FOOTNOTES:

[27] His official rank was succentor, the precentor being a Canon; but in Sudchester the full title is always conceded.

[28] “Services”—with a capital S—stands for the Canticles, and the musical setting of the Communion Service.

[29] “Carmenque Christo, quasi deo, dicere secum invicem.”—Pliny, x. 97.

[30] The verse runs thus in the hymn-book:

“Trust in God, and borrow
Ease for heart and mind.”

[31] This custom exists at other old foundations; St. Paul’s, York, &c.

CHAPTER XX
CHAUNTERS’ GARDEN

“I’ll fetch a turn about the garden.”
Cymbeline.

One year Chaunters asked me to excuse him for half an hour or more, while he took a funeral: the garden was his special delight, and though in October there was little to see, I should find the gardener there, and he would show me what was left. The flowers needed no apology: there was a blaze of dahlias, and I know not what else: and there was Robert Diggle, the gardener, whose acquaintance I had made before.

He was digging away exactly as I had seen him in the previous October; and I thought of the historic Andrew Fairservice:

“Am trenching up the sparry-grass, and am gaun to saw sum Misegun beans.”

Do you trench up asparagus in October? and what are Misegun beans? I did not ask Robert, because it would have revealed the depth of my ignorance, and the school might have got to know it. How could I examine in botany, or in the principles of agriculture, if I didn’t know when to trench up sparry-grass? It seemed wiser to congratulate the good man on the appearance of the garden, and on the bright show of flowers, which I did not venture to specify more particularly: I added it was evident that the rector was as keen a gardener as ever.

The remark was not well received: it implied that Robert was not entitled to the undivided glory of the dahlias and things. He grunted, and then conceded that the rector worked hard. “It’s a pastime,” he said, and then handsomely added, “and I think he does good: why, theer’s a manny little thengs, as it doon’t matter how you put ’em in.” Poor rector!

“Alas! what boots it with incessant care
To tend the homely, slighted (gardener’s) trade.”

Robert’s thoughts were elsewhere, while I filled and lighted a pipe. “Ah heerd yo’ was about, sir: been to our skule, ’aven’t yo’?”

I admitted it.

“’Twas our Lizzie tould me theer were a streenge mon as ’ad been, and hoo[32] weren’t a-goin’ to skule anny moor. ‘Whoy, whativer’s to do?’ ah says: and hoo says, the mon come and called hoo Jenny, and hoo towld ’im hoo weren’t called Jenny: that were Jenny Miller in yon desk; and the mon asted hoo to come ’ome with ’im wheer ’ee lived, and hoo were froightened. ‘Lor’ bless thee, wench,’ ah says, ‘yon were th’ inspector: ’ee wouldna hurt yo’.’ ‘Na, na, dadda,’ hoo says, ‘ah bain’t a-gooin to skule anny moor.’” And Robert leant on his spade and roared. Then he added, apologetically, “Hoo isn’t only fower, a-gooin’ foive.”

I suggested that if she had been more than four years old, with five in prospect, I should have hesitated to give the invitation.

“And hoo isn’t so very strong, neether,” he added mournfully, as if to discourage my abduction of Lizzie: “doctor says as hoo had ought to ’ave a iron tunic.”

I hastily agreed, and then pondered on Lizzie, thus armour-clad, strait-waistcoated—inclusam Danaen turris aenea—ah, to be sure, “tonic,” iron tonic, much more suitable. Robert did not notice my hesitation: he had picked up a big stone, and in throwing it behind him had disturbed the peace of a tom blackbird, who fled, using language that would have brought a blush to the bill of a Melbourne cockatoo. I went on to remark that the little ones seemed very happy with Miss Jones, and that Mr. Birch was a good master.

Robert agreed: things were improved since his time, and the little ’uns would as lief go to school as stop at home, when they had once got over the scare of the first week.

