foot ; none of those hun- 
 dred and one flunily interests to consult 
 which accumulate in the course of years 
 around a landed estate, and so seriously cur- 
 tail the freedom of the man in possession, the 
 head of the family. So far as liberty and finan- 
 cial considerations go, he is much better off 
 than his landlord, who perhaps has a title. 
 Thouii'h he knows nothinir of farmino;, he
 
 THE FINE LADY FAKMEK. 215 
 
 has the family instinct of accounts and figures ; 
 lie audits the balance-sheets and botjks of his 
 bailiff personally, and is not easily cheated. 
 Small peculations of course g*o on, but nothing 
 serious. The farms pay their way, and con- 
 tribute a trifle towards the household ex- 
 penses. For the rest, it is taken out in 
 liberty, out-of-door life, field sports, and un- 
 limited horses. His wife and daughter mix 
 in the best society the county affords, l)esides 
 their annual visits to town and the sea-side : 
 they probably enjoy thrice the liberty and 
 pleasure they would elsewhere. Certainly 
 they are in blooming health. The eldest son 
 is studying i'or tlic law, the younger has the 
 commercial instinct more strongly developed, 
 and is already with the ' firm.' Both of them 
 get the full benefit of country life whenever 
 they wish ; both of tliem feel that there is 
 plenty of ca[)ital behind them, and not the 
 slightest jealousy exists on account of pnmo- 
 g-eniture. Of course they have their troubles 
 — wJiat family has not its troubles ? — but 
 on the whole their i)Osition is an enviable one. 
 
 AVhen Mrs. and her dauijhter rustle 
 
 into their pew at churcli — placed next in
 
 216 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 honour to that of the proprietor of the soil — 
 all eyes are turned upon them. The old- 
 fashioned farmer's wife, who until her years 
 pressed heavily upon her made the cheese and 
 butter in her husband's dairy, is not so old 
 but that her eyes can distinguish the colour 
 of a ribbon. She may talk of such things as 
 vanities, and unknown in licr day, but for all 
 that a pair of keen eyes criticise skirt, and 
 trimmings, and braidings, and so forth, as 
 displayed up in the Grange pew. Her 
 daugliter, Avho is quite young — fur in lier 
 mother's time farming people did not marry 
 till late in life — brings a still keener pair of 
 eyes to bear in the same direction. 
 
 The bonnets from Regent Street are things 
 to think over and talk of. The old lady dis- 
 inters her ancient finery ; the girl, by hook or 
 crook, is determined to dress in the fashion. 
 If one farmer's wife is a fine lady, why not 
 another ? Do not even the servant ij-irls at 
 the Grange come out twenty times finer than 
 people who have a canvas bag full of sove- 
 reigns at liome, and many such bags at the 
 bank ? So that tlie Grange people, though 
 they pay their way handsomely, and plough
 
 COUNTRY GIRLS. 217 
 
 deep and maiuire lavishly, and lead the van 
 of aoTicnltinv. are not. ])erliaps, an iniiiiixcd 
 good. They hel[) on that sapping and under- 
 mining of the ancient, sturdy sini]ilicity, the 
 solid oak of country character, replacing it 
 with veneer. It is not, of course, all, or a 
 tenth part, their ianlt. or in any Avay trace- 
 al)le to them. It is part and parcel of the 
 wide-spread social changes which have gra- 
 dually been proceeding. 
 
 l>nt the tenant farmer's wife who made the 
 butter and cheese, and even hel[)ed to salt 
 bacon, Avhere is she now ? AVliere are the 
 healthy daughters that used to assist her? 
 The wife is a fine lady — not, indeed, with car- 
 riaofe and iiair, but with a dandy doii'-cart at 
 least ; not with three-guinea bonnets, but with 
 a costly sealskin jacket. There are kid gloves 
 on her hands ; there is a suspicion of perfume 
 about her ; there is a rustlin<>- of silk and 
 satin, and a waving of ostrich feathers. The 
 daughter is i)ale and interesting, and interprets 
 Beethoven, and ])aints the old mill ; while a 
 skilled person, hired at a high [)rice. i*ules in 
 the dairy. The son rides a-hunting. and is 
 ijlib on the odds. The ' offices ' — such it is
 
 218 IIODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 the fashion to call the places in which work 
 was formerly done — are carefully kept in the 
 background. The violets and snowdrops and 
 crocuses are rooted up. all the sweet and 
 tender old flowers ruthlessly eradicated, to 
 make way for a blazing parterre after the 
 jnanner of the suburban villa — gay in the 
 summer, in the spring a wilderness of clay, 
 in the autumn a howling desert of musty 
 evero-reens. 
 
 The ' civilisation ' of the town has, in fact, 
 gone out and taken root afresh m the country. 
 There is no reason why the farmer should not 
 be educated ; there is no reason why his wife 
 should not wear a sealskin jacket, or the 
 daughter interpret Beethoven. But the ques- 
 tion arises, Has not some of the old stubborn 
 spirit of earnest work and careful prudence 
 gone with the advent of the piano and the 
 oil painting ? While wearing the dress of a 
 lady, the wife cannot tuck up her sleeves and 
 see to the butter, or even feed the poultry, 
 which are down at the pen across ' a nasty 
 dirty field.' It is easy to say that farming is 
 gone to the dogs, that corn is low, and stock 
 uncertain, and rents high, and so forth. All
 
 COUNTRY GIRLS. 219 
 
 that is true, but difficulties are nothiug new; 
 nor must too nuicli be expected from the 
 hmd. 
 
 A moderate-sized farm, of from 20U to 
 300 acres, will no more enable the mistress 
 and the misses to play the fine lady to- 
 day than it would two o-enerations ago. 
 It requires work now the same as then 
 — steady, persevering Avork — and, what is 
 more imjiortant, prudence, economy, parsi- 
 mony if you like ; nor do these necessarily 
 mean the coarse manners of a former age. 
 Manners may be good, education may be 
 good, the intellect and even the artistic sense 
 may be cultivated, and yet extravagance 
 avoided. The proverb is true still : ' You 
 cannot have your hare and cook him too.' 
 Now so many cook their hares in the present 
 day without even waiting to catch them first. 
 A euphuism has been invented to cover the 
 wrongfulness of this system ; it is now called 
 ' discounting.' The fine lady farmers dis- 
 count their Imsbands' corn and tat cattle, 
 cheese and butter, before they reach the mar- 
 ket. By-and-by the plough stops in the 
 furrow, and the team is put uj) to auction,
 
 220 HODGE AXD HIS MASTERS. 
 
 and farewell is said to the old homestead for 
 evermore. 
 
 There was no warmer welcome to be met 
 with in life than nsed to be bestowed upon 
 the fortunate visitor to an old house in the 
 country where the people were not exactly 
 farmers in the ordinary sense, because they 
 were sufficiently well off to be independent, 
 and yet made no pretence to gentility. You 
 dropped in quite unexpectedly and informally 
 after a pleasant stroll about the fields with a 
 double-barrel, untrammelled by any attendant. 
 The dojxs were all over cleavers stickms: to 
 their coats, and your boots had to be wiped 
 with a wisp of straw ; your pocket was heavy 
 with a couple of rabbits or a hare, and your 
 hands black enough from powder and handling 
 gates and stiles. But they made you feel 
 immediately that such trifles were not of the 
 slightest account. 
 
 The dogs were allowed to rush in anyhow 
 and set to work to lick their paws by the fire 
 as if the house was their own. Your apology 
 about your boots and general state of disorder 
 was received with a smile by the mistress, 
 who said she had sons of her own, and knew
 
 COUNTKV (ilKLS. 221 
 
 their ways. Forthwith one sturdy son seized 
 the double- barrel, and conveyed it to a place 
 of safety ; a second took the rabbits or the 
 hare, that you might not be incommoded l)y 
 such a lump m your pocket, and sent tlie 
 game on home to your quarters by a labourer ; 
 a third relieved you of your hat. As many 
 tall young ladies rose to offer you a seat, so 
 that it was really difficult to know which way 
 to turn, besides which the old ii'randfather 
 with silvery hair pressed you to take his chair 
 by the fire. 
 
 They had just sat down to the old- 
 fashioned tea at half-past four, and in a 
 moment there was a cup and plate ready. 
 The tea had a fragrant scent, warm and grate- 
 ful after the moist atmosphere of the meadows, 
 smelling of decaying leaves. The mistress sug- 
 gested that a nip of brandy might improve 
 it, thinking that tea was hardly strong enough 
 for a man. But that was declined ; for what 
 could be more delicious than the sweet, thick 
 cream poured m by a liberal hand ? A fine 
 ham had already been put on the table, as if 
 by magic — the girls really seemed to antici- 
 pate everything you could possibly want. As
 
 222 ilODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 for the butter, it was exquisite, and so, too, 
 the home-baked bread, the more so because 
 only touched in the processes of preparing by 
 the whitest and softest of hands. Such 
 simple thmgs become luxuries when brought 
 to perfection by loving care. The old dog on 
 the hearthrug came thrustmg his nose into 
 your hands, makmg almost too great friends, 
 being perfectly well aware (cunning old fel- 
 low) that he could coax more out of a visitor 
 than one of the family, who knew how he had 
 stuffed all day. 
 
 Over all there was an atmosphere of wel- 
 come, a genial brightness. The young men 
 were anxious to tell you where the best sport 
 could be got. The young ladies had a merry, 
 genuine, unaffected smile — clearly delighted 
 to see you, and not in the least ashamed of it. 
 They showed an evident desire to please, 
 without a trace of an arriere pensee. Tall, 
 well-developed, in the height of good health, 
 the bloom upon the cheek and the brilliant 
 eyes formed a picture irresistibly charming. 
 But it was the merry laugh that so lono- 
 dwelt in the memory — nothmg so thoroughly 
 enchants one as the woman who laughs from
 
 COUXTKV (IIIM.S. 2'2y> 
 
 her heart in tlie joyousness of youtli. They 
 joiiK'd freely in the conversation, bnt did not 
 thrust themselves forward. They Avere, of 
 course, eao;er for news of the far away world, 
 but not a hint was breathed of those social 
 scandals which now form our favourite gossip. 
 From little side remarks concerning' domestic 
 matters it was evident that they were well 
 acquainted with household duties. Indeed, 
 they assisted to remove the things from the 
 table without any consciousness that it was a 
 menial task. 
 
 It was not long after tea before, drawing- 
 round the fire, pipes were produced, and you 
 were asked to smoke. Of course you declined 
 on account of the ladies, but it was none the 
 less i^leasant to be asked. There was tlie great 
 secret of it all — the genume, liberal, open- 
 handed and open-hearted profi:ering of all the 
 house contained to tlie iruest. And it was 
 none the less an amusini*; conversation because 
 each of the girls candidly avowed her oami 
 opmions upon such topics as were started — 
 blushing a little, it is true, if you asked the 
 reason for the opmion, for ladies are not 
 always quite ready with the why and where-
 
 224 IIODGE AXD HIS MASTERS. 
 
 fore. But the contrast of character, the ui- 
 dividuality disj^layecl, gave a zest and mterest 
 to the talk ; so that the hour wore late before 
 you were aware of it. Then, if you would 
 go, two, at least, of the three boys piloted you 
 by the best and cleanest route, and did not 
 wish you farewell till you were in the straight 
 road. This was not so many years ago. 
 
 To-day, if you call at such a country house, 
 how strangely different is the reception ! None 
 of the family come to the door to meet you. 
 A servant shows you into a parlour — drawing- 
 room is the proper word now — well carpeted 
 and furnished in the modern style. She then 
 takes your name — what a world of change is 
 shown in that trifling piece of etiquette ! By- 
 and-by, after the proper interval, the ladies 
 enter in morning costume, not a stray curl 
 allowed to wander from its stern bands, na- 
 ture rigidly repressed, decorum — ' Society ' — 
 in every flounce and trimming. You feel that 
 you liave committed a solecism coming on 
 foot, and so carrying the soil on your boots 
 from the fields without into so elegant an 
 apartment. Visitors are obviously expected 
 to arrive on wheels, and in correct trim for
 
 COUNTRY GIRLS. 225 
 
 company. A remark about the crops falls on 
 barren ground ; a question concerning the 
 dairy, ignorantly hazarded, is received with so 
 much hauteur that at last you see such subjects 
 are considered vulgar. Then a touch of the 
 bell, and decanters of port and sherry are pro- 
 duced, and your wine presented to you on an 
 electro salver, together with sweet biscuits. 
 It is the correct thing to sip one glass and 
 eat one biscuit. 
 
 The conversation is so msipid, so entirely 
 confined to the merest platitudes, that it be- 
 comes absolutely a relief to escape. You are 
 not pressed to stay and dine, as you would 
 have been in the old days — not because there 
 is a lack of hospitality, but because they would 
 prefer a little time for preparation in order that 
 the dinner might be got up in polite style. So 
 you depart — chilled and depressed. No one 
 steps with you to open the gate and exchange 
 a second farewell, and ex})ress a cordial wish 
 to see you again there. ^Ou feel that you 
 must walk in measured sk-j) and place your 
 hat precisely perpendicular, for the eyes of 
 ' Society ' are upon vou. What a comfort 
 when you turn a corner behind the hedge and 
 Vol.. 1. ci
 
 226 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 can thrust your hands into your pockets and 
 whistle ! 
 
 The young ladies, liowever, still possess 
 one thing which they cannot yet destroy — the 
 good constitution and the rosy look derived 
 from ancestors whose days were spent in the 
 field under the glorious sunshine and the dews 
 of heaven. They worry themselves about it 
 in secret and wish they could appear more 
 ladylike — i.e. thin and white. Nor can they 
 feel quite so languid and indifferent, and blase 
 as they desire. Thank Pleaven they cannot! 
 But they have succeeded in obliterating the 
 faintest trace of character, and in suppressing 
 the slightest approach to anunation. They 
 have all got just the same opinions on the 
 same topics — that is to say, they have none at 
 all ; the idea of a laugh has departed. There 
 is a dead line of uniformity. But if you are 
 sufficiently intimate to enter into the inner life 
 of the place it will soon be apparent that they 
 either are or wish to appear up to the ' ways 
 of the world.' 
 
 They read the so-called social journals, 
 and absorb the gossip, tittle-tattle, and per- 
 sonalities — absorb it because they have no
 
 COUNTRY GIKLS. 227 
 
 means of c'oin])arison or of checking' the 
 ini[)re8.sion it prodnces of the general loose 
 tone of society. They know all about it, 
 much more than you do. Xo turn of the 
 latest divorce case or great social exposure 
 has escaped them, and the light, careless way 
 in which it is tlie fashion nowadays to talk 
 oi)enly of such things, as if they were got up 
 like a novel — only with living characters — for 
 amusement, has penetrated into this distant 
 circle. l)ut then tlic}^ have been to lialf the 
 leading watering-})laces — from Brighton to 
 Scarborough ; as for London, it is an open 
 book to tliem ; the railways have long dissi- 
 pated tlie pleasing mysteries that once hung 
 over the metropolis. Talk of this sort is, of 
 course, only talk ; still it is not a satisfactory 
 sign of the times. If the country girl is no 
 longer the hoyden that swung on the gates 
 and romped in the hay, neither has she the 
 innocent thouglit of tlie olden days. 
 
 At the same time our friends are greatly 
 devoted to the Church — old people used to 
 attend on Sundays as a sacred and time- 
 honoured duty, but the girls leave them fir 
 behind, for they drive up in a i)ony carriage to 
 
 a2
 
 228 HODGE AND HIS MASTEKS. 
 
 the distant cliurch at least twice a week be- 
 sides. They talk of matins and even-song ; 
 they are full of vestments, and have seen 
 ' such lovely things ' in that line. At Christ- 
 mas and Easter they are mainly instrumental 
 in decorating the interior till it becomes per- 
 fectly gaudy with colour, and the old folk 
 mutter and shake their heads. Their devo- 
 tion in getting hothouse flowers is quite 
 touching. One is naturally inclined to look 
 with a liberal eye upon what is capable of a 
 good construction. But is all this quite spon- 
 taneous ? Has the new curate nothino; at all 
 to do with it? Is it not considered rather the 
 correct thing to be ' High ' in views, and even 
 to manifest an Ultramontane tendency ? There 
 is a rather too evident determination to go to 
 the extreme — the girls are clearly bent upon 
 thrusting themselves to the very front of the 
 parish, so that no one shall be talked of but 
 
 the Misses , Anythmg is seized upon 
 
 that will aftbrd an opening for posing before 
 the world of the parish, whether it be an ex- 
 treme fashion m dress or in ritual. 
 
 And the parish is splittmg up into social 
 cliques. These girls, the local leaders of
 
 COUNTRY GIRLS. 229 
 
 fashion, hold tlieir lieads far above those 
 farmers' sons wlio bear a liand in tlie field. 
 No one is eligible who takes a share in manual 
 work : not even to be invited to the house, or 
 even to be acknowledged if mot in the road. 
 
 The Misses , whose papa is well-to-do, 
 
 and simply rides round on horseback to speak 
 to the men with his steam-plough, could not 
 possibly demean themselves to acknowledge 
 the existence of the young men who actually 
 handle a fork in the haymaking time. Xothing 
 less t lui the curate is worthy of their smile. 
 A very great change has come over country 
 society in this way. Of course, men (and 
 women) Avith money were always more eligible 
 than those without ; but it is not so very long 
 ago that one and all — well-to-do and poor — 
 had one bond in common. Whether they 
 farmed large or small acres, all worked per- 
 sonally. There was no disgrace in the touch 
 of the plough — rather the contrary ; now it is 
 contamination itself 
 
 The consequence is that the former general 
 goodwill and acquaintanceship is no more. 
 There are no friendly meetings ; there is a 
 distinct social barrier between the man and
 
 230 HODGE AND HIS MASTEES. 
 
 the woman who labours and the one who does 
 not. These fashionable young ladies could 
 not possibly even go into the hayfield because 
 the sun would spoil their complexion, they 
 refresh themselves Avith aerated waters mstead. 
 They could not possibly enter the dairy be- 
 cause it smells so nasty. They woidd not 
 know their father's teams if they met them 
 on the road. As for speaking to the work- 
 people — the idea would be too absurd I 
 
 Once on a time a lift in the waggon just 
 across the wet turf to the macadamised road 
 — if it chanced to l^e going that way — would 
 have been looked upon as a fortimate thing. 
 
 The Misses would indeed stare if one 
 
 of their papa's carters touched his hat and 
 suggested that they should get up. They 
 have a pony carriage and groom of their own. 
 He drives the milk-cart to the railway station 
 in the morning ; in the afternoon he dons the 
 
 correct suit and drives the Misses mto 
 
 the town to shoppmg. Xow there exists a 
 bitter jealousy between the daughters of the 
 tradesmen in the said town and these young- 
 ladies. There is a race between them as to 
 which shall be first in fashion and social rank.
 
 COUNTKY GIKLS. 231 
 
 The Misses know very well that it gall - 
 
 their rivals to see them driving about so 
 grandly half tlie afternoon up and down the 
 streets, and to see the big local people lift 
 their hats, as the banker, with whom, of course, 
 the large farmer has intimate dealmgs. All 
 this is very little ; on paper it reads mean and 
 contemptible ; but in life it is real — m life 
 these littlenesses play a great part. The 
 
 Misses know not]iini>- of those lon<r 
 
 treasured recipes formerly handed do^^■n in 
 old country houses, and never enter the kit- 
 chen. Xo doubt, if the fashion for teachinu" 
 cookuig presently penetrates into the parish, 
 they will take a leading part, and with nmch 
 show and blowing of trumpets instruct the 
 cottager how to boil the pot. Anything, in 
 short, that ha})pens to be the rage will attract 
 them, but there is little that is o'ennine about 
 them, except the eagerness for a Jiew excite- 
 ment. 
 
 AVhat manner of men shall accept these 
 ladies as their future helpmates ? The tenant 
 fnrmers arc few and fai- between that could 
 support their expenditure ni)on dress, the 
 servants they would require, and last, but
 
 232 HODGE AND HIS MASTEES. 
 
 not least, the waste which always accom- 
 jianies ignorance in household manafi'ement. 
 Nor, indeed, do they h^ok for tenant farmers, 
 but hope for something higher in the scale. 
 
 The Misses are fortunate in possessmg 
 
 a ' papa ' sufficiently well-to-do to enable them 
 to live in this manner. But there are hundreds 
 of young ladies whose fathers have not got so 
 much capital in their farms, while what they 
 have is perhaps borrowed. Of course these 
 girls help cheerfully in the household, in the 
 dairy, and so forth ? No. Some are forced 
 by necessity to assist in the household with 
 unwillino; hands : but few. mdeed, enter the 
 dairy. All dislike the idea of manual labour, 
 though never so slight. Therefore they acquire 
 a smatterino- of knowledo;e, and go out as 
 governesses. They earn but a small stipend 
 in that profession, because they have rarely 
 gone through a sufficiently strict course of 
 study themselves. But they would rather live 
 with strangers, accepting a position which is 
 often invidious, than lift a hand to work at 
 home, so great is the repugnance to manual 
 labour. These, again, have no domestic know- 
 ledge (beyond that of teaching children), none
 
 COUNTRY GIRLS. 233 
 
 of cookiiiiT, or ii'eneral liouseliold mananfement. 
 If they marry a tenant farmer oi' their own 
 class, with but small capital, they are too often 
 a burden financially. Whence comes this in- 
 tense dislike to hand Avork — this preference 
 for the worst paid head work ? It is not con- 
 fined, of course to the gentler sex. No more 
 striking feature of modern country life can be 
 found. 
 
 You cannot blame these i»irls. whether 
 poor or moderately well-to-do, for thinking of 
 something' hifrher, more refined, and elevatinof 
 than the cheese-tub or the kitchen. It is 
 natural, and it is right, tliat they should 
 wish to rise above that old, dull, dead level in 
 which their mothers and o-randmothers worked 
 from youth to age. The world has gone on 
 since then — it is a world of education, books, 
 and wider sympathies. In all this they nmst 
 and ought to share. The j^roblem is how to 
 enjoy the intellectual progress of the century 
 and yet not forfeit the advantages of the hand 
 labour and the thrift of our ancestors ? How 
 shall we sit up late at night, burning the mid- 
 night oil of study, and yet rise with the dawn, 
 strong from sweet sleep, to guide the plough ?
 
 234 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 One good thing must be scored down to the 
 credit of the country girls of the day. They 
 have done much to educate the men. They 
 have shamed them out of the old rough, 
 boorish ways ; compelled them to abandon 
 the former coarseness, to become more gentle- 
 manly in manner. By their interest in the 
 greater world of society, literature, art, and 
 music (more musical publications probably are 
 now sold for the country in a month than used 
 to be in a year), they have made the some- 
 what narrow- sighted farmer glance outside his 
 parish. If the rismg generation of tenant 
 farmers have lost much of the bigoted pro- 
 vincial mode of thought, together with the 
 provincial pronunciation, it is undoubtedly due 
 to the influence of the higher ideal of woman- 
 hood that now occupies their minds. And 
 this is a good work to have accomplished.
 
 Jo.) 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MADEMOISELLE, THE GOVERNESS. 
 
 A COUNTKY ' roadside ' railu'ay station seemed 
 deserted upon a warm August afternoon. It 
 was all l)ut concealed on that level ground by 
 the hedo-es and trees of the fields with which 
 it "was surrounded. There A\'as no sound of 
 man or "wheels, and nothing niovmg upon the 
 platform. On the low green banks of the rail, 
 where the mast-like telegraph j)oles stood, the 
 ]jr(xid leaves of the coltsfoot almost covered the 
 earth, and were dusty with the sand whirled 
 up an hour since behind the rushing express. 
 By the footpath, higher up under the close- 
 cropped hedge, the yarroAv flourished, lifting- 
 its white flower beside the trodden soil. The 
 heavy boots of the ])latelayers walking to and 
 fro to their work on the })ermanent way 
 brushed against it, and crushed the venturous 
 fibres of the creeping cinquefc^il that stretched
 
 236 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 into the path. From the yellow standing 
 wheat the sparrows rose in a be^y, and settled 
 upon the hedge, chirping merrily. Farther 
 away, where a meadow had been lately mown, 
 the swallows glided to and fro, but just above 
 the short grass, round and round, under the 
 shadow of the solitary oaks. Over the green 
 aftermath is the swallows' favourite haunt 
 when the day, though passing fair, does not 
 look like settled weather. For lack of such 
 weather the reapers have not yet entered the 
 ripening corn. 
 
 But, for the hour, the sun shines brightly, 
 and a narrow Ime along the upper surfaces of 
 the metals, burnished by the polishing friction 
 of a thousand wheels, glints like silver under 
 the rays. The red brick of the booking- 
 office looks redder and more starins: under 
 the fierce light. The door is locked, and 
 there is no waiting-room in which to take 
 shelter ; nothing but a projecting roof over 
 a part of the platform. On the lintel is the 
 stationmaster's name painted in small white 
 letters, like the name of the landlord over the 
 doorway of an inn. Two corded boxes lie on 
 the platform, and near them stand half a dozen
 
 MADEMOISELLE, THE GOVERNESS. 237 
 
 rusty milk tins, empty. With tho exception 
 of a tortoiseshell cat basking- in the sunshine, 
 there seems nothing living in the station, and 
 the long endless rails stretching on either side 
 in a straight line are vacant. For hours 
 during the day the place slumbers, and a 
 passenger glidmg by in the express may well 
 wonder why a station was built at idl in the 
 midst of trees and hedges without so much as 
 a sino;le visible house. 
 
 But by night and very early in the morn- 
 ins; there is bustle enouMi. Then the white 
 painted cattle pen yonder, from which the 
 annuals are forced into the cattle trucks, is 
 full of frightened beasts, lowing doubtfully, 
 and only goaded in by the resoundmg blows 
 upon their backs. Then the .sheep file in in 
 more patient ranks, but also doubtful and 
 bleating as they go. An enguie snorts to and 
 fro, shunting coal waggons on to the siding — 
 coal for the traction engines, and to be con- 
 sumed in threshino- out the ij^olden harvest 
 around. Sio-nalmen, with red and <>Teen liu'lits, 
 rush hither and thither, the bull's-eyes now 
 concealed by the trucks, and now flashing out 
 brightly like strange will-o'-the-wisps. At
 
 238 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 intervals long and heavy goods trains go by, 
 causino; the solid earth to tremble. 
 
 Presently the snn rises over the distant 
 hills, and the red arms of the signals stand 
 out clearly defined, and then the noise of 
 wheels, the shouts of the drivers, and the 
 quick sound of hoofs betoken the approach 
 of the milk carts with their freight for the 
 early morning train. From the platform it 
 is out of sight ; but a few yards from the 
 ofate a small inn is hidden under the tall elms 
 of the hedgerow. It has sprung up since 
 the railway came, and is called the E ail way 
 Hotel. It proffers good stabling, and even a 
 fly and posting for the passenger who finds 
 himself set down at that lonely place — a mere 
 roud — without the certainty of a friendly 
 carriage meeting him. The porter may, per- 
 haps, be taking his glass withm. The inspector, 
 or stationmaster (whichever may be technically 
 correct), now that the afternoon express has 
 gone safely through, has strolled up the line 
 to his garden to see how his potatoes are gettmg 
 on. He knows full well that the slow, stop- 
 ping train despatched just after it will not 
 reach his station for at least an hour.
 
 MADEMOISELLE, THE GOVERNESS. 239 
 
 Ontsifle the ' Hotel ' stands a pony cart — 
 a gaily coloured travelling rug lies across tlit- 
 seat, and tlie pony, a perfect little beauty, is 
 cropping the grass by the hedge side. By 
 and by a countr^nnan comes up the road, 
 evidently a labourer dressed in his best — he 
 hastens to the ' Hotel,' instead of to the station, 
 and finds from the porter that he is at least 
 twenty minutes too sooil Then a waggon 
 arrives, and stops while the carter drinks. 
 Presently the jDorter and the labourer stroll 
 together over to the platform, and after them 
 a young fellow — a farmer's son, not yet a man 
 but more than a l)oy — comes out and re- 
 arranges the travelling rug in the pony cart. 
 He then walks on to tlie platform, wliistlmg 
 defiantly with liis hands in his pockets, as if 
 he had got an luipleasant duty to perform, but 
 was not going to be intimidated. He watches 
 the stationmaster unlock the bookmg-oifice, 
 and follows liim in out of idle curiosity. 
 
 It is booking-office, parcel-office, waiting- 
 room and all combined, and the telegraiih 
 instrument is there, too, some of the needles 
 blocked over witli a scrap of paper. The 
 place is crammed with sacks, bags, boxes.
 
 240 HODGE AXD HIS MASTERS. 
 
 parcels and goods mixed together, such as 
 ironwork for agricultural machines, and in a 
 corner lies a rick-cloth smelling strongly of 
 tar like the rigging of a ship. On the counter, 
 for there is no sliding window as usual at 
 large stations, stands the ticket-stampmg 
 machme, surroimded with piles of forms, 
 invoices, notices, letters, and the endless docu- 
 ments inseparable from railway business, all 
 printed on a peculiar paper with a faint shade 
 of yellow. 
 
 Somebody says 'A' be coming,' and the 
 young farmer walks out to watch the white 
 steam now just visible hv away over the 
 trees. The tram runs round the curve on 
 to the straight, and the engme m front grows 
 gradually larger and larger as it comes nearer, 
 visibly vibrating till the brake draws it up at 
 the platform. 
 
 Master Jack has no difficulty in identi- 
 fying the passenger he has come to meet. 
 His sister, a governess, coming home for a 
 holiday, is the only person that alights, and 
 the labourer, dressed for the occasion, is the 
 only one who gets in. No sooner is he in 
 than he gapes out of the wmdow open-
 
 MADK.MOISELLK, THE (iOVICIlNESS. 241 
 
 mouthed at ]\[iss S . She wears a li":ht 
 
 Ulster to protect her dress from the dust and 
 dirt of travel. Her fashionable hat has an air 
 of the West End ; her liloved hand holds a 
 (hiinty little l)ag ; she steps as those must do 
 who wear tii^'ht dresses and hiiih heels to their 
 boots. V\) goes her parasol instantly to 
 shade her delicate complexion from the glar- 
 ing sun. Master Jack does not even take 
 her hand, or kiss her ; he looks her u|) and 
 down with a kind of contemptuous admi- 
 ration, nods, and asks how much lua'ii'asre ? 
 He has, you see, been rejndsed for ' gush ' on 
 previous occasions. ^Mademoiselle points to 
 her luggage, which the porter, indeed, has 
 already taken out. He worked in his boy- 
 hood <~)n her father's form, and attends upon 
 her with cheerful alacrity. She gives him a 
 small coin, but looks the other way, without 
 a sign of recognition. The luggage is placed 
 in the pony cart. 
 
 Mademoiselle o-ets in without so much as 
 patting the beautiful little creature in the 
 shafts. Her ticket is the only first-class ticket 
 that has been given up at that lonely station 
 all the week. ' Do make haste,' she remarks 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 IIODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 petulantly as her brother pauses to speak to a 
 passing man who looks like a dealer. Master 
 Jack turns the pony cart, and away they go 
 rattling down the road. The porter, wliilom an 
 agricultural labourer, looks after them with a 
 long and steady stare. It is not the first time 
 he has seen this, but he can hardly take it in 
 yet. 
 
 ' She do come the lady grandish, don't 
 her ? ' the dealer remarks meditatively. ' Now 
 her father ' 
 
 ' Ay,' interrupts the porter, ' he be one of 
 
 the old sort ; but she ' he cannot get any 
 
 further for lack of an appro^^riate illustration. 
 The arrival of mademoiselle periodically takes 
 their breath away at that little place. 
 
 As the pair rattle along in the pony trap 
 there is for a time a total silence. Made- 
 moiselle looks neither to the right nor the 
 left, and asks after nobody. She does not 
 note the subtle tint of bronze that has besfun 
 to steal over the wheat, nor the dark dis- 
 coloured hay, witness of rough weather, still 
 lying in the meadows. Her face — it is a very 
 pretty face — does not light up with any en- 
 thusiasm as well-remembered spots come into
 
 MADEMOISELLIO, THE GOVERNESS. 243 
 
 siglit. A horseman rides round a bend of 
 the road, and meets them — he stares hard at 
 her — she takes no heed. It is a young' far- 
 mer, an old acquaintance, anxious for some 
 sign of recognition. After he has passed he 
 lifts his hat, like a true countryman, unready 
 at tlie moment. As for the brother, his fea- 
 tures express gathering and almost irrepres- 
 sible disgust. He kicks with his heavy boots, 
 he whistles, and once now and then gives a 
 species of yell. Mademoiselle turns up her 
 pretty nose, and readjusts her chevron gloves. 
 
 ' Have you not got any cuffs. Jack ? ' she 
 asks, ' your wrists look so bare without them.' 
 
 Jack makes no repl3^ Another silence. 
 Presently he points mth an expression meant 
 to be sardonic at a distant farmhouse with 
 his whip. 
 
 ' Jenny's married,' he says, full well aware 
 that this announcement will wake her up, for 
 there had been of old a sort of semi-feud or 
 rivalry between the two girls, daughters of 
 neighbouring farmers, and both with ]ireten- 
 sions to good looks. 
 
 ' Who to ? ' she asks eagerly. 
 
 ' To old Billy T ; lots of thi.' 
 
 R 3
 
 244 HODGE AND IIIS :NrASTERS. 
 
 ' Pshaw ! ' re])lies mademoiselle. ' Why, 
 he's sixty, a nasty, dirty old wretch.' 
 
 ' He has plenty of money,' suggests Jack. 
 
 ' What you think plenty of money, per- 
 haps. He is nothing Imt a farmer,' as if a 
 farmer was quite beneath lier notice. 
 
 Just then a farmer rode out into the road 
 from the gateway of a field, and Jack pulled 
 up the pony. The farmer was stout, elderly, 
 and florid ; he appeared fairly well-to-do by 
 his dress, but was none too particular to use 
 his razor regularly. Yet there was a tender- 
 ness — almost a pathos — in the simple words he 
 used : — ' Georgie. dear, come home ? ' ' Yes. 
 papa,' and she kissed his scrubby dim as he 
 bent down fro?n his horse. He would not g-o 
 to the station to meet her ; but he had been 
 waiting; about behind the liedo-e for an hour 
 to see her come alone;. He rode beside the 
 pony cart, but Georgie did not say anything 
 more, or ask after any one else. 
 
 As they turned a corner the farmer pointed 
 ahead. ' Tl^ere's your mother, Georgie, look- 
 in jj over the "garden wall.' The yearninof 
 mother had been there these two hours, know- 
 inof that her darling; could not arrive before a
 
 MADEMOISKLLK, THE GOVERNESS. 245 
 
 certain tiiiic, ami yet unable in her impatience 
 to stay witliin. Those old eyes were dim 
 with tears under the spectacles as Georgie 
 (iuietly kissed her forehead, and then suddenly, 
 with something like generous feeling, her lips. 
 
 They went in, an ohl pointer, whose days 
 in the stul)ble were nearly over, following- 
 close at Georgie's heels, but without obtaining 
 a pat for his loving memory. The table was 
 spread for tea— a snowy cloth, the whitest of 
 bread, the most delicious golden butter, the 
 ham fresh cooked, as Georgie might be hun- 
 gry, the thick cream, the silver teapot, po- 
 lished for Georgie. and the l)right flowers in 
 the vase before her plate. The window was 
 open, with its view of the old, old hills, and 
 a breath of sununer air came in from the 
 meadow. The girl glanced round, frowned, 
 and went upstairs to her room without a word, 
 passing on the landing the ancient clock in its 
 tall case, tickino* loud and slow. 
 
 And this was ' liome.' The whole place 
 jarred upon her, fresh as she was from a tine 
 liouse in lu'lu'ravia. The sittin";-room beneath, 
 which she had so quickly left, looked cheerful 
 and homely, but it was that very homeliness
 
 24(j HODGE AND HIS MASTIvRS. 
 
 that jarred npon her. The teapot was real 
 silver, hut it was of old-fashioned shape. 
 Solid as the furniture was, and still after so 
 many years of service worth money, yet it 
 was chipped by kicks from iron-shod boots, 
 which had also worn the dingy carpet bare. 
 There was an absence of tlie nick-nacks that 
 strew the rooms of people in ' Society.' There 
 was not even a bell-handle to pull ; if you 
 wanted the maid of all Avork, you must open 
 the door and call to her. These little things, 
 trifles as they may be, repelled her. It was a 
 bitter cup to her to come ' home.' 
 
 Mr. S was a farmer of fair means, 
 
 and, compared witli many of his neighbours, 
 well-to-do, and well connected. l>ut lie was 
 still a yeoman only, and personally made pre- 
 tensions to nothing more. Though he him- 
 self had received little or no education, he 
 quite saw the value of it, and was determmed 
 that his children should be al)reast of the 
 times. Accordingly, so soon as Georgie grew 
 old enough, a governess with high recom- 
 mendations, and who asked Avhat the farmer 
 then thought a high price (he knows more 
 about such things now !) was had down from
 
 MADEMOISELLE, THE GOVERNESS. 247 
 
 London. Of course the rudimentary ABC 
 of learning could just as well liave been im- 
 parted by an ordinary person, but Mr. and 
 
 Mrs. S had a feelmg which they could not 
 
 perhaps have expressed in words, that it was 
 not so much the actual reading and writing, 
 and French and nuisic, and so on, as a social 
 mfluence that was needed to gradually train 
 the little country girl into a young lady fit to 
 move in higher society. 
 
 The governess did lier work tlioroughly. 
 Georffie was not allowed to walk hi the wet 
 grass, to climb up the ladder on to the half- 
 completed hayrick, and romp under the rick- 
 cloth, to paddle with naked feet in the shallow 
 brook, or any other of the things that country 
 children have done from time immemorial. 
 Such things she was taught were not ladylike, 
 and, above all, she was kept away from the 
 cottage people. She was not i)ermitted to 
 enter their doors, to converse with the women, 
 or to watch the carter Avith his horses. Such 
 vulo'ar folk and their vulvar dialect were to be 
 carefully avoided. Xor umst she get into a 
 hedge after a bird's nest, lest she should tear 
 her frock.
 
 248 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 It was not long before the governess really 
 ruled the house. The farmer felt himself to- 
 tally unable to interfere in these matters ; 
 they were outside his experience altogether. 
 His wife did not like it, but for Georgie's sake 
 she gave up her former habits, and endea- 
 voured to order the house according to the 
 ideas of the governess from London. The 
 traditions, as it were, of the place were upset. 
 It was not a solitary instance, the same thing 
 has happened in scores of farmhouses to a 
 
 more or less degree. Mr. S all his life 
 
 had ridden on horseback, or driven a gw 
 which did very well for him and his wife. But 
 the governess thought Georgie ought to learn 
 to ride and drive, and gigs were so much out 
 of fashion. So the pony cart and pony were 
 purchased for her, and in this she went into 
 the distant market town twice or more weekly. 
 Sometimes it was for shopping, sometimes 
 to fetch household goods, sometimes to see 
 friends ; any excuse answered very well. The 
 governess said, and really believed, that it was 
 better for Georgie to be away from the farm as 
 much as possible, to see town people (if only a 
 country town), and to learn their ways.
 
 MADEMOlSKLLi;, THK (JOVKli^EbS. 249 
 
 The many clioap illustrated i)apers giving 
 the last details of fashionahle costumes were, 
 of course^ brought home to be carefully read in 
 the evenings. These publications have a large 
 circulation now in farmhouses. Naturally 
 Georgie soon began to talk about, and take an 
 interest — as girls will (1(^ — in the young gen- 
 tlemen of the town, and who was and who 
 was not eligil)le. As for the loud-voiced 
 young iarmors, with their slouching walk, 
 their ill-fitting clothes, and stupid talk about 
 cows and wheat, they were intolerable. A 
 banker's clerk at least — nothing could be 
 thoujrht of under a clerk in the local banks ; 
 of course, his salary was not high, but then 
 his ' position.' The retail grocers and bakers 
 and such i)eople were quite beneath one's 
 notice — low, conunon persons. The " jn-ofes- 
 sional tradesmen' (whatever that may be) 
 were decidedly better, and could be tolerated. 
 The solicitors, bank managers, one or two 
 brewers (wholesale — nothing retail), large 
 corn factors or coal merchants, who ke})t a 
 carriajje of some kind — these formed the select 
 society next under, and, as it were, surround- 
 ing the clergy and gentry. Georgie at twelve
 
 250 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 years old looked at least as hif^L. as one of 
 these ; a farmlionse was to be avoided above 
 all things. 
 