“When I was a lad,” he continued; and I modify his dialect for general convenience, “at one time we had a Scotchman for schoolmaster. Squire had heard as the Scotch were great at eddication, and he advertised, and got McDougall, as they called him. But I reckon squire was a bit took in, for we soon found out as old Mac wasn’t so wise as he looked. It was in the reading lessons that we first caught him: there were some of the top lads as were pretty tidy readers, but now and again they’d come to a long word, as would pull ’em up short, same as if you’d struck your spade again a stone in digging; and they’d stop, and wait for Mac to give ’em a hand over. But they never got nowt off ’im: ’ee’d only the one answer, and that were, ‘Hop that, cocky, it’s Laa-tin’: and after a bit we got to understand, and we’d laugh, and he’d get mad. Well, one day in one of them lessons he comes to a middlin’ hard word, not so bad but what he could tell it himself: ‘Now, lads,’ he says, ‘what does this word mean?’ ‘Magazine’ it was, I remember as if it were yesterday: and Tom Jackson, he grins, and he says, ‘Please, sir, it’s Lahtin,’ and we laughed a good ’un. Eh, but Mac were wild, and he gives Tom what-for with what he called the tawse, a bit of broad leather with a hole in it, and Tom took and told his father, old Tummas, the blacksmith, of this newfangled way of thrashing a lad; and old Tummas, he goes down to skule to have it out with the gaffer. McDougall was settin’ in his own parlour with a black bottle by his side, and little Jenny Williams was keepin’ skule till he’d done his pipe and glass. ‘Hey, gaffer,’ Tummas says, when he come inside; ‘thou’st been a ’ammerin’ our Tom wi’ a strap wi’ a ’ole in it, ’stead of a stick, and ah wunna ’ave it,’ he says: ‘whoy what dost think ash-plants was growed for?’

“‘My mon,’ says Mac, ‘what are ye saying? Can ye no express yourself in a more intelligible manner?’ and he tips up the cheer as he were settin’ on, on to its hind legs, and just waves his pipe at Tummas, as if he were a kid. The smith could mak’ nowt of the Scotch, but he kicks up Mac’s foot, as he swings it in the air, and down goes skulemaster, chair and all. He clutches at the table to save hisself, like, and that brings down table and whisky bottle too; and Tummas just chucks a couple of chairs and a big cushion off the couch a-top of the whool lot, and he goes into skule. ‘’Ello, lads,’ he shouts: ‘t’ gaffer’s not a-feelin’ so very well to-dee, and it’s ’ollidee for yer all.’ And off they goes down t’ road a ’ollerin’ like mad. My word, it were a bit o’ fun.

“Well, squire got to hear of that some road, and Mac had to go: they do say as he got so drunk one day in skule that the lads had him down on the floor, and rolled him along, same as a barrel, but I wasn’t there that day: Tom Jackson tould me of it. And the squire got a college man, as had passed all the zaminations, same as Master Birch.”

“Certificated,” I suggested.

“Ah, summat o’ that: and he played th’ organ in church, and got us some new tunes, as we didn’t tak’ to, not at first, but, Lor’ bless you, they has ’em everywheer now, and calls ’em old. And he measures up fields for th’ farmers, and goos off manny a time i’ th’ arternoon to learn their daughters to play the pianner, when he should ha’ been in skule, and they should ha’ been makkin’ cheese. ‘Eh, my word,’ Farmer Turner says one day, ‘theer’s been no good cheese made i’ Cheshire since piannyfortes com’ in’: and that’s a fact.” And Robert turned over the soil pensively, and threw a worm to his favourite robin.

(“No good cheese since pianos came in.” Mrs. Poyser, or, still more, her misogynist enemy—what was his name? Bartle Massey?—would have been proud of the epigram.)

“Well, he gets too big for his boots: couldn’t carry corn, as the sayin’ is: and that year th’ Gov’ment inspector began to come round, same as you, sir; only he was a minister; and he drops on skulemaster, so I heerd, because us lads couldn’t get our sums right; and skulemaster goes off in a huff.

“I’d only one more master, because I left skule to go to work when I were eleven: and he were a cliver chap. Th’ inspector i’ those days used to zamine us i’ th’ Bible and Catechism, bein’ a minister, I suppose?”

I nodded my head in confession of my disqualification.