 As she oTew older her mind was full of the 
 local assembly ball. The ball had been held 
 for forty years or more, and had all that 
 time been m the hands of the exclusive upper 
 circles of the market town. They only asked 
 their own families, relations (not the poor 
 ones), and visitors. When Georgie was in- 
 vited to this ball it was indeed a triumph. 
 Her poor mother cried with pleasure over her 
 ball dress. Poor woman, she was a good, a 
 too good, mother, but she had never been to a 
 ball. There were, of course, j^arties, picnics, 
 and so on, to which Georgie, having entered 
 the charmed circle, was now asked ; and thus 
 her mind from the beguming centred in the 
 town. The sheep-fold, the cattle-pen, the 
 cheese-tub, these were thrust aside. They did 
 not mterest her, she barely understood the 
 meaning when her father took the first prize 
 at an important cattle show. AVhat So-and-so 
 would wear at the flower show, where all the 
 select would come, much more nearly con- 
 cerned her.
 
 :\iadi:.m()isi:lle, the governess. 251 
 
 At the high-class academy wliere her edu- 
 cation was finished the same jn-ocess went on. 
 The other girls quickly made her thoroughly 
 understand (a bitter knowledge) that the 
 great people in the little market town, the 
 very richest of them, were but poor iii com- 
 parison with their papas. Their papas were 
 in the ' City,' or on ' 'Change,' and had as 
 many thousands a year as the largest farmer 
 she knew could reckon hundreds. Georgie 
 felt ashamed of her papa, recoUecthig his 
 crumpled old hat, and his scrubby chin. 
 l-5eing really a nice girl, under the veneer that 
 was so industriously placed upon her, she 
 made friends among her fellow scholars, and 
 was invited to more than one of their grand 
 'homes in Kensington and the suburbs of Lon- 
 don. There she learned all the pomp of villa 
 life, which put into the shade the small in- 
 comes which displayed their miserable vanities 
 in the petty market town. Footmen, butlers, 
 late dinners, wines, carriages, the ceaseless 
 gossip of ' Society ' were enough to dazzle the 
 eyes of a girl born so near the cowshed. The 
 dresses she had to wear to mix with these 
 grand friends cost a good deal- -her parents
 
 252 HODGE AND IILS MASTERS. 
 
 sacrificiiii? their own comforts for lier advan- 
 tage — and yet, in comparison with the beauti- 
 ful costumes she saw, they seemed shabby. 
 
 Georo;ie was so far fortunate as to make 
 friends of some of the elder 2:)eople, and when 
 she had passed her examinations, and obtained 
 the diplomas and certificates which are now all 
 essential, through their interest she obtained 
 at starting a very high salary. It was not 
 long before she received as much as sixty or 
 seventy pounds a year. It was not only that 
 she really was a clever and accomplished girl, 
 but her recommendations were influential. She 
 was employed by wealthy people, who really 
 did not care what they paid so long as their 
 children were in good hands. Xow to tlie old 
 folk at home, and to the neighbours, this 
 seemed an immense salary for a girl, especially 
 when the carriage, the footmen, the wines, and 
 late dinners, and so on, were taken into con- 
 sideration. The money, however, was of very 
 little use to her. She found it necessary to 
 dress equal to her place. She had to have 
 several dresses to wear, according to the time 
 of day, and she had to have new ones very 
 often, or she might he told petulantly and
 
 .MADK.MOlSKLJ.l-;, TIIJ; CiuNKKNESS. 'loo 
 
 pointedly by her mistress that ' one gets so 
 weary of seeing the same dresses every day.' 
 Instead of the high sah^ry leavhig a luind- 
 some profit, her father had occasionally to pay 
 a stiff hill for her. ?)ut then the ' position ' 
 — look at the " position ' and the society. 
 
 Georo-ie, in process of time, went to Scot- 
 land, to Paris, the South of France, to Rome, 
 and Xaples. Being a discreet girl, and having 
 a winninir manner, she became as much a 
 companion to her mistress as governess, and 
 thus saw and heanl more of the world than 
 she would otherwise have done. She saw 
 some very grand people indeed occasionally. 
 After this, after the Continent, and, above all, 
 London in the season, the annual visit to the 
 old farmhouse came to l^e a bitter time of 
 trial. (Jeoriiie had come home now for a few 
 days only, to ask for money, and already be- 
 fore she had scarcely spoken had rushed up- 
 stairs to hide her feeling of repulsion in the 
 privacy of her room. 
 
 Her welcome had been warm, and she knew 
 that mider the rude exterior it was more than 
 warm ; but the absence of refinement jarred 
 upon her. It all seemed so uncouth. She
 
 254 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 shrank from the homely rooms ; the very 
 voice of her mother, tremblmg with emotion, 
 shocked her ear, unaccustomed to country 
 pronunciation. She missed the soft accents 
 o^ the drawing-room. From her window she 
 could see nothing but the peaceful fields — the 
 hateful green trees and hedges, the wheat, and 
 the hateful old hills. How miserable it was 
 not to be born to Grosvenor Square ! 
 
 Georgie's case was, of course, exceptional 
 in so far as her ' success ' was concerned. She 
 possessed good natural parts, discretion, and 
 had the advantage of high-class recommenda- 
 tions. But apart from her ' success,' her case 
 was not exceptional. The same ^thing is 
 ofoino' on m hundreds of farmhouses. The 
 daughters from the earliest age are brought 
 up under a system of education the practical 
 tendency of which is to tram their minds out 
 of the associations of farming. When later 
 on they go out to teach they are themselves 
 taught by the social surroundmgs of the 
 households into which they enter to still more 
 dislike the old-fashioned ways of agriculture. 
 Take twenty farmers' families, where there 
 are girls, and out of that twenty fifteen will
 
 MADEMOISELLE, THE GOVERNESS. 255 
 
 be found to bo preparmg- for a scholastic life. 
 The farmer's daughter does not like the shop- 
 counter, and, as she cannot stay at home, there 
 is nothing left to her but the profession of 
 governess. Once thoroughly imbued with 
 these ' social ' ideas, and a return to the farm 
 is almost impossible. The result is a con- 
 tinuous drain of women out of agriculture — 
 of the very women best fitted in the begm- 
 nuig to be the helpmate of the farmer. In 
 no other callmg is the assistance of the wife 
 so valuable ; it is not too much to say that 
 part at least of the decadence vi' agriculture is 
 owiniT to the lack of women willino- to devote 
 themselves as their mothers did before them. 
 It follows that by degrees the farming caste 
 is dying out. The sons go to the city, the 
 daughters go to the city ; in a generation, or 
 little more, a once well-known farmmg family 
 becomes extinct so far as agriculture is con- 
 cerned. 
 
 How could such a girl as poor Georgie, 
 looking out of window at the hateful fields, 
 and all at discord with the peaceful scene, 
 settle down as the mistress of a lajJely farm- 
 house ?
 
 256 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 FLEECEBOROUGH. A ' DESPOT.' 
 
 An agricultural district, like a little kingdom, 
 has its own capital city. The district itself is 
 as well defined as if a frontier line had been 
 marked out around it, with sentinels and 
 barriers across the roads, and special tolls and 
 duties. Yet an ordinary traveller, upon 
 approaching, fails to perceive the difference, 
 and may, perhaps, drive right through the 
 territory without knowing it. The fields roll 
 on and rise into the hills, the hills smk a^ain 
 mto a plain, just the same as elsewhere ; there 
 are cornfields and meadows ; villages and 
 farmsteads, and no visil)le boundary. Nor is 
 it recognised upon the map. It does not fit 
 into any political or legal limit ; it is neither 
 a county, half a county, a hundred, or police 
 division. But to the farmer it is a distinct 
 land. If he comes from a distance he will
 
 FLEECEBOROUGH. 257 
 
 at once notice little peculiarities in the fields, 
 the crops, the stock, or customs, and will im- 
 mediately inquire if it be not such and such 
 a place that he has heard of. If he resides 
 within thirty miles or so he will ever since 
 boyhood have heard ' the uplands ' talked of 
 as if it were a separate country, as distinct 
 as France. Cattle from the uplands, sheep, 
 horses, labourers, corn or hay, or anything 
 and anybody from thence, he has grown up 
 accustomed to reo-ard almost as foreio-n. 
 
 There is good reason, from an agricultural 
 pomt of view, for this. The district, with its 
 capital city, Fleeceborough, really is distinct, 
 well marked, and defined. The very soil and 
 substrata are characteristic. The 2:)roducts 
 are wheat, and cattle, and sheep, the same as 
 elsewhere, but the proportions of each, the 
 kind of sheep, the traditionary methods and 
 farm customs are separate and marked. The 
 rotation of crops is different, the agreements 
 are on a different basis, the very gates to the 
 fields have peculiar fastenings, not used m 
 other places. Instead of hedges, the fields, 
 perhaps, are often divided by dry stone avails, 
 on which, when they have become old, curious 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 HODGE AND HIS MASTEKS. 
 
 plants may sometimes be found. For the 
 flora, too, is distinct ; you may find herbs 
 here that do not exist a little way off, and 
 on the other hand, search how you will, you 
 will not discover one single specimen of a 
 simple flower which strews the meadows else- 
 where. 
 
 Here the very farmhouses are built upon a 
 different plan, and with different materials ; 
 the barns are covered with old stone slates, 
 instead of tiles or thatch. The people are a 
 nation amongst themselves. Their accent is 
 peculiar and easily recognised, and they have 
 their own folklore, their own household habits, 
 particular dainties, and way of life. The 
 tenant farmers, the millers, the innkeepers, 
 and every Hodge within ' the uplands ' (not 
 by any means all hills) — in short, every 
 one is a citizen of Fleeceborough. Hodge 
 may tend his flock on distant pastures, may 
 fodder his cattle in far-away meadows, and 
 dwell in little hamlets hardly heard of, but 
 all the same he is a Fleeceborough man. 
 It is his centre ; thither he looks for every- 
 thing. 
 
 The place is a little market town, the total
 
 rLEECEBOROUGH, 259 
 
 of whose population in the census records 
 sounds absurdly small ; yet it is a complete 
 world in itself ; a capital city, Avitli its king- 
 dom and its ruler, for the territory is practi- 
 cally the property of a single family. Enter 
 Fleeceborough by whichever route you will, 
 the first object that fixes the attention is an 
 immensely high and endless wall. If you 
 come by carriage one way, you skirt it for a 
 long distance ; if you come the other, yoii see 
 it as you })ass through the narrow streets 
 every now and then at the end of them, 
 closing the prospect and overtopping the lesser 
 houses. By railway it is conspicuous from 
 the windows ; and if you walk about the 
 place, you contmually come upon it. It towers 
 up perpendicular and maccessible, like the 
 curtain wall of an old fortification : here and 
 there the upper branches of some great cedar 
 or tall pme just show above it. One or more 
 streets for a space run conternmious with it 
 — the wall on one side, the low cottage-houses 
 on the other, and their chimneys are below 
 the copmg. It does not really encircle the 
 town, yet it seems everywhere, and is the 
 great fact of the place. 
 
 s 2
 
 260 HODGE AND HIS .MASTERS. 
 
 If you wander about examining this wall, 
 and wonderino; where it beg;ins and where it 
 ends, and what is inside, you may perchance 
 come upon a gateway of noble proportions. 
 It is open, but one hesitates to pass through, 
 despite the pleasant vista of trees and green 
 sward beyond. There is a watchman's wooden 
 hut, and the ag-ed sentinel is readino- his news- 
 paper m the shadow, his breast decorated with 
 medal and clasp, that tell of honourable ser- 
 vice. A scarlet -coated soldier may, too, be 
 strolling thereabout, and the castellated top of 
 a barrack-like buildmg near at hand is sug- 
 gestive of military force. You hesitate, but 
 the warden mvites you to walk at your leisure 
 under the old trees, and alono- the endless 
 glades. If you enter, you pass under the 
 metal scrollwork of the iron gates, and, above, 
 the D'ilded circle of a coronet odistens in the 
 sunshine. These are the private demesnes of 
 a prmce and ruler of Hodge — the very highest 
 and most powerful of his masters in that part 
 of the country. The vast wall encloses his 
 pleasure-grounds and mansion ; the broad iron 
 gates give access to mile after mile of j^ark and 
 wood, and the decorated warden or pensioner
 
 FLEECEBOROUGH. 261 
 
 has but to open them for tlie free entry of 
 all Fleeceborongh and her citizens. Of course 
 the position of the barrack is a mere accident, 
 yet it gives an air of power and authority — 
 the place is really as open, the beautiful park 
 as common and accessible as the hill- top under 
 the sky. A peer only at Westminster, here 
 he is a prince, whose dominions are almost 
 co-extensive with the horizon ; and this, the 
 capital city, is for the most part his. 
 
 Far away stretches tliat little kingdom, 
 with its minor towns of villages, liandets, and 
 farms. Broad green meadows, where the cattle 
 graze beside the streams and in tlie plains ; 
 rolling uplands, ploughed and sown, where the 
 barley flourishes ; deep rich wheatlands ; high 
 hills and shadowy woods ; grey church towers; 
 new glaring schools ; quiet wayside inns, and 
 ancient farmhouses tenanted for o-enerations 
 by the same families. 
 
 Farmers have lono- since discovered that it 
 is best to rent under a very large owner, 
 whether personal as in tliis case, or im})ersonal 
 as a college or corporation. A very large 
 owner like this can be, and is, more liberal. 
 He puts up sheds, and he drains, and iiii-
 
 262 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 proves, and builds good cottages for the 
 labourers. Provided, of course, that no serious 
 malpractice comes to light, he, as represented 
 by his steward, never interferes, and the tenant 
 is personally free. No one watches his goings 
 out and commgs in ; he has no sense of an eye 
 for ever looking over tlie park wall. Tliere 
 is a total absence of the grasping spirit some- 
 times shown. The farmer does not feel that 
 he will be worried to his last shilling. In 
 case of unfavourable seasons the landlord 
 makes no difficulty in returnmg a portion of 
 the rent ; he anticipates such an application. 
 Such immense possessions can support losses 
 which would press most heavily upon com- 
 paratively small properties. At one side of 
 the estate the soil perchance is light and 
 porous, and is all the better for rain ; on the 
 other, half across the county, or quite, the 
 soil is deep and heavy and naturally well 
 watered and flourishes m dry summers. So 
 that there is generally some one prospermg if 
 another suffers, and thus a balance is main- 
 tained. 
 
 A reserve of wealth has, too, slowly 
 accumulated in the family coffers, which, in
 
 FLEECEBOROUGII. 263 
 
 exceptional years, tides the owner over with 
 little or no appreciable inconvenience. With 
 an income like this, special allowances, even 
 generous allowances, can be and are made, 
 and so the tenants cease to feel that their 
 landlord is living out of their labour. The 
 agreements are jnst ; there is no raj^acity. 
 A^ery likely the original lease or arrangement 
 has expired half a century since ; but no one 
 troubles to renew it. It is well understood 
 that no change will be effected. The tenure 
 is as steady as if the tenant had an Act of 
 Parliament at his back. 
 
 When men have once settled, they and 
 their descendants remam, generation after 
 generation. By degrees their sons and sons' 
 descendants settle too, and the same name 
 occurs perhaps in a dozen adjacent places. It 
 is this fixed unchano-eable character of the 
 district which has enabled the mass of the 
 tenants not indeed to become wealthy, but 
 to acquu'e a solid, substantial standing. In 
 farming affairs money can be got togctlier 
 only in the slow passage of years ; experience 
 has proved that beyond a doubt. These 
 people have been stationary for a length of
 
 264: HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 time, and the moss of the proverb has grown 
 around them. They walk sturdily, and look 
 all men in the face ; their fathers put money 
 in the purse. Times are hard here as every- 
 where, but if they cannot, for the present 
 season, put more in that purse, its contents 
 are not, at all events, much diminished, and 
 enable them to maintain the same straight- 
 forward manliness and independence. By 
 and by, they know there will come the chink 
 of the coin aixain. 
 
 When the tenant is stationary, the labourer 
 is also. He stays in the same cottage on the 
 same farm all his life, his descendants remain 
 and work ibr the same tenant family. He 
 can trace his descent in the locality for a 
 hundred years. From time immemorial both 
 Hodge and his immediate employers have 
 looked towards Fleeceborough as their capital. 
 Hodfj:e jjoes in to the market in charo-e of his 
 master's sheep, his wife trudges in for house- 
 hold necessaries. All the hamlet goes in to 
 the annual fairs. Every cottager in the hamlet 
 knows somebody in the town ; the girls go 
 there to service, the boys to get employment. 
 The little village shops obtain their goods
 
 FLEECEBOROUGII. 265 
 
 from tlience. All the produce — wheat, barley, 
 oats, hay, cattle, and sheep — is sent into the 
 capital to the various markets held there. 
 The very ideas held in the villages l)y the 
 inhabitants come from Fleeceboroiio-h ; the 
 local papers published there are sold all round, 
 and supi)ly them with news, arguments, and 
 the })olitics of the little kingdom. The 
 farmers look to Fleeceborough just as much 
 or more. It is a religious duty to be seen 
 there on market days. Xot a man misses 
 being there ; if he is not visible, his circle note 
 it, and guess at various ex})lanations. 
 
 Each man has his own particular hostelry, 
 where his father, and his grandfather, put up 
 before him, and where he is expected to dine 
 in the same old room, with the pictures of 
 famous rams, that have fetched fabulous prices, 
 framed against the walls, and ram's horns of 
 exceptional size and peculiar curve fixed up 
 above the mantelpiece. Men come in in 
 groups of two (n- three, as dinner time ap- 
 proaches, and chat about sheep and wool, and 
 wool and sheep ; but no one iinally settles 
 himself at the table till the chairman arrives. 
 He is a stout, substantial farmer, who has
 
 266 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 dined there every market day for the last 
 thirty or forty years. 
 
 Everybody has his own particular seat, 
 which he is certain to find kept for him. 
 The dinner itself is simple enough, the waiters 
 ])erhaps still more sunple, but the quality of 
 the viands is beyond praise. The mutton 
 is juicy and delicious, as it should be where 
 the sheep is the very idol of all men's 
 thoughts ; the beef is short and tender of 
 grain ; the vegetables, nothmg can equal them, 
 and they are all here, asparagus and all, in 
 profusion. The landlord grows his own vege- 
 tables — every householder in Fleeceborough 
 has an ample garden — and produces the fruit 
 from his own orchards for the tarts. Ever 
 and anon a waiter walks round with a can of 
 ale and fills the glasses, whether asked or not. 
 Beef and mutton, vegetables, and fruit tarts, 
 and ale are simple and plain fare, but when 
 they are served in the best form, how will you 
 surpass them ? The real English cheese, the 
 fresh salads, the exquisite butter — everything 
 on the table is genuine, juicy, succulent, and 
 rich. Could such a dinner be found in 
 London, how the folk would crowd thither !
 
 fleecp:borougii. 2G7 
 
 Finally, comes the waiter witli his two clean 
 plates, the upper one to receive the money, 
 the lower to retain Avliat is liis. If you are a 
 stranger, and remember what you have been 
 charged elsewhere in smoky cities for tough 
 beef, stringy mutton, waxy potatoes, and the 
 very bread black with smuts, you select half a 
 sovereign and drop it on the upper plate. In 
 the twinklmg of an eye eight sliillmgs are 
 returned to you ; the charge is a florin only. 
 
 They live well in Fleeceborough, as every 
 fresh experience of the place will prove ; they 
 have plentiful food, and of the best quality ; 
 poultry abounds, for every resident having a 
 great garden (many, too, have paddocks) keeps 
 fowls ; fresh eggs are common ; as for vege- 
 tables and fruit, the abundance is not to be 
 described. A veritable cornucopia — a horn 
 of plenty — seems to for ever pour a shower of 
 these o'ood thino-s into their houses. And their 
 ale ! To the first sight it is not tempting. It 
 is thick, dark, a deep wine colour ; a slight 
 aroma rises from it like that Avhich dwells in 
 bonded warehouses. The first taste is not 
 pleasing ; but it induces a second, and a tliird. 
 By and by the flavour grows upon the i)alate ;
 
 268 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 and now beware, for if a small quantity be 
 thrown upon the fire it will blaze up with a 
 blue flame like pure alcohol. That dark vinous- 
 looking ale is full of the strength of malt and 
 hops ; it is the brandy of the barley. The 
 unwary find their heads curiously queer before 
 they have partaken, as it seems to them, of a 
 couple of glasses. The very spirit and character 
 of Fleeceborough is embodied in the ale ; rich, 
 strong, genuine. No one knows what English 
 ale is till he has tried this. 
 
 After the market dinner the guests sit still 
 — they do not hurry away to counter and 
 desk ; they rest awhile, and dwell as it were 
 on the flavour of their food. There is a hum 
 of pleasant talk, for each man is a right boon 
 companion. The burden of that talk has been 
 the same for generations — sheep and wool, 
 wool and sheep. Occasionally mysterious 
 allusions are made to ' he,' what ' he ' will do 
 with a certain farm, whether ' he ' will support 
 such and such a movement, or subscribe to 
 some particular fund, what view will ' he ' take 
 of the local question of the day ? Perhaps 
 some one has had special information of the 
 stej^ ' lie ' is likely to take ; then that favoured
 
 FLEECKIJOKOUGH. 269 
 
 man is an object of the (lee])est interest, and is 
 cross-questioned all round the table till liis 
 small item of authentic intelligence has been 
 thorouglily assimilated. ' He ' is the resident 
 within those vast and endless walls, with the 
 metal gates and the gilded coronet above — the 
 prince of this kingdom and its capital city. 
 To rightly see the subjects loyally hastening 
 hither, let any one ascend the church tower on 
 market day. 
 
 It is remarkably high, and ironi thence 
 the various roads converging on the town 
 are visible. The province lies stretched out 
 beneath. There is the o'leam of water — the 
 little river, with its ancient mills — that flows 
 beside the town ; there are the meadows, with 
 their pleasant footpaths. Yonder the ploughed 
 fields and woods, and yet more distant the 
 open hills. Along every road, and there are 
 many, the folk are hastenmg to their capital 
 city, in gigs, on horseback, in dog-traps and 
 foiu'-wheels, or sturdily trudging afoot. The 
 breeze comes sweet and exhilaratino- from tlie 
 hills and over the broad acres and irreen woods ; 
 it strikes the chest as you lean against tlie 
 parapet, and the jackdaws suspend themselves
 
 270 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 in mid -air witli outstretched wings upheld by 
 its force. For how many years, how many 
 centuries, has this little town and this district 
 around it been distinct and separate ? In the 
 days before the arrival of the Roman legions 
 it was the country of a distinct tribe, or nation, 
 of the original Britons. But if we speak of 
 history we shall never have done, for the towD 
 and its antique abbey (of which this tower is 
 a mere remnant) have mingled more or less m 
 every change that has occurred, down from the 
 earthwork camp yonder on the hills to to- 
 day — down to the last puff of the locomotive 
 there below, as its driver shuts off steam and 
 runs in with passengers and dealers for the 
 market, with the papers, and the latest novel 
 from London. 
 
 Something of the old local patriotism sur- 
 vives, and is vigorous in the town here. Men 
 marry in the place, find their children em- 
 ployment in the place, and will not move, if 
 they can help it. Their families — well-to-do 
 and humble alike — have been there for so 
 many, many, years. The very carter, or the 
 little tailor working in his shop-wmdow, will 
 tell you (and prove to you by records) that
 
 FLIvKCKBOUOUGII. 271 
 
 Lis ancestor stood to the barricade with pike 
 or matchlock when the army of King or Par- 
 liament, as the case may ])e, besieged the 
 sturdy town two hundred years ago. He has 
 a longer pedigree than many a titled dweller 
 in Ijelgravia. All these people believe m 
 Fleeceborough. A\ hen fate forces them to 
 quit — when the young man seeks his fortune 
 m New Zealand or America — he writes home 
 the fullest information, and his letters pub- 
 lished m the local prmt read curiously to an 
 outsider, so full are they of local incpiiries, 
 and answers to friends who wished to know 
 this or that. In the end he comes back — 
 should he succeed in getting the gold which 
 tempted hun away — to pass his latter days 
 gossipmg round with the dear old folk, and 
 to marry amongst them. Vet, with all their 
 deep local patriotism, they are not bigoted or 
 narrow-minded ; there is too much literature 
 abroad for that, and they have the cosiest 
 readuig-room wherein to learn all that passes 
 in the world. They have a town council 
 held now and then in au ancient wainscoted 
 haU, with pamted panels and coats of arms, 
 carved oaken seats black with age, and narrow
 
 272 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 windows from which men once looked down 
 into the street, wearing trunk hose and rapier. 
 
 But they have at least two other councils 
 that meet much more often, and that meet 
 bv niii;;ht. When his books are balanced, 
 when his shop is shut, after he has strolled 
 round his garden, and taken his supper, the 
 tradesman or shopkeeper walks down to his 
 inn, and there finds his circle assembled. 
 They are all there, the rich and the mode- 
 rately well-to-do, the struggling, and the 
 poor. Each delivers his opinion over the 
 social glass, or between the deliberate puffs 
 of his cigar or pipe. The drinking is ex- 
 tremely moderate, the smokmg not quite so 
 temperate ; but neither the glass nor the 
 cigar are the real attractions. It is the com- 
 mon hall — the informal place of meeting. 
 
 It is here that the real government of the 
 town is planned — the mere formal resolutions 
 voted m the ancient council-room are the out- 
 come of the open talk, and the quiet whisper 
 here. No matter what subject is to the front, 
 the c[uestion is always heard — What will ' he ' 
 do? What will ' he ' say to it? The Volun- 
 teers compete for prizes which ' he ' offers.
 
 A 'despot.' 273 
 
 The cottage hospital ; the flower show ; the 
 cattle show, or agricultural exhibition ; the 
 new market buildings arose through his sub- 
 scriptions and influence : the artesian well, 
 sunk that the town might have the best of 
 water, was bored at liis expense ; and so on 
 through the whole list of town aflairs. When 
 ' he ' takes the lead all tlie lesser gentry — 
 many of whom, perhaps, live in his manor 
 houses — follow suit, and with such powerful 
 support to back it a movement is sure to suc- 
 ceed, yet ' he ' is rarely seen ; his hand rarely 
 felt ; everything is done, but vv^ithout obtru- 
 siveness. At these nightly councils at the 
 chief hostelries the farmers of the district are 
 almost as numerous as the townsmen. They 
 ride in to hear the news and exchange their 
 own small coin of gossip. They want to 
 know what ' he ' is going to do, and little by 
 little of course it leaks out. 
 
 But the town is not all so loyal. There 
 is a section which is all the more vehemently 
 rebellious because of the spectacle of its staid 
 and comfortable neighbours. Tliis section is 
 very small, but makes a considerable noise. It 
 holds meetings and utters treasonable speeches, 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 IIODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 and denounces the ' despot ' in fi^ry language. 
 It protests against a free and open park ; it 
 abhors artesian wells ; it detests the throwing 
 open of nut woods that all may go forth 
 a-nutting ; it waxes righteously indignant at 
 every gift, he it prizes for the flower show or 
 a new market site. It scorns those mean- 
 spirited citizens that cheer these kindly deeds. 
 It asks why ? Why should we wait till the 
 park gates are open ? Why stay till the nut 
 woods are declared ready ? Why be thankful 
 for pure water ? Why not take our own ? 
 This one man has no right to these parks and 
 woods and pleasure grounds and vast walls ; 
 these square miles of ploughed fields, meadows 
 and hills. By right they should all be split 
 up into little plots to grow our potatoes. Away 
 with gilded coronet and watchman, batter 
 down these walls, burn the ancient deeds and 
 archives, put pick and lever to the tall church 
 tower ; let us have the rights of man I These 
 violent ebullitions make not the least differ- 
 ence. All the insults they can devise, all the 
 petty obstructions they can set up, the mud 
 they can fling, does not alter the calm course 
 of the ' despot ' one jot. The artesian well is
 
 A 'DEsroT. 275 
 
 bored, and tliey can drink pure water or not, 
 as pleases them. The prizes are offered, and 
 they can compete or stand aloof. Fleece- 
 borouoli smiles wlien it meets at ni2:ht in 
 its council-rooms, with its glass and pipe ; 
 riceceborough knows that the traditional 
 policy of the Hall will continue, and that 
 policy is acceptable to it. 
 
 What manner of man is this ' despot ' and 
 prince behind his vast walls ? Verily his 
 physique matters nothing ; whether he be old 
 or of middle ao;e. tall or short, infirm or 
 strong. The policy of the house keeps the 
 actual head and owner rather in the back- 
 ground. His presence is never obtruded ; he 
 is rarely seen ; you may stay in his capital for 
 months and never catch a glimpse of him. He 
 will not appear at meetings, that every man 
 may be free, nor hesitate to say his say, and 
 abuse what he lists to abuse. The policy is 
 simply perfect freedom, with support and sub- 
 stantial assistance to any and to every move- 
 ment set on foot by the respectable men of 
 Fleeceborough, or by the tenant formers round 
 about. This has been £Coino^ on for srenera- 
 tions ; so that the perftonnd of the actual
 
 276 IIOUGE AND HIS -PIASTERS. 
 
 owner concerns little. His predecessors did 
 it, he does it, and the next to come will do it. 
 It is the tradition of the house. Xothins; is 
 
 CD 
 
 left undone that a true princely spirit could do 
 to improve, to beautify, or to preserve. 
 
 The antiquities of the old, old town are 
 kept for it, and not permitted to decay ; the 
 ancient tesselated pavements of Roman villas 
 carefully protected from the weather ; the rem- 
 nants of the enclosino; walls which the legions 
 built for their defence saved from destruction ; 
 the coins of the emperors and of our own early 
 kings collected ; the spurs, swords, spearheads, 
 all the fragments of past ages arranged for 
 inspection and study by every one who de- 
 sires to ponder over them. Chipped flints and 
 arrowheads, the bones of animals long extinct, 
 and the strange evidences of yet more ancient 
 creatures that swam in the seas of the pre- 
 historic world, these too are preserved at his 
 cost and expense. Archaeologists, geologists, 
 and other men of science come from afar to see 
 these things and to carry away their lessons. 
 The memories of the place are cherished. 
 There was a famous poet who sang in the 
 woods about the park ; his hermitage remams,
 
 A ' DESPOT. 277 
 
 and nothing is lost that was his. Art -treasures 
 there are, too, heirlooms to be seen behind 
 those vast walls by any who Avill be at the 
 trouble of asking. 
 
 Such is the polity of Hodge's own prince, 
 whose silent influence is felt in every house- 
 hold for miles about, and felt, as all must 
 admit, however prejudiced agahist the system, 
 in this case for good. His influence reaches 
 far beyond the l)ounds even of that immense 
 property. The example connnunicates itself 
 to others, and half the county responds to that 
 pleasant im])ulse. It is a responsible ])osition 
 to hold ; something, perhaps, a little like that 
 of the Medici at Florence in the olden times. 
 But here there is no gonfalon, no golden chain 
 of oriice, no velvet doublet, cloak, and rapier, 
 no guards with arquebuss or polished cross- 
 bow. An entire absence of state and ceremony 
 marks this almost unseen but powerful sway. 
 The cycle of the seasons brings round times of 
 trial here as over the entire world, but the 
 conditions under Avliich the trial is sustained 
 could scarcely in our day, and under our com- 
 plicated social and })olitical system, be much 
 more favourable.
 
 278 IIODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE squire's ' ROUND ROBIN.' 
 
 A COCK PHEASANT flies ill frantic haste across 
 the road, beatmg the air with wide- stretched 
 wings, and fast as he goes, puts on yet a 
 faster spurt as the shot comes rattling up 
 throuo-h the bouo-hs of the oak beneath him. 
 The ground is, however, unfavourable to the 
 sportsman, and the bird escapes. The fir 
 copse from which the pheasant rose covers a 
 rather sharp descent on one side of the high- 
 way. On the level above are the ploughed 
 fields, but the slope itself is too abrupt for 
 agricultural operations, and the soil perhaps 
 thin and worthless. It is therefore occupied 
 by a small plantation. On the opposite side 
 of the road there grows a fine row of oaks 
 ill a hedge, under whose shade the dust 
 takes long to dry when once damped by a 
 shower. The sportsman who fired stands in
 
 THE squire's 'round ROBIN.' 27J) 
 
 the road ; the beaters are above, for they de- 
 sire the game to fly in a certam direction ; and 
 what with the narrow space between the firs 
 and the oaks, the spreading- boughs, and the 
 uncertainty of tlie spot where the pheasant 
 would break cover, it is not sur])risnig that he 
 missed. 
 
 The shot, aftei* tearini'- tlirou<>-h the boughs, 
 rises to some heiiilit in the ah*, and, making' 
 a curve, falls of its own weight only, like 
 pattering hail — and as harmless — upon an 
 aged woman, just then trudging slowly round 
 the corner. She is a cottager, and has been 
 to fetch the weekly dole of ])arisli bread 
 that helps to support herself and infirm hus- 
 band. She wears a long cloak that nearly 
 sweeps the ground on account of her much- 
 bowed back, and carries a flai;' basket full of 
 bread in one hand, and a bulguig umbrella, 
 which answers as a walking stick, m the other. 
 The poor old body, much startled, but not in 
 the least injured, scuttles back round the cor- 
 ner, exclauning, * I^or ! it be Filbard a-shoot- 
 ing ; spose a'had better bide a bit till he 
 ha' done.' She has not long to wait. The 
 young gentleman standing in the road gets a
 
 280 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 shot at another cock ; tlii.s time tlie bird flies 
 askew, instead of straio;ht across, and so gives 
 him a better opportunity. The pheasant falls 
 crash among tlie nettles and In-amljles beside 
 the road. Then a second and older gentle- 
 man emerges from the plantation, and after a 
 time a keeper, who picks u[) the game. 
 
 The party then proceed along the road, 
 and comino: ronnd the corner the o-reat black 
 retriever runs up to the old woman with the 
 most friendly mtentions. but to her intense 
 confusion, for she is jnst in tlie act of dropping 
 a lowly curtsey when the dog rubs against her. 
 The youno; (rentleman smiles at her alarm and 
 calls the dog ; the elder walks on utterly in- 
 different. A little way up the road the party 
 o'et over the ii:ate into the meadows on that 
 side, and make for another outlying planta- 
 tion. Then, and not till then, does the old 
 woman set out again upon her slow and labo- 
 rious journey. ' Filbard be just like agate- 
 post,' she matters ; ' a' don't take no notice 
 of anybody.' Though she had dropped the 
 squire so lowly a curtsey, and in his presence 
 would have bc'haved with profound respect, 
 behind his back and out of hearing she called
 
 THE squire's 'round ROBIN.' 281 
 
 him by his family name without any prefix. 
 The cottagers thereabout ahnost always did 
 this in speaking among themselves of their 
 local magnate. They rarely said ' ]\Ir.' ; it 
 was generally ' Filbard,' or, even more fami- 
 liarly, ' Jim Filbard.' Extremes meet. They 
 hardly dared open their mouths when they 
 saw hun, and yet spoke of him afterwards as if 
 he sat with them at bacon and cabbage time. 
 
 Squire Filbard and one of his sons were 
 walking round the outlying copses that 
 . October day with the object of driving the 
 pheasants in towards the great Filbard wood, 
 rather than of making a bag. The birds 
 were mclined to wander about, and the squire 
 thought a little judicious sliooting round the 
 outskirts would do good, and at the same time 
 give his son some sport without disturbing 
 the head of game he kept u]i in the wood 
 itself. The squire was large made, tall, and 
 well proportioned, and with a bearded, manly 
 countenance. His neck was, perhaps, a little 
 thick and apoplectic-looking, but burnt to a 
 healthy brick-dust colour by ex})osure to the 
 sun. The passing years liad drawn some 
 crows' -feet round the eyes, but his step was
 
 282 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 firm, Lis back straight, and he walked his 
 ancestral acres every inch the master. The 
 defect of his features was the thinness of the 
 lips, and a want of character in a nose which 
 did not accord with a 2:ood forehead. His 
 hands, too, were very large and puffy ; his 
 finger-nails (scrupulously clean) were cor- 
 respondingly large, and cut to a sharp point, 
 that seemed to project beyond the tip of the 
 finger, and gave it a scratchy appearance. 
 
 The chimneys of Filbard Hall showed for 
 some distance above the trees of the park, for , 
 the house stood on hio-h o;round. It was of 
 red brick, somewhat square in style, and had 
 little of the true Elizabethan character — it 
 was doubtless later m date, though not modern. 
 The chimneys, however, had a pleasing ap- 
 pearance over the trees ; tliey were in stacks, 
 and rather larger, or broader apparently at 
 the top than where they rose from the roof. 
 Such chimneys are not often seen on recent 
 buildmgs. A chimney seems a smiple matter, 
 and yet the aspect of a house from a distance 
 much depends upon its outline. The man- 
 sion was of large size, and stood in an exten- 
 sive park, through which carriage drives
 
 TiiK squire's 'hound kobin.' 288 
 
 swept up to tlie front from diiferent lodge 
 gates. Each of tlie drives passed under 
 avenues of trees — the park seemed to stretch 
 on either hand without enclosure or boundary 
 — and the approach was not without a certain 
 stateliness. Within the apartments were com- 
 modious, and from several there were really 
 beautiful views. Some ancient furniture, 
 handed down generation after generation, gave 
 a character to the rooms ; the oak staircase 
 was much admired, and so was the wainscot- 
 ing of one part. 
 
 The usual family portraits hung on the 
 walls, but the present squire had rather pushed 
 them aside in favour of his own peculiar hobby. 
 He collected antique Italian pictures — many 
 on panels — in the pre-Raphaelite style. Some 
 of these he had picked up m London, others 
 he had found and purchased on the Continent. 
 There were saints with glories or nimbi round 
 their heads. Madonnas and knceluig Magi, the 
 manger under a kind of penthouse, and similar 
 subjects — subjects the liighest that could be 
 chosen. The iiildinji" of the nimbi seemed 
 well done certainly, and was still bright, but 
 to the ordhiary eye the stiffness of the figures,
 
 284 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 the lack of grace, the absence of soul in the 
 composition was distressingly apparent. It 
 was, however, the squire's hobby, and it must 
 be admitted that he had very high authority 
 upon his side. Some sensitive persons rather 
 shrank from seeing him handle these painted 
 panels with those peculiar scratchy finger- 
 nails ; it set their teeth on edge. He gave 
 considerable sums of money for many of these 
 pamtings, the only liberality he permitted 
 himself, or was capable of. 
 
 His own room or study was almost bare, 
 and the solitary window looked on a paved 
 passage that led to the stables. There was 
 nothing in it but a large table, a bookcase, 
 and two or three of the commonest horsehair 
 chairs ; the carpet was worn bare. He had 
 selected this room because there was a door 
 close by opening on the paved passage. Thus 
 the bailiff of the Home Farm, the steward, the 
 gamekeeper, the policeman, or any one who 
 wished to see him on business, could come 
 to the side door from the back and be shown 
 in to him without passing through the mansion. 
 This certainly was a convenient arrangement ; 
 yet one would have thought that he would
 
 THE squire's ' HOUND KOBIN.' 285 
 
 have luul a second and more private study in 
 which to follow his own natural bent of mind. 
 But the squire received the gardener and gave 
 him directions aliont the cueumbers — for he 
 descended even to such minutia' as that — 
 sitting at the same table on which lie had just 
 written to an Italian art collector respecting 
 a })icture, or to some great friend begging him 
 to come and inspect a fresh accjuisition. The 
 bookcase contained a few law l)Ooks, a manual 
 for the direction of justices — the squire was 
 on the conunission — a copy of Burke, and in 
 one corner of a shelf a few nuisty papers re- 
 ferring to lamily history. These were of some 
 value, and the squire was proud of showing 
 them to those who took an interest in archaeo- 
 logy ; yet he kept them mucli as if they had 
 been receipts for the footman's livery, or a 
 dozen bottles of stable medicine. He wrote 
 with a quill pen, and as it went up and down 
 it scratched the paper as if it had l)een those 
 sharp projecting finger-nails. 
 