“Well, we didn’t do no jography, nor none of them things as they larn ’em now, but we has Scripture; and th’ rector and skulemaster takes it between ’em, and when th’ rector weren’t theer, skulemaster would say, ‘Now, lads, don’t go to sleep; I like to see yer ’ands ’eld up ev’ry time when I ast a question, and mind, if you know the right answer, hold up the right hand; that’s the one as you write with; but if you don’t know, hold up th’ other ’and.’ Well, it tak’s ’im a deal of time to get ’em to remember which were the right ’and, and Bill Tompkins, ’ee ’olds up ’is left ’and, because he always wrote with ’is left ’and; till at last gaffer taks and ties a bit of string round all their right ’ands, and then us got it right.

“But when th’ inspector com round, i’stead of asting skulemaster to zamine the lads, same as the last chap did, he asts ’is own questions, and skulemaster gets scared, and says, ‘Now, boys, don’t ’old up either ’and, unless you know: don’t guess;’ and ’opes th’ inspector will excuse ’im for interruptin’. That fair moithered us all, and not a ’and or a word could th’ inspector get from us.

“Naterally th’ inspector, and rector too, gets a bit shirty, and they turns on skulemaster, but he nowt but smiles at ’em, and says, ‘It’s just seen’ a stranger,’ he says, ‘as they isn’t used to: I think, sir, if you’ll allow me to ast ’em a few questions, they’ll do better.’ Th’ inspector didn’t much like bein’ told as ’ee weren’t a good ’and at the job, but ’ee says, ‘Oh, all right,’ ’ee says, ‘take ’em yourself, by all means,’ ’ee says; and he sets down i’ th’ arm cheer to see skulemaster cut ’is own throat, in a manner of speaking. ‘Now, lads,’ says th’ gaffer, very pleasant like, ‘don’t forget what I tould you about ’oldin’ up your ’ands. Who was Moses?’ and every lad ’olds up one ’and or th’ other. Gaffer, of course, asts only what they’ve been learned, and picks out only th’ right ’ands for th’ answers; an’ ’ee goes on for a quarter of a hour, ’ands up every time, and mostly right answers, theer or theer about, and th’ rector perks up and says it was only bein’ a bit shy, in a manner of speakin’, and ’ee’s very pleased with ’em, and there’d be a school treat next week; and th’ Inspector says ’ee ’asn’t seen a better show of ’ands not in the county. Ee! my word, my word!”

I laughed with Robert; but to think of the villainy of the master, who made the children his conspirators! Did his scripture syllabus include a certain text about a millstone and the depths of the sea?

Robert struck his spade deep in the ground and leant on it, implying that he was coming to something of interest. “Did yo ever meet Master Bibber in skule?” he asked.

“Bibber”? yes; I had seen him in two schools some time ago: he had gone to America and had died there, a good while since.

Robert pondered whether the law of slander, about which the working-man is (fortunately) very timorous, would “cop” him, in Cheshire phrase. “Ah wudna say a word agin ’im i’ that case,” he said: “but ’ee were a rum ’un.”

“Wasn’t an out-and-out teetotaler?” I suggested, knowing Bibber.

Robert took courage: “Eh, by gom, no. It wasn’t hereabouts; it was down in Clayshire, where I were gardener to Muster Brown, that I seen ’im. I hadna been married above two-three year, and it were on a Sunday afternoon, that I heerd a terrible noise, and I says to my missus, ‘Polly,’ I says, ‘theer’s dogs worryin’ a cow:’ and hoo says, ‘Eh, yon’s not dogs, it’s children cryin’,’ hoo says: and I goes into the street, and theer were a crowd round Master Bibber’s door—he were skulemaster i’ th’ village skule—and theer were little Tommy Bibber among ’em, cryin’ fit to break ’is ’eart. ‘Eh, Muster Diggle,’ ’ee says, ‘coom in,’ ’ee says; ‘theer’s father murdered Jenny, and ’ee’s a-gooin’ to murder us.’ So I goes in, o’ course, and theer were Jenny lyin’ on th’ floor in a faint, and theer were old Bibber, mad drunk, and dancin’ about, quite crazed like. ‘’Ello, Gaffer,’ I says, ‘what’s to do now?’ ‘Ah, Robert Diggle,’ ’ee says, ‘’appy to see a neighbour on the Sabbath day; let us engage in prayer.’ ‘Yo dom’d rascal,’ ah says, ‘it’s gin as yo’ve been engagin’ in,’ and ah stoops down to pick up Jenny, and all of a sudden Bibber maks for me, and tries to bite me i’ th’ arm. ‘By gom, Bibber,’ ah says, ‘if it’s fisticuffs yo want, yo shall ’ave ’em’; and ah fetches ’im one on th’ side o’ th’ yead, and down ’ee goes like a bullock. Ah picks ’im up again, and ah sheeks ’im till yo could ’ear ’is teeth rattle, and ah puts ’im i’ th’ cheer, and ah picks up Jenny, and puts ’er on th’ couch, and ah leaves ’em to it.”