 In this study he spent many hours when 
 at home — he rose late, and after breakfast 
 repaired hither. The steward Avas usually in 
 attendance. He was a commonplace man, but
 
 286 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 little above the description of a labourer. He 
 received wages not much superior to those a 
 labourer takes in summer time, but as he lived 
 at the Home Farm (which was in hand) there 
 were of course some perquisites. A slow, 
 quiet man, of little or no education, he pottered 
 about and looked after things in general. One 
 morning perhaps he would come in to talk 
 with the squire about the ash wood they were 
 o-oins: to cut in the ensuino- winter, or about 
 the oak bark which had not been paid for. Or 
 it might be the Alderney cow or the poultry at 
 the Home Farm, or a few fresh tiles on the 
 roof of the pigsty, whicli was decaying. A 
 cart wanted a new pan' of wheels or a shaft. 
 One of the tenants wanted a new shed put up, 
 but it did not seem necessary ; the old one 
 would do very well if people were not so 
 fidgety. The wife or daughter of one of the 
 cottage people was takmg to drink and getting 
 into bad ways. This or that farmer had had 
 some sheep die. Another farmer had bought 
 some new silver-mounted harness, and so on, 
 through all the village gossip. 
 
 Often it was the gamekeeper instead of the 
 steward who came in or was sent for. The
 
 THE squire's ' KOUND llOBIN.' 287 
 
 squire kept ;i large head of plieasants for 
 certain reasons, but he was not over-anxious 
 to pay for them. The keeper grumbled about 
 his wages, that he had no perquisites, and that 
 the shooting season never brought him any 
 fees — unless the squire let the place ; he only 
 wished he let it every year. This, of coiu'se, 
 was said aside ; to the squire he was hat in 
 hand. He had to produce his vouchers for 
 food for the pheasants and dogs, and to give 
 particulars why a certain gate on the planta- 
 tion wanted renewing. The steward had seen 
 it, and thought it might be repaired ; why did 
 the keeper think it ought to be renewed alto- 
 gether ? And was there not plenty of larch 
 timber lying about, that had been thrown and 
 not sold, that would make a very good spar- 
 gate, without purchasing one ? AVhy couldn't 
 old Hooker, the hedge carpenter, knock it up 
 cheap ? 
 
 Next came the coachman — the squire did 
 not keep up anything of a stud, just enough to 
 work the carriage, and some ordinary riding 
 horses and a pony for the children. The 
 coachman had to explain why a new lock was 
 wanted on the stable door ; why the Ijlack-
 
 ;288 HODGE AND HIS mastp:rs. 
 
 smith's bill was so imu-li for shoes ; after 
 which there was a long gossip about the horses 
 of a gentleman who had come down and rented 
 a place for the season. The gardener some- 
 times had an interview a1)ont the quantity of 
 apples that might Ije sold from the orchard, 
 and twenty other peddling details, in which 
 the sqaire delighted. As for the butler, time 
 at last had brought him to bear with patience 
 the inquisition aljout the waste corks and the 
 empty bottles. 
 
 The squire would have had the cook in 
 and discussed the stock -pot with her for a full 
 hour, but the cook set up her l)ack. She 
 wouldn't, no, that she wouldn't ; and the 
 squire found that the cook Avas mistress of the 
 situation. She was the only personage who 
 did not pass him with deference. She tossed 
 her head, and told her fellow- servants audibly 
 that he was a poor, mean-spirited man ; and 
 as for missis, she was ji regular Tartar — there ! 
 In this they thoroughly agreed. The coach- 
 man and footman, wlicn out with the carriasre, 
 and chancino- to get a talk witli other coach- 
 men and footmen, were full of it. He was the 
 meanest master they had ever known ; yet
 
 THE squire's 'hound robin.' 289 
 
 they could nut say that lie paid less wages, or 
 that they were ill-fed — it was this meddling, 
 peddling interference they resented. The 
 groom, wlien he rode into town for the letter- 
 bag, always stopped to tell his friends some 
 fresh instance of it. All the shopkeepers and 
 tradesmen, and everyjjody else, had heard of 
 it. But they were none the less obsequious 
 when the squire passed \\\) the street. The 
 servants were never so glad as when young- 
 master came home with the liberal views im- 
 bibed in modern centres of learninji', and with 
 a free, frank mode of speech. But miss, the 
 sole daughter, they sinq:>ly hated ; she seemed 
 to have ten times the meanness of her papa, 
 and had been a tell-tale from childhood. The 
 kitchen said she saved her curl papers to sell 
 as waste paper. 
 
 The ' missis ' was as haughty, as unap- 
 proachable, and disdainful as the master was 
 inquisitive ; she never spoke to, looked at, 
 nor acknowledged any one — except the three 
 largest tenants and their wives. To these, 
 who paid heavily, she was gracious. She 
 dressed in the very extreme and front of 
 fashion — the squire himself quite plainly, 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 290 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 without the least pretence of dandyism. Hate- 
 ful as the . villa o'e folk thouo'ht her hauteur 
 and open contempt for them, they said she 
 was more the lady than the squire was the 
 o-entleman. 
 
 The squire's time, when at home, like 
 everything else, was peddled away. He rode 
 into market one day of the week ; he went to 
 church on Sundays with unfailing regularity, 
 and he generally attended the petty sessional 
 bench on a third day. Upon the bench, 
 from the long standing of his family, he oc- 
 cupied a prominent position. His mmd in- 
 variably seized the minutirc of the evidence, 
 and never seemed to see the point or the 
 broad l^earings of the case. He would utterly 
 confuse a truthful witness, for mstance, who 
 chanced to say that he met the defendant in 
 the road. ' But you said just now that you 
 and he were both going the same way, how, 
 then could you meet him ? ' the squu'e would 
 ask, frownmg sternly. Whether the witness 
 overtook or met the defendant mattered no- 
 thmg to the point at issue ; but the squire, 
 having got a satisfactory explanation, turned 
 aside, with an ao'^avatino- air of cleverness.
 
 TIIK SQUIRK's ' KOUND KOBIX.' 291 
 
 For the rest of the week the squire could not 
 account for liis time. He sometimes, indeed, 
 in the hunting season, rode to the meet ; but 
 he rarely followed. He had none of the en- 
 thusiasm that makes a hunter ; besides, it 
 made the horse in such a lieat, and would 
 work him out too quick for economy. 
 
 He went out shooting, but not in regular 
 trim. He would carry liis gun across to the 
 Home Farm, and knock over a rabbit on 
 the way ; then spend two hours looking at the 
 Alderney cow, the roof of the pigstye, and the 
 poultry, and presently stroll across a corner of 
 the wood, and slioot a pheasant. The liead of 
 game was kept u]i for the purpose of letting 
 the mansion from time to time when the 
 squire or his lady thought it desirable to go 
 on the Continent, that the daughter might 
 acquire the graces of travel. A visit to 
 London in the season, a visit to the seaside, 
 and then home in the autumn to peddle about 
 the estate, made up the year when they did 
 not go abroad. There was a broad park, 
 noble trees, a great mansion, a stately ap- 
 proach ; but within it seemed all littleness 
 of spirit. 
 
 v2
 
 292 IIODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 The squire's own private study — the morn- 
 ing-room of the owner of this fine estate — 
 was, as previously observed, next the passage 
 that led to the stal^les, and the one window 
 looked out on a blank wall. It was in this 
 room that he conducted his lousiness and 
 pleasure, and his art researches. It was here 
 that he received the famous ' Round Ivobin ' 
 from his tenants. The estate was not very 
 large — something between 3,000 and 4,000 
 acres — but much of it was good and fertile, 
 though heavy land, and highly rented. Had 
 the squire received the whole of his rents for 
 his own private use he would have been well 
 off as squires go. But there was a flaw or 
 hitch somewhere in the rio-ht, or title, or sue- 
 cession. No one knew the precise circum- 
 stances, because, like so many similar family 
 disputes, when the lawj^ers were ready, and 
 the case had come before the tribunal, a com- 
 promise was arrived at, the terms of which 
 were only known to the tribunal and tlie 
 parties directly concerned. 
 
 But everybody knew that the squire had 
 to pay heavy pensions to various members 
 of another branch of the family ; and it was
 
 Till-: SQUIRES 'iJOUND IIOBIN.' 29^^ 
 
 imagined tliat he did not feel quite fixed iii 
 the tenure — that possibly the case might, 
 under certain circumstances, be heard of a":ain 
 — since it was noticed that he did not plant , 
 trees, or make improvements, or in any way 
 proceed to increase the permanent attractions 
 of the estate. It seemed as if he felt he was 
 only lodging there. He appeared to try and 
 get all he could off the place — without abso- 
 lute damage — and to invest or spend nothmg. 
 After all these payments had been made the 
 squire's income was much reduced, and thus, 
 witli all these broad acres, these extensive 
 woods, and park, and mansion, pleasure 
 grounds, game, and so forth, he was really a 
 poor man. Xot pour iu the sense of actual 
 want, but a man in his position had, of course, 
 a certain appearance to kooyt up. Horses, 
 carriaii'cs — even cooks — are not to be had for 
 nothing, and are absolutely essential to those 
 who are compelled to maintain any kind of 
 dignity. Sons with liberal ideas are ex])en- 
 sive ; a daughter is expensive ; a Avife who 
 insists on dressing in the fashion is expensive. 
 Now, taking all these thhigs into con- 
 sideration, and rememberms:, too, that the
 
 294 HODGE AND IIIS MASTERS. 
 
 squire as a good father (which, he was admit- 
 tedly) wished to make provision for the futm^e 
 of his children, it may perjiaps, after all, be 
 questioned whether he really was so mean and 
 little of spirit as a})peared. Under the cir- 
 cumstances, if he wished to save, the only 
 way open to him was to he careful in little 
 things. Even his hobby — the pre-Kaphaelite 
 pictures — was not without its advantage m 
 this sense ; the collection was certainly worth 
 more than he gave for it, for he got it all by 
 careful baro-amino", and it could be sold ao;aiii 
 at a profit. The careful superintendence of 
 the Alderney cow, the cucumber frames, and 
 the rabbits, might all be carried out for the 
 very best of objects, the good of his children. 
 
 Now. the sqidre was, of course, very well 
 aware of the troubles of aoTiculture, the wet- 
 ness of the seasons — which played havoc with 
 the game — the low prices, and the loud talk 
 that was o'oinjj on around him. But he made 
 no sign. He might have been deaf, dumb, 
 and blind. He walked by tlie wheat, but did 
 not see the deficiency of the crop, nor the 
 extraordinary growth of weeds. There were 
 voices in the air like the mutterinii's of a
 
 THE SQUIRK's 'round IJOBIN.' 295 
 
 coming storm, but he did not liear tliem. 
 There were parngraplis in the pnpers — how 
 So-and-so hnd liberally reduced the rents or 
 returned a percentag-e ; hnt he did not read 
 them, or did not understand. Rent days 
 came and went, and no sign was made. His 
 solicitor received the rents, l)ut notlnng could 
 be got out of him l)y the farmers. The little 
 farmers hardly liked to take the lead : some 
 of them did not dare. The three hn-gest 
 fsn-mers looked at each other and wondered 
 which would speak first. They were awk- 
 wardly situated. The squire's wife acknow- 
 ledged their wives and daughters, and once 
 now and then deigned to invite them to the 
 mansion. The squire himself presented them 
 with specimens of a valuable breed of poultry 
 he was bringing up at the Home Farm. It 
 was difficult to begin unpleasant business. 
 
 Meantime the solicitor gathered u]i the 
 cheques, wished them good afternoon and de- 
 parted. Another rent day came round, and still 
 no sign. The squire's policy was. in fact, to 
 ignore, lie ignored the depression altogether 
 — could not see that it existed in that comity 
 at all. Kecollect, it was the only policy open
 
 296 IIODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 to him. Whether the rents paid to him were 
 large or small, his expenses would be the 
 same. There were the members of the other 
 branch of the family to be paid in full. There 
 were the carriages, the servants, the game- 
 keepers, and so on. He could reduce nothing ; 
 no wonder that he was slow to acknowledge 
 that he must be himself reduced. The fatal 
 day — so long dreaded — came at last. 
 
 A large letter lay on the table in the 
 study one morning, along with the other 
 letters. He did not recognise the handwrit- 
 ing, and nr.turally opened it first. It was a 
 ' Round Robin ' from the tenants. All had 
 signed a memorial, setting forth the depres- 
 sion, and respectfully, even humbly, asking 
 that their case be taken into considera- 
 tion, and that a percentage be returned, or 
 the rent reduced. Then- heavy land, they 
 pointed out, had been pecidiarly difficult to 
 work in such seasons. They had suffered 
 exceptionally, and they trusted he would take 
 no offence. But there was an unmistake- 
 able hint that they were in earnest. All 
 sig-ned it — from the uno;rateful largest tenants, 
 who had had presents of fancy poultry, and
 
 THE squire's ' ROUND RORTX.' 297 
 
 whose wives had been smiled upon, down to 
 the smallest workinp^ farmer, who could hardly 
 be distin finished from his own labourers. 
 
 The squire read the names over twice, 
 j)ointini^ to each witli his sharp, scratchy 
 finger-nail. There were other letters from the 
 members of the other branch of the family 
 whose pensions were just due in full. Sup- 
 pose he returned ten per cent, of the rents to 
 the tenants, that would not be like ten per cent, 
 upon the entire rental, but perhaps twenty- 
 five or thirty per cent, upon that portion of 
 the rental which actually went into his own 
 pocket. A man can hardly be expected to 
 cheerfully tender other ])cople a third of his 
 income. But sprawling and ill-written as 
 many of the signatures were to the ' Round 
 Ivobin ' — the pen held by heavy hands — yet 
 they were genuine, and constituted a very 
 substantial fact, that nuist be yielded to.
 
 298 HODGE AND HIS MASTEllS. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 AN AMBITIOUS SQUIRE. 
 
 Perhaps the mas-istrate most reo-nkr in his 
 attendance at a certain country Petty Ses- 
 sional Court is young Squire Marthorne. 
 Those who have had business to transact at 
 such Courts know the difficulty that often 
 arises from the absence of a second maons- 
 trate, there being a numerous class of cases 
 with which one justice of the peace is not 
 permitted to deal. There must be two, and 
 it sometimes happens that only one is forth- 
 coming. The procedure adopted varies much 
 in different divisions, according to the popu- 
 lation and the i^ercentage of charges brought 
 up. Usually a particular day is appointed 
 when it is understood that a fall bench will 
 be present, but it not unfrequently happens 
 that another and less formal meetino: has to 
 be held, at which the attendance is uncertain.
 
 AN AMBITIOUS SQUIIU:. 299 
 
 The district in wliicli Mr. Marthomc resides 
 chances to be somewhat populous, and to in- 
 chide one or two turbulent places that furnish 
 a steady supply of offenders. The practice 
 therefore is to hold two Coiu'ts a week ; at 
 one of these, on the Saturday, the more 
 important cases are arranged to be heard, 
 when there are always plenty of magistrates. 
 At the other, on the Tuesday, remands and 
 smaller matters are take]i, and there tlien used 
 to be some delay. 
 
 One justice thought his neighbour would 
 go, another thought the same of his neighbour, 
 and the result was nobody went. Having 
 tacitly ]jound themselves to attend once a 
 week, the justices, many of whom resided 
 miles away, did not care formally to pledge 
 themselves to be invariably present on a 
 second day. Sometimes the business on that 
 second day was next to nothing, but occasion- 
 ally serious affairs turned up, when messengers 
 had to be despatched to gather a quorum 
 
 But latterly this uncertainty has been put 
 an end to through the regular attendance of 
 young Squire ]\Iarthorne, of Marthorne House. 
 The Marthornes are an old family, and one of
 
 300 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 the l)est connected in the county, though by 
 no means rich, and, whether it was the lack 
 of great wealth or a want of energy, they 
 had until recently rather dropped out of 
 the governing circle. When, however, the 
 young squire, soon after his accession to the 
 property, in the natural course of events, was 
 nominated to the Commission of the Peace, 
 he began to exhibit qualities calculated to 
 bring him to the front. He developed an apt- 
 itude for business, and at the same time 
 showed a personal tact and judgment which 
 seemed to promise a future very different from 
 the previous stagnation of his family. 
 
 These qualities came first mto play at the 
 Petty Sessions, which, apart from the criminal 
 business, is practically an informal weekly 
 Parliament of local landowners. Marthorne, 
 of course, was well known to the rest long 
 before his appearance among them as a col- 
 league. He had gained some reputation at 
 colleo'c : but that had Ions; since been for- 
 gotten in the prestige he had attained as a 
 brilliant foxhunter. Even m the days be- 
 fore his accession, when his finances were 
 notoriously low, he had somehow contrived to
 
 AN AMBITIOUS SQUIllE. 301 
 
 ride ii first-rate horse. Everybody likes a 
 man who rides a good horse. At the same 
 time there was nothing horsey about him ; he 
 was always the gentleman. Since his succes- 
 sion the young squire, as lie was familiarly 
 described — most of the others being elderly 
 — had selected his horses with such skill that 
 it was well known a very great man had no- 
 ticed them, so that when he came to the Bench, 
 voung as he was, Marthorne escaped the un- 
 pleasant process of finding his level — i.e. being 
 thoroughly put down. 
 
 If not received quite as an equal by that 
 assemblage of elderly gentlemen, he was made 
 to feel that at all events they would listen to 
 what he had to say. That is a very great point 
 ffained. ]\Iarthorne used his advantao'e with 
 judgment. He displayed a modesty highly 
 commendable in a young man. He listened, 
 and only spoke for the purpose of acquh'ing 
 information. Nothing is so pleasing as to find 
 a man of intelligence M'illingly constituting 
 himself your pupil, i'hey were all anxious to 
 teach hiui the business of the county, and the 
 more he endeavoured to learn from them the 
 cleverer they thought him.
 
 302 IIODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 Now, the business of the county was not 
 very intricate ; the details were innumerable, 
 but the general drift was easy to acquire. 
 Much more complicated to see through were 
 all the little personal likings, dislikmgs, petty 
 spites, foibles, hobbies, secret understandings, 
 family jars, and so forth, which really decide a 
 man's vote, or the scale into which he throws 
 his influence. There were scores of squires 
 dotted over the county, each of whom pos- 
 sessed local power more or less considerable, 
 and each of whom might perchance have pri- 
 vate relations with men who held high ofl&ce 
 in the State. Every family had its history 
 and its archives containing records of negotia- 
 tions with other families. People who met 
 with all outward friendhness, and belonged to 
 the same party, might have grudges half a 
 century old, but not yet forgotten. If you 
 made friends with one, you might mortally 
 offend the other. The other would say 
 nothmg, but another day a whisper to some 
 great authority might destroy the hopes of the 
 aspirant. Those who would attam to power 
 must study the inner social life, and learn the 
 secret motives that animate men. But to o-et
 
 AN AiMBITlOUS 8QU1KE. 303 
 
 at the secret behind the speech, the private 
 thought behind tlie vote, would occupy one 
 for years. 
 
 Marthorne, of course, having been born 
 and bred in the circle, knew the iiiain facts ; 
 but, when he came to really set himself to 
 work, he quickly felt that he was ignorant, 
 and that at any moment he might irritate some 
 one's hidden i)rejudice. He looked round for 
 an older man who knew all about it, and could 
 inform him. 'J'his man he found m the person 
 of the Yice-Chairman of the Petty Sessions. 
 The nommal Chairman, like many other un- 
 paid officials, held the place because of old 
 family greatness, not from any personal ability 
 — family greatness which was in reality a mere 
 tradition. The Yice-Chairman was the true 
 centre and spirit of the circle. 
 
 A man of vast aptitude for details, he liked 
 county busmess for its own sake, and under- 
 stood every technicality. With little or no 
 personal and)ition, he had assisted in every 
 political and social movement ui the county 
 for half a century, and knew the secret mo- 
 tives of every individual landowner, ^^'ith 
 large wealth, nothing to do, and clnldless,
 
 304 HODGE AND IIIS MASTERS. 
 
 he took a liking to young Marthome. The 
 old man wished for nothing better than to 
 talk ; the young squire listened attentively. 
 The old man was delii>'hted to find some one 
 who would sit with him throuo-h the lono- 
 hours of Petty Sessional busmess. Thus it was 
 that the people who had to attend the Local 
 Board, whether it was a Saturday, the prin- 
 cipal day, or whether it was a Tuesday, that 
 had previously been so trying, found their 
 business facilitated by the attendance of two 
 magistrates. The Vice- Chairman was always 
 there, and Mr. j\Iarthorne was always there. 
 It sometimes happened that while Hodge the 
 lately intoxicated, or Hodge the recent pugi- 
 list, was stolidly waiting for his sentence, the 
 two justices in the retiring room were con- 
 vulsed with laughter ; the one recounting, the 
 other imbibing, some curious racy anecdote 
 concerning the family history of a local mag- 
 nate. 
 
 Meantime, the young squire was steadily 
 gaining a reputation for solid qualities, for 
 work and application. Not only at the 13ench, 
 but at the Board of Guardians and at other 
 Boards where the Justice of the Peace is c\v
 
 AN AMBITIOUS SQUIRE. 305 
 
 officio a member, he steadily worked at details, 
 sat patiently upon committees, audited endless 
 accounts, read interminable reports, and was 
 never weary of work. The farmers began to 
 talk about him, and to remark to each other 
 what a wonderful talent for business he 
 possessed, and what a pleasant- speaking 
 young gentleman he was. The applause was 
 well earned, for probably there is no duller or 
 more monotonous work than that of attendino- 
 Boards which never declare dividends. He 
 next appeared at the farmers' club, at first as 
 a mere spectator, and next, though with evi- 
 dent diffidence, as a speaker. 
 
 Marthorne was no orator ; he felt when he 
 stood up to speak an odd sensation in the 
 throat, as if the glottis had contracted. He 
 was, in fact, very nervous, and for the first 
 two or three sentences had not the least idea 
 what he had said. But he forced himself to 
 say it — his will overruled his physical weak- 
 ness. A\''lien said it was not much — only a few 
 safe platitudes — but it was a distinct advance. 
 He felt that next time lie should do better, 
 and that his tongue would obey his mind. His 
 remarks appeared in tlie local print, and he 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 o06 IIODGE AND HIS MASTEES. 
 
 liad started as a speaker. He was resolved 
 to be a speaker, for it is evident to all 
 that, without frequent public speech, no one 
 can now be a representative man. Marthorne, 
 after this, never lost an opportunity of speak- 
 ing — if merely to second a resolution, to pro- 
 pose a toast, he made the most of it. One rule 
 he laid down for himself, namely, never to say 
 anythmg origmal. He was not speaking to 
 propound a new theory, a new creed, or view 
 of life. His aim was to become the mouth- 
 piece of his party. Most probably the thought 
 that seemed to him so clever might, if publicly 
 expressed, offend some important people. He, 
 therefore, carefully avoided anythmg original. 
 High authorities are now never silent ; when 
 Parliament closes they still continue to address 
 the public, and generally upon more or less 
 stirrmg questions of the time. 
 
 In those addresses, delivered by the verj^ 
 leaders of his own party, Marthorne found 
 the material, and caught from their diligent 
 perusal the spirit m which to use it. In this 
 way, without uttermg a single original idea 
 of his own, and with very little originality of 
 expression, the young orator succeeded per-
 
 AN A^miTIOUS SQUIRE. 307 
 
 fcctl^nn his aim. First, he became recoiiriised 
 as a s])caker, and, therefore, extremely useful ; 
 secondly, he was recognised as one of the 
 soundest exponents of politics in the county. 
 Marthorne was not only clever, but ' safe.' 
 His repute for the latter cjuality was of even 
 more service to him than for talent ; to be 
 ' safe ' in such thing's is a very great recom- 
 mendation. Personal re])utation is of slow 
 growth, but it does grow. The Vice-Chair- 
 man. jMarthorne's friend and mentor, had 
 connections with very high ])eople indeed. 
 He mentioned Marthorne to the very high 
 people. These, in their turn, occasionally 
 cast a olance at what Marthorne was doinff. 
 
 o o 
 
 Now and then they read a speech of his, and 
 thought it extremely good, solid, and well ])ut. 
 It was understood that a certain M.P. would 
 retire at the next election ; and they asked 
 themselves whom they had to take his place ? 
 While this hnportant question was exercis- 
 ing the minds of those in authority, Marthorne 
 was energetically at work gaining the social 
 suffrage. The young squire's lady — he had 
 married in his minority for beauty and in- 
 telligence, and not for money — was discovered 
 
 x2
 
 308 HODGE AND HIS MASTEES. 
 
 to be u very interesting!: young person. Her 
 beauty and intelligence, and, let it be added, 
 her true devotion to lier husband's cause, 
 proved of fifty times more value to him than a 
 dowry of many manors. Her tact smoothed 
 the way everywhere ; she made friends for 
 him in all directions, especially perhaps during 
 the London season. Under the whirl and 
 2flitter of that fascmatmof time there are latent 
 possibilities of important business. Both 
 j\Iarthorne and his lady had by birth and 
 connections the entree into leading circles ; 
 but many who have that entree never attain to 
 more influence m society than the furniture of 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 These two never for a moment lost sight 
 of the country while they enjoyed themselves 
 in town. Everythmg they said or did was 
 said and done with a view to conciliate people 
 who might have direct or indirect influence 
 in the country. In these matters, ladies of 
 position still retain considerable power in 
 their hands. The young squire and his wife 
 put themselves to immense trouble to get the 
 good will of such persons, and being of en- 
 gaging manners they in time succeeded.
 
 AN AMBITIOUS SQUIRE. 309 
 
 This was not cttocted ut oucc, but three or 
 four years are a very short time in which to 
 develop personal influence, and their success 
 within so Ijrief a period argues considerable 
 skill. 
 
 At home ao'ain in the autumn the same 
 efforts were diligently contmued. The man- 
 sion itself was but of moderate size and by no 
 means convenient, but the squire's lady trans- 
 formed it from a gaunt, conunonplace country 
 house into an eleo-ant and charmino; residence. 
 This she contrived without great expense by 
 the exercise of good taste and a gift of dis- 
 criminatinj>; between what was and what was 
 not apropos. The exterior she left alone — to 
 alter an exterior costs a heavy sum and often 
 fails. Ijut the interior she oTaduallv fitted in 
 a novel style, almost entirely after her own 
 design. The gardens, too, luider her super- 
 vision, became equally inviting. The house 
 got talked about, and was itself a social 
 success. 
 
 On liis ])art; the squire paid as much 
 attention to the estate. It was not laruv, far 
 from sufiicient of itself, indeed, to su})port 
 any social or political pretensions without
 
 310 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 the most rigid economy. And the pair were 
 rigidly economical. The lady dressed in the 
 height of the fashion, and drove the most 
 beautiful horses, and yet she never wasted a 
 shilling upon herself. Her own little private 
 whims and fancies ahe resolutely refused to 
 gratify. Every coin was spent where it would 
 produce effect. In like manner, the squire 
 literally never had half a sovereign in his 
 pocket. He selected the wines in his cellar 
 with the greatest care, and paid for them 
 prices which the wine merchant, in these days 
 of cheap wines, was unaccustomed to receive 
 from men of thrice his income. The squire 
 paid for the very best wine, and in private 
 drank a cheap claret. But his guests, many 
 of them elderly gentlemen, when once they 
 had duied with him never forgot to come 
 agam. His bins became known throughout 
 the county ; very influential people indeed 
 spoke of them with affection. It was m this 
 way that the squire got a high value out of 
 his by no means extensive rents. 
 
 tie also looked after the estate personally. 
 Hodge, eating his Imicheon under the hedge 
 in October, as he slowly munched his crust.
 
 AX AMBITIOUS SQUIRE. 311 
 
 watclied tlie S(|uirc strolling about the fields, 
 with his <>-un under his arm, and wondered 
 why he did not try the turnips. The squm* 
 never went into tlie turnip liekl, and seemed 
 ({uite oblivious that he carried a gun, for when 
 a covey rose at his feet he did not fire, but 
 simply marked them down. His mind, in 
 fact, was busy "witli more important matters, 
 and, fond as he was of shooting", he wanted 
 the birds for some one else's delectation. After 
 lie had had tlic })lace a little while, there was 
 not a square inch of waste ground to be found. 
 When the tenants \vere caHous to huits, the 
 S{|uire gave them pretty clearl}^ to understand 
 tliat lie meant his land to be improved, and 
 improved it was. He himself of his own free 
 motive and initiative ordered new buildinii's to 
 be erected where he, by personal inspection, 
 saw that they would pay. He drained to 
 some extent. l)ut not very largely, thinking 
 that ca])ital sunk in drains, except inparticidar 
 soils, did not return for many years. 
 
 Anxious as he was to keep plenty of game, 
 he killed oft"' the rabbits, and grubbed up many 
 of the small covers at the corners and sides of 
 arable fields Avhich the tenants believed inju-
 
 312 nODGE AXD HIS MASTERS. 
 
 rious to crops. He re]3aired labourers' cottages, 
 and added offices to farmsteads. In short, he 
 did everything that could be done without too 
 heavy an expenditure. To kill otf the rabbits, 
 to grub the smaller coverts, to drain the 
 marshy spots, to thatch the cottages, put up 
 cattle sheds, and so on, could be effected with- 
 out burdening tlie estate with a loan. But, 
 small as these improvements were in them- 
 selves, yet, taken together, they made an 
 appreciable difference. 
 
 There was a distinct increase in the re- 
 venue of the estate after the first two years. 
 The increase arose in part from the diminished 
 expenses, for it has been found that a tumble- 
 down place is more costly to maintain than 
 one in good repair. The tenants at first were 
 rather alarmed, fearino; lest the chano;e should 
 end in a general rise of rents. It did not. 
 The squire only asked an increase when he 
 had admittedly raised the value of the land, 
 and then only to a moderate amount. By 
 degrees he acquired a reputation as the most 
 just of landlords. His tenantry were not only 
 satisfied, but proud of him ; for they began to 
 foresee what was going to happen.
 
 AN AMBITIOUS SQUIKK. 313 
 
 Yet all these tliin<is liad been done for his 
 own interest — so true is it that the interest of 
 the hmdlonl and tlie tenant are identical. The 
 squire had sini})ly acted judiciously, and from 
 personal inspection. He studied his estate, 
 and attended to it personally. Of course he 
 could not have done these things had he not 
 succeeded to a i)lace but little encumbered 
 with family settlements. He did them from 
 interested motives, and not from mere senti- 
 ment. But, nevertheless, credit of a high 
 order was justly accorded to him. So young 
 a man might naturally have ex})ended liis in- 
 come on j)leasure. So young a wife might 
 have spent his rents in frivolity. They worked 
 towards an end, l)ut it was a worthy end — for 
 ambition, if not too extravagant, is a virtue. 
 Men with votes and influence compared this 
 squire in their minds with other squires, 
 whose lives seemed spent in a slumberous 
 do-nothinguess. 
 
 Thus, by degrees, the young squire's man- 
 sion and estate added to his reputation. The 
 labour which all this represented was iimiiense. 
 Both tlu" scjuire ;uid liis wife worked harder 
 than a merchant in his oflice. Attendinu'
 
 314 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 Boards and farmers' clubs, making speeclies, 
 carrying on correspondence, looking after tlie 
 estate, discharging social duties, filled up every 
 moment of liis time. Superintending the 
 house, the garden, corresponding, and a hun- 
 dred other labours, filled up every moment of 
 hers. They were never idle ; to rise socially 
 and politically requires as great or greater work 
 than for a poor man to achieve a fortune. 
 
 Ultimately the desired result began to be 
 apparent. There grew up a general feeling 
 that the squire was the best man for the place 
 in Parliament which, in the course of events, 
 must ere lono- be vacant. There was much 
 heartburning and jealousy secretly felt among 
 men twice his age, who had waited and hoped 
 for years for such an openmg, till at last they 
 had rusted and become incapable of effort. 
 But, cynical as they might be in private, they 
 were too wise to go openly agamst the stream. 
 A few friendly words spoken m season by a 
 great man whose good will had been gained 
 decided the matter. At an informal meeting 
 of the party — how much more is efi'ected at in- 
 formal than at formal assemblies! — Marthorne 
 was introduced as the successor to the then
 
 AN AMliiTlUUS StiUIKE. 315 
 
 representative. The youn<^ squire's estate 
 could not, of course, bear the heavy pecuniary 
 strain Avhich nuist arise ; but before those 
 who had the control of these things finally 
 selected him they had ascertained that there 
 would be no difficulty with respect to money. 
 Marthorne's old friend and mentor, the wealtliy 
 Vice-Chairman of the Petty Sessions, wlio had 
 inducted him into the county business, an- 
 nounced that he should Ijcar the larger part of 
 the expense. He was not a little proud of 
 his protege. 
 
 The same old friend and mentor, wise with 
 the knowledge and experience which long ob- 
 servation of men had given him, advised the 
 young squire what to do when the depression 
 first came upon agriculture. The old man 
 said, ' Meet it ; very likely it will not last two 
 years. What is that in the life of an estate ? ' 
 So the young squire met it, and announced at 
 once that he shoidd return a percentage of 
 his rents. ' But not too high a percentage,' 
 said the old man ; ' let us ascertain what the 
 rest of the landowners think, • else by a too 
 liberal reduction you may seem to cast a 
 reflection upon them.' The percentage was
 
 316 HODGE A^^D HIS MASTERS. 
 
 returned, and continued, and tlie young squire 
 lias tided over the difficulty. 
 
 His own tenantry and the farming interest 
 generally are proud of him. Hodge, who, 
 slow as he is, likes a real man, says, ' He 
 beant such a bad sort of a veller, you ; a' 
 beant above speaking to we! ' When the 
 time comes the young squire will certainly 
 be returned.
 
 317 
 
 CHAPTEU XIV. 
 
 THE PARSOX'S WIFE. 
 
 It is pleasant on a sunny day to walk tlirongli 
 a field of wheat when the footpatli is bordered 
 on either side by the ripening crop, without 
 the intervention of hedge or fence. Such a. 
 footpatli. narrow, but well kept, leads from a 
 certain country churchyard to the highway 
 road, and passes on the way a wicket gate in 
 a thick evergreen shrubbery which surrounds 
 the vicarage lawn and gardens. This after- 
 noon the wheat stands still and upright, with- 
 out a motion, in the burnino- sunshine, for 
 the sun, though he has sloped a little from 
 his highest meridian altitude, pours an even 
 fiercer beam than at the exact hour of noon. 
 The shadeless field is cx})Osed to the full glarc^ 
 of the brilliant light. There are no trees in 
 the field itself, the hedges are cut low and 
 trimmed to the smallest proportions, and are
 
 318 TTODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 devoid of timber ; and, as the ground is high 
 and close to the hills, all the trees in sight are 
 beneath, and can be overlooked. Whether in 
 sunshine or storm there is no shelter — no me- 
 dium ; the wind rushes over with its utmost 
 fury, or the heat rests on it undisturbed by 
 the faintest current. Yet, sultry as it is, the 
 footpath is a pleasant one to follow. 
 
 The wheat ears, all but ripe — to the ordi- 
 nary eye they are ripe, but the farmer is not 
 quite satisfied — rise to the waist or higher, and 
 tempt the hand to pluck them. Butterflies 
 flutter over the surface, now descending to 
 some flower hidden beneath, now resummg 
 their joyous journey. There is a rich ripe 
 feeling m the very atmosphere, the earth is 
 yielding her wealth, and a dehcate aroma rises 
 from her generous gifts. Far as the eye can 
 see, the rolling plains and slopes present 
 various tints of yellow — wheat in difi'erent 
 stages of ripeness, or of difl'erent kinds ; oats 
 and barley- — tfll the hedges and woods of the 
 vale conceal the farther landscape on the one 
 hand, and the ridge of the hills upon the 
 other. 
 
 Nothing conveys so strong an impression
 
 THK parson's wife. 319 
 
 of substantial wealtli as the view of wheat- 
 fields. A diamond ornament in a window 
 may be ticketed as worth so many hundreds 
 of pounds ; Ijut the glittering gem, and the 
 sum it represents, seem rather abstract tliau 
 real. But the wheat, the golden Avlieat, is a 
 great fact that seizes hold of the mind ; the 
 idea comes of itself that it represents solid 
 wealth. 
 
 The tiles of the vicarage roof — all of the 
 bouse visible above the shrubbery — look so 
 hot and dry in the glaring sunshine that it 
 does not seem possible for vegetation to exist 
 upon them ; yet they are tinted Avith lichen. 
 The shrubbery has an invitrng coolness about 
 it — the thick evergreens, the hollies on which 
 the berries are now green, the cedars and 
 ornamental trees planted so close together 
 that the passer-by cannot see through, must 
 surely afford a grateful shade — a contrast with 
 the heat of the wheat-field and the dust of 
 the highway below. Just without the wicket 
 gate a goat standing upon his hind legs, his 
 fore legs placed against the palings, is in- 
 dustriously nibbling the tenderest leaves of 
 the shrubs and trees which he can roach.
 
 320 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 Thus extended to his full length he can reach 
 considerably higher than might be supposed, 
 and is capable of much destruction. Doubt- 
 less he has got out of bounds. 
 
 Inside the enclosure the reverend gentle- 
 man himself reclines in an arm-chair of cane- 
 work placed under the shade of the verandah, 
 just without the glass door or window opening 
 from the drawing-room upon the lawn. His 
 head has fallen back and a little to one side, 
 and an open book lies on his knee ; his soft 
 felt hat is bent and crumpled ; he has yielded 
 to the heat and is slumberino-. The blinds are 
 partly down the window, but a glimpse can be 
 obtained of a luxurious car^Det, of tables in 
 valuable woods and inlaid, of a fine piano, of 
 china, and the thousand and one nicknacks of 
 highly civilised life. The reverend gentle- 
 man's suit of black, however, is not new ; it 
 is, on the contrary, decidedly rusty, and the 
 sole of one of his boots, which is visible, is 
 much worn. Over his head the roses twine 
 round the pillars of the verandah, and there 
 is a parterre of brilliant flowers not far from 
 his feet. 
 
 His wife sits, a few yards distant, under a
 
 THE parson's wife. 321 
 
 weeping ash, whose well-trained boughs make 
 a perfect tent, and shield her from the sun. 
 She has a small table before her, and writing 
 materials, and is making notes with the ut- 
 most despatch from some paper or journal. 
 She is no longer young, and there are the 
 marks of much care and trouble on her fore- 
 head ; but she has still a pleasing expression 
 upon her features, her hands are exquisitely 
 white, and her hgnre, once really good, re- 
 tams some of the outline that rendered it 
 beautiful. Wherever you sa"\\' her you would 
 say, That is a lady. But her dress, tasteful 
 though it be, is made of the cheapest material, 
 and looks, indeed, as if it liad been carefully 
 folded away last summer, and was now 
 brought out to do duty a second time. 
 
 The slow rumble of Avao-o-on wheels o'oes 
 down the road, close to the lawn, but con- 
 cealed by the trees, against whose boughs the 
 sheaves of the load rustle as they go past. 
 Wealth rolling by upon the waggon, wealth in 
 the well-kept garden, in the smart lawn, in the 
 roses, the bright flowers, the substantial well- 
 furnished house, the luxurious carpet, and 
 the china ; wealth, too, all around in the vast 
 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 322 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 expanse of ripening wheat. He has nothing 
 to do but to slumber in the cane chair and 
 receive his tithe of the harvest. She has 
 nothmg to do but to sit under the shadow of 
 the weeping ash and dream dreams, or write 
 verses. Such, at least, might be the first im- 
 pression. 
 
 The pubhcation from which she is so ear- 
 nestly making notes is occupied with the 
 management of bees, and she is so busy be- 
 cause the paper is only borrowed, and has to 
 be returned. Most of the papers and books 
 that come to the vicarage have to be hastily 
 
 read for the same reason. Mrs. F is 
 
 doing her very best and hardest to increase 
 
 the Rev. F 's income ; she has tried to do 
 
 so for some years, and despite repeated failures 
 is bravely, perhaps a little wearily, still try- 
 ing. There is not much left for her to ex- 
 periment with. The goat surreptitiously nib- 
 bling the valuable shrubs outside the palings 
 is a member of a flock that once seemed to 
 promise fair. Goats at one time (she was 
 persuaded) were the means of ready wealth 
 — they could live anywhere, on anything (the 
 shrubs to wit), and yielded such rich milk ;
 
 THE parson's wife. 323 
 
 it far surpassed that of the shorthorn ; there 
 was the analysis to prove it ! Such milk must 
 of course be worth money, besides which there 
 were the kids, and the cheese and butter, 
 
 Alas ! the goats quickly obtained so evil 
 a reputation, worse than that of the rab- 
 bits for biting off the shooting vegetation, 
 that no one would have them on the land. 
 The milk was all the analysis declared it, but 
 in that outlying village, which did not con- 
 tain two liouses above the quality of a farm- 
 stead, there was no one to buy it. There was 
 a prejudice against the butter which could not 
 be got over ; and the cheese — well, the cheese 
 resembled a tablet of dark soap. Hodge 
 would not eat it at a gift ; he smelt it, picked a 
 morsel off on the tip of his clasp knife, and 
 threw it aside in contempt. One by one the 
 goats were got rid of, and now but two or 
 three remained ; she could not make up her 
 mind to part with all, for living creatures, 
 however greatly they have disappointed, 
 always enlist the sympathies of women. 
 
 Poultry was the next grand discovery — 
 they ate their heads off, refused to lay eggs, 
 and, when by frequent purchases they became 
 
 t2
 
 324 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 numerous and promised to pay, quietly died 
 by the score, seized with an epidemic. She 
 learnt in visiting the cottagers how profitable 
 their allotment gardens were to them, and 
 naturally proceeded to argue that a larger 
 piece of ground would yield a proportionately 
 larger profit if cultivated on the same prin- 
 ciple. If the cottagers could pay a rent for 
 an acre which, in the aggregate, was three 
 times that given by the ordinary farmer, and 
 could even then make a orood thino; of it, 
 surely intelligence and skill might do the 
 same on a more extended scale. How very 
 foolish the farmers were ! they might raise at 
 least four times the produce they did, and 
 they might pay three times the rent. As the 
 vicar had some hundred and fifty acres of 
 glebe let at the usual agricultural rent, if the 
 tenants could be persuaded or instructed to 
 farm on the cottagers' system, what an im- 
 mense increase it would be to his income! 
 The tenants, however, did not see it. They 
 shrugged their shoulders, and made no move- 
 ment. The energetic lady resolved to set an 
 example, and to prove to them that they were 
 wrong.
 
 THE tahsun's wifk. 325 
 
 She rented an acre of arable land (at the 
 side of the held), giving the tenant a fair 
 price for it. First it had to be enclosed so as 
 to be parted off from the open held. The 
 cost of the palings made the vicar wince ; his 
 lady set it duly down to debit. She planted 
 one-half potatoes, as they paid thirty pounds 
 per acre, and on the rest put in hundreds of 
 currant bushes, set a strawberry bed and an 
 asparagus bed, on the princii)le that luxuries 
 of that kind fetch a high price and occupy no 
 more space than cabbages. As the acre was 
 cultivated entirely by the spade, the cost of 
 the labour expended upon it ran up the 
 figures on the debit side to an amount which 
 rather startled her. But the most dispiriting 
 part of the commencement was the length of 
 time to wait before a crop came. According 
 to her calculations that rein'osented so much 
 idle capital sunk, instead of being rapidly 
 turned over. However she consoled herself 
 Avith the ])igstye, in which were half a dozen 
 animals, whose feeding she often personally 
 superintended. 
 
 The potatoes failed, and did not pay 
 for the dio-o-ino; • the currant bushes were
 
 326 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 bliglited ; the strawberries were eaten by 
 snails, and, of course, no asparagus could be 
 cut for three years ; a little item, this last, 
 quite overlooked. The pigs returned exactly 
 the sum spent upon them ; there was neither 
 profit nor loss, and there did not ajDpear any 
 chance of making a fortune out of pork. The 
 lady had to abandon the experiment quite 
 disheartened, and found that, after all her 
 care and energy, her books showed a loss of 
 fifteen pounds. It was wonderful it was not 
 more ; labour was so expensive, and no doubt 
 she was cheated right and left. 
 
 She next tried to utilise her natural 
 abilities, and to turn her accomplishments to 
 account. She painted ; she illuminated texts; 
 she undertook difficult needlework of various 
 kinds, in answer to advertisements which pro- 
 mised ample remmieration for a few hours' 
 labour. Fifteen hours' hard work she found 
 was worth just threepence, and the materials 
 cost one shilling : consequently she laboriously 
 worked herself poorer by ninepence. 
 
 Finally, she was studying bees, which 
 really seemed to hold out some prospect of 
 success. Yonder were the hills where they
 
 THE fauson's wife. 327 
 
 could find thyme in abundance ; the fields 
 around supplied clover ; and the meadows 
 below were full of flowers. So that liot sum- 
 mer day, under the weeping a^h^ she was deep 
 in the study of the ' Ligurian queen,' the 
 ' super ' system, the mysteries of ' driving,' and 
 was making sketches of patent hives. Looking 
 up from her sketch she saw that her husband 
 had fallen asleep, and stayed to gaze at him 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 He looked worn, and older than he really 
 was ; as if rest or change would do him good ; 
 as if he required luxuries and petting. She 
 sighed, and wondered whether the bees would 
 enable her to buy him such things, for though 
 the house was ^yc\] furnished and apparently 
 surrounded Avith wealth, they were extremely 
 poor. Yet she did not care for money for 
 their own household use so much as to give 
 him the weight in parish aff^iirs he so sadly 
 needed. She felt that lie was pushed aside, 
 treated as a cipher, and that he had little of 
 the influence that properly belonged to him. 
 Her two daughters, their only children, were 
 comfortably, thougli not grandly, married and 
 settled ; tliere was no family anxiety. But
 
 328 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 the work, the parish, the people, all seemed to 
 have slipped out of her husband's hands. She 
 could not but acknowledge that he was too 
 quiet and yielding, that he lacked the brazen 
 voice, the personal force that imposes upon 
 men. r3ut surely his good intentions, his 
 way of life, his gentle kindness should carry 
 sway. Instead of which the parish seemed to 
 have quite left the Church, and the parson 
 was outside the real modern hfe of the village. 
 No matter what he did, even if popular, it 
 soon seemed to pass out of hij; hands. 
 
 There was the school, for instance. He 
 could indeed go across and visit it, but he had 
 no control, no more than the veriest stranger 
 that strolled along the road, He had always 
 been anxious for a good school, and had done 
 the best he could with means so limited before 
 the new Acts came into operation. AVhenthey 
 were passed he was the first to endeavour to 
 carry them out and to save the village the cost 
 and the possible quarrelling of a school board. 
 He went through all the preliminary work, 
 and reconciled, as far as possible, the jarring 
 interests that came into play. The two largest 
 landlords of the place were unfortunately not
 
 THE pakson's wifk. 329 
 
 on good terms. Whatever tlic one did the 
 other was jealous of, so that when one pro- 
 mised the necessary land for the school, and it 
 was accepted, the other withdrew his patron- 
 age, and declined to subscribe. With great 
 eiforts the vicar, nevertheless, got the school 
 erected, and to all appearance the difficulty 
 was surmounted. 
 
 But when the Government inspection took 
 place it was found that, though n(jt nearly 
 filled with scholars, there was not sufficient 
 cubic space to include the children of a dis- 
 tant outlying liandet, which the vicar had 
 hoped to manage by a dame school. These 
 poor children, ill fed and young, could hardly 
 stand walkin<x to and from the villnixe school 
 — a matter of some five miles daily, and which 
 in winter and wet weather was, in itself, a 
 day's work for their weary little limbs. As 
 the vicar could not raise money enough to pay 
 a certificated teacher at the proposed branch, 
 or dame school, the scheme had to be aban- 
 doned. Then, accordmg to red tape, it was 
 necessary to enlarge the village school to ac- 
 commodate these few children, and this not- 
 withstandinsr that the buildinij: Avas never full.
 
 330 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 The enlargement necessitated a great addi- 
 tional expenditure. The ratepayers did, 
 indeed, after much bickering and much per- 
 suasion, in the end pay off the deficiency ; 
 but, in the meantime, the village had been 
 brought to the verge of a school board. 
 
 Eeligious differences came to the front — 
 there was, in fact, a trial of force between the 
 denommations. Till then for many years these 
 differences had slumbered and been almost 
 forgotten ; they were now brought into col- 
 lision, and the social quiet of the place was 
 upset. A council of the chief farmers and 
 some others was ultimately formed, and, as a 
 matter of fact, really did represent the inhabit- 
 ants fairly well. But while it represented 
 the parish, it left the vicar quite outside. He 
 had a voice, but nothinsr more. He was not 
 the centre — the controlling spirit. 
 
 He bore it meekly enough, so far as he was 
 personally concerned ; but he grieved about it 
 in connection with his deep religious feelings 
 and his Church. The Church was not in the 
 front of all, as it should be. It was hard after 
 all his labour ; the rebuffs, the bitter remarks, 
 the sneers of those who had divergent views,
 
 TiiK parson's wife. 3o1 
 
 and, perliaps worse than all, tlie cold indif- 
 ference and a})athy of those who wished 
 things to remain in the old state, ignoring the 
 fact that the law Avould not suffer it. There 
 were many other things besides the school, 
 but they all went the same way. The modern 
 institution was introduced, championed by the 
 Church, worked for by the Church, but when 
 at last it was successful, somehow or other it 
 seemed to liave severed itself from the Church 
 altoji'ether. The vicar walked about the vil- 
 lage, and felt that, though nominally in it, he 
 was really out of it. 
 
 His "wife saw it too, still more clearly than 
 he did. She saw that he had none of the 
 gift of getting money out of people. Some 
 men seem only to have to come in contact with 
 others to at once receive the fruits of their 
 dormant benevolent feelings. The rich man 
 writes his cheque for 100/., the middle-class 
 well-to-do sends his bank notes for 20/., the 
 comfortable middle-class man his sovereigns. 
 A testimonial is got up, an address engrossed 
 on vellum, speeches are made, and a purse 
 handed over containing a draft for so many 
 lumdreds, ' in recognition, not in reward, of
 
 332 HODGE AND HIS MASTEKS. 
 
 your long continued and successful ministra- 
 tions.' The art of causing the purse-strings 
 to open is an art that is not so well under- 
 stood, perhaps, among the orthodox as by the 
 
 unorthodox. The Rev. F either could 
 
 not, or would not, or did not know how to 
 ask, and he did not receive. 
 
 Just at present his finances were especially 
 low. The tenants who farmed the glebe land 
 threatened to quit unless their rents were 
 materially reduced, and unless a considerable 
 sum was expended upon improvements. To 
 some very rich men the reduction of rents has 
 
 made a sensible difference ; to the Rev. F 
 
 it meant serious privations. But he had no 
 choice ; he had to be satisfied with that or 
 nothing. Then the vicarage house, though 
 substantial and pleasant to look at, was not in 
 a good state withm. The rain came through 
 in more places than one, and the ancient 
 woodwork of the roof was rotten. He had 
 already done considerable repairing, and knew 
 that he must soon do more. The nominal 
 income of the living was but moderate ; but 
 when the reductions were all made nothing 
 but a cheese-paring seemed left. From this
 
 THE takson's wife. 333 
 
 his subscriptions to certain ecclesiastical in- 
 stitutions had to be deducted. 
 
 Lastly, he had received a hint that a 
 curate ought to be kept now that his increas- 
 iner asre rendered him less active than before. 
 There was less hope now than ever of any- 
 thing being done for him in the parish. The 
 landowners complained of rent reductions, of 
 farms idle on their hands, and of increasing 
 expenses. The farmers grumbled a])out the 
 inclement seasons, their continual losses, and 
 the foiling markets. It was not a time when 
 the churlish are almost generous, having such 
 overflowing pockets. There was no testi- 
 monial, no address on vellum, no purse with 
 banker's draft for the enfeebled servant of the 
 Church slumbering in the cane chair in the 
 verandah. 
 
 Yet the house was exquisitely kept, mar- 
 vellously kept considering the class of servants 
 they were obliged to put up with. The garden 
 was bright and beautiful with flowers, the 
 lawn smooth, there was an air of refinement 
 everywhere. So the clergyman slept, and the 
 wife turned again to her sketch of the patent 
 hive, hoping that the golden honey might at
 
 334 IIODGE AXD HIS MASTERS. 
 
 last bring some metallic gold. The waggon 
 rumbled down the road, and Hodge, lying at 
 full length on the top of the load, could just 
 see over the lowest part of the shrubbery, 
 and thought to himself what a jolly life that 
 parson led, sleeping the hot hours away in 
 the shade.
 
 335 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A MODERN COUNTRY CURATE. 
 
 * He can't stroddle tliiick puddle, you : can 
 a'?' 
 
 ' He be going to try : u' will leave liis 
 shoe in it.' 
 
 Such were the remarks that passed be- 
 tween two agricultural women who from behind 
 the hedge were watching the approach of the 
 curate along a deep miry lane. Where they 
 stood the meadow was high above the level of 
 the lane, which was enclosed by steep banks 
 thickly overgrown with bramble, briar, and 
 thorn. The meadows each side naturally 
 drained into the hollow, Avhich durins; a storm 
 was filled with a ruslimg torrent, and even 
 after a period of dry weather was still moist, 
 for the over-hanging trees prevented evapora- 
 tion. A row of sarsen stones nt irregular 
 intervals were intended to afford firm footina;
 
 336 nODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 to the wayfarer, but they were nothing more 
 than traps for the unwary. Upon pLacuif^ 
 the foot on the smooth rounded surface it 
 immediately slipped, and descended at an 
 ansfle mto a waterv hole. The thick, stiff, 
 yellow clay held the water like a basin ; the 
 ruts, quite two feet deep, where waggon wheels 
 had been drawn through by main force, were 
 full to the brim. In summer heats they might 
 have dried, but in November, though fine, 
 they never would. 
 
 Yet if the adventurous passenger, after 
 gamely struggling, paused awhile to take 
 breath, and looked up from the mud, the 
 view above was beautiful. The sun shone, 
 and lit up the oaks, whose every leaf was 
 brown or buff ; the gnats played in thou- 
 sands in the mild air under the branches. 
 Through the coloured leaves the blue sky was 
 visible, and far ahead a faintly bluish shadow 
 fell athwart the hollow. There were still 
 blackberries on the l^ramble, beside which the 
 brown fern filled the open spaces, and behind 
 upon the banks the mosses clothed the ground 
 and the roots of the trees Avith a deep green. 
 Two or more fieldfares were watching in an
 
 A MODERN COUNTRY CURATE. 337 
 
 elm some distance down ; tlie tl<x;k to which 
 they belonged was feeding, partly in the 
 meadow and partly in tlie hedge. Every now 
 and then the larks flew over, uttering their 
 call note. Behind a bunch of rushes a young 
 rabbit crouched in the ditch on the earth 
 thrown out from the hole liard by, doubtful in 
 his mind whether to stay there or to enter the 
 burrow. 
 
 It was so still and mild between the banks, 
 where there was not the least current of air, 
 that the curate grew quite warm with the 
 exertion. His boots adhered to the clay, in 
 which they sank at ever}-^ step ; they came 
 out with a ' sock, sock.' lie now followed 
 the marks of footsteps, planting his step where 
 the weight of some carter or shepherd had 
 pressed the mud down firm. Where these 
 failed he was attracted by a narrow grass - 
 grown ridge, a few inches wide, between two 
 sets of ruts. In a minute he felt the ridge 
 giving beneath him as the earth slipped into 
 the watery ruts. Next he crept along the 
 very edge of the ditch, where the briars hooked 
 in the tail of his black frock-coat, imd an 
 unnoticed projecting bough (piietly lifted his 
 VOL. I. z
 
 338 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 sliovel-hat off, but benevolently held it sus- 
 pended, instead of dropping it in the mud. 
 Still he made progress, though slow ; now 
 with a giant stride across an exceptionally 
 doubtful spot, now zig-zagging from side to 
 side. The lane was long, and he seemed to 
 make but little advance. 
 
 But there was a spirit in him not to be 
 stayed by mud, or clay, or any other obstacle. 
 It is pleasant to see an enthusiast, whether 
 right or wrong, in these cynical days. He 
 was too young to have acquired much worldly 
 wisdom, but he was full of the high spirit 
 which arises from thorough conviction and 
 the sense of personal consecration conferred 
 by the mission on the man. He pushed on 
 steadily till brought to a stop by a puddle, 
 broad, deep, and impassable, which extended 
 right across the lane, and was some six or 
 eight yards long. He tried to slip past at the 
 side, but the banks were thick with thorns, 
 and the brambles overhung the water ; the 
 outer bushes coated with adhesive mud. 
 Then he sounded the puddle with his stick 
 as far as he could reach, and found it deep 
 and the bottom soft, so that the foot would
 
 A MODERN COUXTIIY CURATE. 339 
 
 sink into it. He considered, and looked up 
 and down the lane. 
 
 The two women, of whose presence he was 
 unconscious, watched him from the high and 
 dry level of the meadow, concealed behind the 
 bushes and the oaks. They wore a species of 
 smock frock gathered in round the waist by a 
 band over their ordinary dress ; these smock 
 frocks had once been white, but were now dis- 
 coloured with dirt and the weather. They 
 were both stout and stolid-lookmg, hardy as 
 the trees under which they stood. They were 
 acorn picking, searching for the dropped acorns 
 in the long rank grass by the hedge, under the 
 brown leaves, on the banks, and in the fur- 
 rows. The bouglis of the oak spread wide — 
 the glory of the tree is its head — and the 
 acorns are found m a circle corresponding 
 with the outer circumference of the branches. 
 Some are still farther afield, because in follinn: 
 they strike the boughs and glance aside. A 
 long slender pole leaning against the hedge 
 was used to thrash the boughs within reach, 
 and so to knock down any that remained. 
 
 A sack half filled was on the ground close 
 to the trunk of the oak, and by it was a heap 
 
 z 2
 
 340 HODGE AND HIS MASTEKS. 
 
 of dead sticks, to be presently carried home to 
 boil the kettle. Two brown urchins assisted 
 them, and went where the women could not go, 
 crawlino^ under the thorns into the hedo-e, and 
 creeping along the side of the stee^^ bank, 
 gathering acorns that had fallen into the 
 mouths of the rabbit holes, or that were lying 
 under the stoles. Out of sight under the 
 bushes they could do much as they liked, 
 lookino- for fallen nuts mstead of acorns, or 
 eating a stray blackberry, while then* mothers 
 routed about among the grass and leaves of 
 the meadow. Such continual stooping would 
 be weary work for any one not accustomed to 
 it. As they worked from tree to tree they did 
 not observe the colours of the leaves, or the 
 wood-pigeons, or the pheasant looking along 
 the edge of the ditch on the opposite side of 
 the field. If they paused it was to gossip, 
 or to abuse the boys for not bringing more 
 acorns to the sack. 
 
 But when the boys, hunting in the hedge, 
 descried the curate in the distance and came 
 back with the news, the two women were sud- 
 denly interested. The pheasants, the wood- 
 pigeons, or the coloured leaves were not
 
 A modp:kn country curate. ;^41 
 
 worthy of a oiance. To see a gentleman up 
 to his ankles in mud was quite an attraction. 
 The one stood with her lap half-fidl of acorns ; 
 the other with a basket on her arm. The two 
 urchins lay down on the ground, and peered 
 from behind a thorn stole, their brown faces 
 scarcely distinguishable from the brown leaves, 
 except for then* twinkling eyes. The puddle 
 was too wide to step across, as the women had 
 said, nor was there any way round it. 
 
 The curate looked all round twice, but he 
 was not the man to go back. He tucked up 
 his trousers nearly to the knee — he wore them 
 short always — and stepped into the water. 
 At this the urchins could barely suppress a 
 shout of delight — they did, however, suppress 
 it — and craned forward to see him splash. 
 The curate waded slowly to the middle, get- 
 ting deeper and deeper, and then suddenly 
 found hrmer footing, and walked the rest of 
 the w^ay with the water barely over his boots. 
 After he was through he cleansed his boots 
 on a wisp of grass, and set off at a good pace, 
 for the ground past the pool began to rise, 
 and the lane was consequently drier. The 
 women turned aii'ain to their acorns, remark-
 
 342 nODGE AND HIS ^FASTERS. 
 
 ing, in a tone with something like respect in 
 it, ' He didn't stop for the mud, you : did a' ? ' 
 Presently the curate reached the highway 
 with its hard surface, and again increased his 
 pace. The hedges here were cut each side, 
 and as he walked rapidly, leaning forward, his 
 shovel-hat and shoulders were visible above 
 them, and his coat tails floated in the breeze 
 of his own progress. His heavy boots — they 
 were extremely thick and heavy, though with- 
 out nails — tramped, tramped, on the hard 
 road. With a stout walking-stick in one 
 hand, and in the other a book, he strode for- 
 ward, still more swiftly as it seemed at every 
 stride. A tall young man, liis features seemed 
 thin and almost haggard ; out of correspond- 
 ence with a large frame, they looked as if 
 asceticism had drawn and sharpened them. 
 There was earnestness and eagerness — almost 
 feverish eagerness — in the expression of his 
 face. He passed the meadoAvs, the stubble 
 fields, the green root crops, the men at plough, 
 who noticed his swift walk, contrastmg with 
 their own slow motion ; and as he went his 
 way now and then consulted a little slip of 
 paper, upon which he had jotted memoranda
 
 A MODERN COUNTRY CURATE. 343 
 
 of his enaa^-ements. Work, Avork, work — 
 ceaseless work. How came this ? What could 
 there be to do in a sparsely-populated agricul- 
 tural district with, to appearance, hardly a 
 cottage to a mile ? 
 
 After nearly an hour's walking he entered 
 the outskirts of a little country town, slum- 
 bering outside the railway system, and, turning 
 aside from the street, stopped at the door of 
 the ancient vicarage. The resident within is 
 the ecclesiastical head of two separate hamlets 
 lying at some miles' distance from his own 
 parish. Each of these handets possesses a 
 church, though the population is of the very 
 sparsest, and in each he maintains a resident 
 curate. A third curate assists him in the 
 duties of the home parish, which is a large 
 one, that is in extent. From one of these 
 distant hamlets the curate, who struggled so 
 bravely through the mire, has walked in to 
 consult with his superior. He is shown into 
 the librar}^ and sinks not unwillingly into a 
 chair to wait for the vicar, who is engaged 
 with a district visitor, or lay sister. 
 
 This part of the house is ancient, and 
 dates from mediaeval times. Some have con-
 
 344 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 jectured that the present library and the ad- 
 joining rooms (the partitions being modem) 
 originally formed the refectory of a monastic 
 establishment. Others assign it to another 
 use ; but all agree that it is monastic and 
 antique. Ihe black oak rafters of the roof, 
 polished as it were by age, meet overhead un- 
 concealed by ceiling. Upon the Tvall in one 
 place a figure seems at the first glance to be 
 in the act to glide forth like a spectre from 
 the solid stone. The effect is caused by the 
 subdued colouring, which is shadowy and 
 indistinct. It was perhaps gaudy when first 
 painted ; but when a paintmg has been hidden 
 by a coat or two of plaster, afterwards as 
 carefully removed as it was carelessly laid on, 
 the tints lose their brilliancy. Some sainted 
 woman m a flowing robe, with upraised arm, 
 stands ever in the act to bless. Only half 
 one of the windows of the original hall is in 
 this apartment — the partition wall divides it. 
 There yet remain a few stained panes in the 
 upper part ; few as they are and small, yet 
 the coloured light that enters through them 
 seems to tone the room. 
 
 The furniture, of oak, is plain and spare
 
 A MODERN COUNTRY CURATE. 345 
 
 to the verge of a gaunt severity, and tliere is 
 not one single picture-frame on tlie wide 
 expanse of wall. On the table are a few- 
 books and some letters, with foreign post- 
 marks, and addressed in the crabbed hand- 
 writing of Continental scholars. Over the 
 table a brazen lamp hangs suspended by a 
 slender chain. In a corner are some frasr- 
 ments of stone mouldiuo-s and wood carvinsfs 
 like the panel of an ancient pew. There 
 are no shelves and no bookcase. Besides 
 those on the table, one volume lies on the 
 floor, which is without carpet or covering, 
 but absolutely clean ; and by the wall, not 
 far from the fireplace, is an open chest, ancient 
 and ponderous, in which are the works of the 
 Fathers. The grate has Ijeen removed from 
 the firephice and the hearth restored ; for in 
 that outlying district there is plenty of wood. 
 Though of modern make, the heavy brass 
 fire-irons are of ancient shape. The fire has 
 gone out — the logs are white with the ash 
 that forms upon decayino- embers ; it is clear 
 that the owner of this bare apartment, called 
 a library, but really a study, is not one who 
 thinks of his own personal comfort. If ex-
 
 346 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 aminecl closely the floor yonder bears the 
 marks of feet that have walked monotonously 
 to and fro in hours of thought. When the 
 eye has taken m these things, as the rustle of 
 the brown leaves blown against the pane 
 without in the silence is plainly audible, the 
 mind seems in an instant to slip back four 
 hundred years. 
 
 The weary curate has closed his eyes, and 
 starts as a servant enters bringing him wine, 
 for the vicar, utterly obli\T.ous of his own 
 comfort, is ever on the watch for that of 
 others. His predecessor, a portly man, happ)'' 
 in his home alone, and, as report said, loving 
 his ease and his palate, before he was pre- 
 ferred to a richer living, called in the advice 
 of architects as to converting the ancient re- 
 fectory to some use. In his time it was a 
 mere lumber-room, into which all the odds 
 and ends of the house were thrown. Plans 
 were accordingly prepared for turning one 
 part of it into a cosy breakfast parlour, and 
 the other into a conservatory. Before any 
 steps, however, were taken he received his 
 preferment — good things flow to the rich — 
 and departed leaving behind him a favourable
 
 A MODEKN COUNTRY CURATK. 347 
 
 memory. If aiiy inhabitant were asked what 
 the old vicar did, or said, and what ^^'ork he 
 accomplished, the reply invariably was, ' Oh ! 
 hum ! he was a very good sort of man : he 
 never interfered with anybody or anything ! ' 
 
 Accustomed to such an even tenour of 
 things, all the vis inertice of the parish re- 
 volted when the new vicar unmediately evinced 
 a determination to do liis work thoroughly. 
 The restless energy of the man alone set the 
 stohd old folk at once against him. They 
 could not ' a-bear to see he a-flying all over 
 the parish : why couldn't he bide at home ? ' 
 No one is so rigidly opposed to the least 
 alteration in the conduct of the service as the 
 old fanner or farmer's wife, who for forty 
 years and more has listened to the same old 
 hymn, the same smg-song response, the same 
 style of sermon. It is vain to say that the 
 change is still no more than what was con- 
 templated by the Book of Common Prayer. 
 They naturally interpret that book by what 
 they have been accustomed to from childhood. 
 The vicar's imiovations were really most m- 
 offcnsive, and well witliin even a narrow 
 reading of the rubric. The fault lay m the
 
 348 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 fact that they Avere innovations, so far as the 
 practice of that parish was concerned. So 
 the old folk raised their voices in a chorus of 
 horror, and when they met gossiped over the 
 awful downfiill of the faith. All that the 
 vicar had yet done was to intone a part of the 
 service, and at once many announced that 
 they should stay away. 
 
 Next he introduced a choir. The sweet 
 voices of the white-robed boys rismg along 
 the vaulted roof of the old church melted the 
 hearts of those who, with excuses for theu* 
 curiosity to their neighbours, ventured to go 
 and hear them. The vicar had a natural 
 talent, almost a genius, for music. There 
 was a long struggle in his mind whether he 
 might or might not permit himself an organ 
 in his library. He decided it against himself, 
 mortifying the spirit as well as the flesh, but 
 in the service of the Church he felt that he 
 might yield to his inclmation. By degrees he 
 g-athered round him the best voices of the 
 parish ; the young of both sexes came gladly 
 after awhile to swell the volume of song. How 
 powerful is the influence of holy music upon 
 such minds as are at all inclined to serious
 
 A MODERN COUNTRY CURATK. 3411 
 
 devotion ! The church filled more and more 
 every Sunday, and peo[)le came from the 
 farthest corners of the parish, walkin<^ miles 
 to listen. The young people grew enthusiastic, 
 and one by one tlie old folk yielded and 
 followed them. 
 
 xlt the same time the church itself seemed 
 to change. It had been cold and gloomy, and 
 gaunt within, for so many generations, that 
 no one noticed it. A place of tombs, men 
 hurried away from it as quickly as possible. 
 Now, little touches here and there gi'adually 
 gave it tlie aspect of habitation. The new 
 curtains hung at the door of the vestry, and 
 drawn, too, across the main entrance when 
 service began, the jiew-de-hjs on the crimson 
 ground, gave an impression of warmth. The 
 old tarnished brazen fittings of the pews were 
 burnished up, a new and larger stove (supplied 
 at the vicar's expense) diffused at least some 
 little heat in winter. A curate came, one who 
 worked heart and soul with the vicar, and the 
 service became very nearly clioral, the vicar 
 now wearino; the vestment which liis deirree 
 gave him the strict right to assume. There 
 were brazen candlesticks beliind the altar, and
 
 350 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 beautifiil flowers. Before, the interior was all 
 black and white. Now there was a sense of 
 colour, of crimson curtains, of polished brass, 
 of flowers, and rich toned altar cloth. The 
 place was lit up with a new light. After the 
 first revolt of the old folk there was little 
 opposition, because the vicar, being a man 
 who had studied human nature and fall of 
 practical wisdom as well as learning, did all 
 things gradually. One thing was introduced 
 at a time, and the transition — after the 
 first start — was efi^ected imperceptibly. Nor 
 was any extravagant ritual thrust upon the 
 congregation ; nor any suspicious doctrine 
 broached. 
 
 In that outlying country place, where 
 men had no knowledge of cathedrals, half the 
 offices of the Church had been forgotten. The 
 vicar brought them back again. He began 
 early morning services ; he had the church 
 open all day for private prayer. He reminded 
 the folk of Lent and Eastertide, which, except 
 for the traditional pancakes, had almost passed 
 out of their lives. Festivals, saints' days, 
 midnight service, and above all the Com- 
 munion, were insisted upon and brought
 
 A MODERN COUNTRY CURATE. 351 
 
 home to them. As in many other country 
 districts, the Connuimion had nearly dropped 
 into disuse. At first he was alone, but by 
 and by a group of willing lay helpers grew 
 up around him. The churchwardens began 
 to work with him ; then a few of the larger 
 tenant farmers. Of the two great landed pro- 
 prietors, one was for him from the first, the 
 other made no active opposition, but stood 
 aloof. When, in the autumn, the family of 
 the one that was for him came home, a fresh 
 impetus was given. The ladies of the man- 
 sion came forward to join in the parish and 
 Church work, and then other ladies, less ex- 
 alted, but fairly well-to-do, who had only 
 ])een waiting for a leader, crowded after. 
 
 For the first time in the memory of man 
 the parish began to be ' visited.' Lay sisters 
 accepted the charge of districts ; and thus 
 there was not a cottage, nor an old woman, 
 but had the change brought home to her. 
 Confirmation, which had been almost for- 
 gotten, was revived, and it was surprising 
 what a number of girls came forward to be 
 prepared. The Bishop, who was not at all 
 predisposed to \ie^\■ the ' movement ' ^Wth
 
 352 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 favour, when he saw the full church, the de- 
 votional congregation, and after he had visited 
 the vicarage and seen into what was going on 
 personally, expressed openly a guarded ap- 
 proval, and went away secretly well pleased. 
 Rio-htly or wrongly, there was a ' movement ' 
 in the parish and the outlying hamlets : and 
 thus it was that the curate, struggling through 
 the mire, carried in liis face the expression of 
 hard work. Work, work, work ; the vicar, 
 his three curates, and hand of lay helpers 
 worked incessantly. 
 
 Besides his strictly parochial duties, the 
 vicar wrote a manual for use in the schools, 
 he attended the Chambers of Agriculture, and 
 supported certain social movements among 
 the farmers, he attended meetings, and, both 
 socially and politically, by force of character, 
 energy, and the gift of speech, became a power 
 in the country side. Still striving onwards, 
 he wrote in London periodicals, he published 
 a book ; he looked from the silence of his 
 gaunt study towards the great world, and 
 sometimes dreamed of what he might have 
 done had he not been buried in the country, 
 and of what he might even yet accomplish.
 
 A ArODERX COUNTRY CURATK. 353 
 
 All who came in contact witli liini felt the 
 influence of his concentrated purpose ; one 
 and all, after they had worked their hardest, 
 thought they had still not done so much as 
 he would have done. 
 
 The man's charm of manner was not to 
 he resisted ; he believed his office far above 
 monarchs, but there was no personal preten- 
 sion. That gentle, pleasing manner, with 
 the sense of intellectual power behind it, 
 quite overcame the old folk. They all spoke 
 with complacent pride of 'our vicar;' and, 
 what was more, opened theu' purses. The 
 interior of the church was restored, and a 
 noble organ built. When its beautiful notes 
 rose and fell, when sweet voices swelled the 
 wave of sound, then even the vicar's rest- 
 less spirit was soothed in the fulfilment of his 
 hope. A large proportion of the upper and 
 middle class of the parish was, without a, 
 doubt, now gathered around liiui ; and there 
 was much sympathy manifested from adjacent 
 parishes with his objects, sympathy which 
 often took the form of subscrijitions from 
 distant people. 
 
 But what said Ilodiic to it all ? Hodire 
 
 VOL. I. A A
 
 354 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 said nothing. Some few young cottage people 
 who had good voices, and hked to use them, 
 naturally now went to church. So did the 
 old women and old men, who had an eye to 
 charity. But the strong, sturdy men, the 
 carters and shepherds, stood aloof; the bulk 
 and backbone of the a2;ricultural labourino: 
 population were not in the least affected. 
 They viewed the movement with utter indif- 
 ference. They cleaned their boots on a Sun- 
 day morning while the bells were ringing, and 
 walked down to their allotments, and came 
 home and ate their cabbagre, and were as ob- 
 livious of the vicar as the wind that blew. 
 They had no present quarrel with the Church ; 
 no complaint whatever ; nor apparently any 
 old memory or grudge ; yet there was a 
 something, a blank space as it were, between 
 them and the Church. If anything, the 
 '■ movement ' rather set them against going. 
 
 Agricultural cottagers have a strong bias 
 towards Dissent in one form or another ; 
 village chapels are always well filled. Dissent, 
 of course, would naturally rather dislike a 
 movement of the kind. But there was no 
 active or even passive opposition. The cot-
 
 A MODKRN COUNTRY CURATK. .355 
 
 tage folk jnst ignored the Church ; nothing 
 more and nothing less. Xo efforts were 
 spared to obtain their good will and to draw 
 them into the fold, but there was absolutely 
 no response. Not a labourer's family in tliat 
 wide district was left unvisited. The cot- 
 tages were scattered far apart, dotted here and 
 there, one or two down in a narrow coombe 
 surrounded on three sides l)y the green wall 
 of the hills. Others stood on the bleak plains, 
 unsheltered by tree or hedge, exposed to the 
 keen winds that swept across the level, yet 
 elevated fields. A new cottage built in 
 modern style, with glaring red brick, was 
 perched on the side of a hill, wliere it was 
 visible miles away. An old tliatched one 
 stood in a hollow (piite alone, half a mile from 
 the highway, and so hidden by the oaks that 
 an army might have ravaged the countr}'- and 
 never found it. How many, many miles 
 of weary walking such rounds as these re- 
 quired ! 
 
 Though they had, perhaps, never received 
 a ' visitor ' before, it was wonderful with what 
 skill the cottage women especially — the men 
 being often away at work — adapted themselves
 
 356 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 to tlie new regime. Each time they told a 
 more pitiful tale, set in such a realistic fram- 
 ing of hardship and exposure that a stranger 
 could not choose but believe. In the art of 
 encouragmg attentions of this sort no one 
 excels the cottage women ; the stories they 
 will relate, with the smallest details mserted 
 in the riglit place, are something marvellous. 
 At first you would exclaim with the deepest 
 commiseration, such a case of suffering and 
 privation as this cannot possibly be equalled 
 by any in the parish ; but calling at the next 
 cottage, you are presented with a yet more 
 movmg relation, till you find the whole popu- 
 lation are plunged m misery and afflicted with 
 mcredible troubles. They cannot, surely, be 
 the same folk that work so sturdily at harvest. 
 But when the curate has admmistered words 
 of consolation and dropped the small silver 
 dole in the palm, when his shovel-hat and 
 black frock-coat tails have disappeared round 
 the corner of the copse, then in a single second 
 he drops utterly out of mmd. No one comes 
 to church the more. If inquiries are made 
 why tliey did not come, a hundred excuses 
 are ready ; the rain, a bad foot, illness of the
 
 A MODERN COUNTRY CUKATK. 357 
 
 infant, a cow taken ill and rcqniring attention, 
 and so on. 
 
 After some months of such experience the 
 curate's spirits <!;radiially decline ; his belief 
 in human nature is sadly shaken. Men who 
 openly oppose, who argue and deny, are com- 
 paratively easy to deal with ; there, is the 
 excitement of the battle with evil. But a 
 population that listens, and apparently accepts 
 the message, that is so thankful for little 
 charities, and always civil, and yet turns away 
 utterly indifferent, what is to be done with it? 
 Might not the message nearly as well be taken 
 to the cow at her crib, or the horse at his 
 manger? They, too, would receive a wisp of 
 sweet hay wilhngly from the hand. 
 
 But the more bitter the experience, the 
 harder the trial, the more conscientiously the 
 curate proceeds upon his duty, struggling 
 bravely througli the mire. He adds another 
 mile to his daily journey; he denies himself 
 some further innocent recreation. I'lie cottages 
 in the open fields are comparatively pleasant 
 to visit, the sweet fresh air carries away 
 effluvia. Those that arc so curiously crowded 
 together in the village are sinks of foul smell,
 
 358 HODGE AND HIS MASTERS. 
 
 and may l3e of worse — places where, if fever 
 comes, it takes hold and quits not. His 
 superior requests him earnestly to refrain 
 awhile and to take rest, to recruit himself with 
 a holiday — even orders him to desist from 
 overmuch labour. The man's mind is in it, 
 and he cannot obey. What is the result? 
 
 Some lovely autumn day, at a watering- 
 place, you may perchance be strolling by the 
 sea, with crowds of well-dressed, happy people 
 on the one side, and on the other the calm 
 sunlit plain where boats are passing to and 
 fro. A bath-chair approaches, and a young 
 man clad in black gets out of it, where some 
 friendly iron railings afford him a support for 
 his hand. There, step by step, leaning heavily 
 on the rails, he essays to walk as a child. 
 The sockets of his joints yield beneath him, 
 the limbs are loose, the ankle twists aside ; 
 each step is an enterprise, and to gain a yard 
 a task. Thus day by day the convalescent 
 strives to accustom the sinews to their work. 
 It is a painfal spectacle; how different, how 
 strangely altered, from the upright frame and 
 the swift stride that struggled through the 
 miry lane, perhaps even then bearing the seeds
 
 A MODERN COUNTRY CURATE. 351) 
 
 of disease imbibed in some foul village den, 
 where duty culled liini! 
 
 His wan, white face seems featureless ; 
 there is nothing but a pair of deep-set eyes. 
 But as you pass, and momentarily catch theii- 
 glance, they are bright and burning still with 
 living faith. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
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