“What did the school managers say to that?”

“Oh, they giv’ ’im the sack next week: but th’ folks i’ th’ village, they were all for Bibber—’ee were a smartish chap, when ’ee were sober—and Bibber, ’ee taks a cottage close by, and sets up a skule of ’is own, and gets all the children; and th’ young mon as gets th’ parish skule, ’ee hadna more than ’alf a dozen when ah comed away, and ah niver ’eerd how it ended. Skulemasters is like gardeners, I rackon; theer’s good and bad; but it taks all sorts to mak a world.”

While I was still pondering on the comprehensive wisdom of this apophthegm, the Rector appeared with apologies for delay. In his hand he bore an open letter, and his flushed face showed some excitement. “Come in the greenhouse,” he said, “there is just time for a cup of tea before your train, and I have a letter to show you.”

The conservatory opened into the dining-room, and there we found a table and chairs, and tea ready. “It’s from my nephew, Percy,” Chaunters said, waving the letter. “He is mad on music, and architecture, and is making a tour of the southern cathedrals this autumn; among others he has taken Sudchester, and I gave him an introduction to the organist.”

“What, old Thingumy in E flat?”

“Pedler? No: he has been dead some years: it’s that queer fellow Trackers; wrote a cantata called Boanerges, don’t you know? They had it at Birmingham, or Leeds, or somewhere last time. Here is the letter:

“He begins, like most travellers, with the hotel: ‘Why do all Cathedral towns have an hotel that was forgotten in the Reformation? Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer used to lie here, and the place has not been done up since. The fish they gave me for dinner yesterday was bought for Cranmer’s dinner one Friday, and he wouldn’t have it because it wasn’t fresh. The head waiter used to be Ridley’s page, and he has the episcopal scorn for a layman. The chamber-maid was a buxom lass in Latimer’s time; she has lost the bloom of her youth, but retains her sixteenth century domestic methods;’ and so on; you know he is young, and out for a holiday.

“Then he gets to the flying buttresses and the Norman arches, but you are in a hurry: this is what I thought you would have time for:

“‘I was just in time for afternoon service, and I took your letter with me and told the verger I wanted to speak to the organist, to whom I had a letter of introduction.’

“‘Dr. Trackers, sir? certainly,’ said the official with official patronage; ‘never heard the Doctor play? then you’ll ’ave a treat: hevery one says so; perhaps he’ll give you a bit with his new stop, “nux vomica,” they call it; but I think it sounds like a choir of hangels playing on a comb’ (’hïngels plyin hon a ca-omb’—in the original). I hadn’t time to digest this graphic description of the Vox Humana before T. arrived, and accepted my note: ‘What, the old Precentor?’ he said, ‘come up to the organ-loft;’ and I went.”

(“We may skip a good deal here about the organ, and its stops, and pneumatic machinery—did I ever tell you about Old Dick the blower?—and come to the music.” “Cut the cackle and come to the ’osses,” I murmured to myself.)

“It was the 15th evening, with that long Psalm, you know, and never have I heard such chanting. T. knows his psalter by heart, and never seems to look at the book; his mind is busy with half a dozen things, and he keeps up a running commentary of the quaintest but most maddening kind on the music, the singers, the cathedral, and what not. The choir is admirably trained, and the boys’ voices are good, better than the men’s; and they pronounce every syllable, though andanti con moto, and got through the seventy-three verses without a slip. Trackers, as a rule, only indicates illustrations, reserving greater effects for greater needs; but once he just threw in a pedal F natural, to express his opinion of the blacklegs of Ephraim, which absolutely withered and shrivelled them up.

“‘Three chants we have for this long psalm,’ he began, ‘starting in A; sort of reciting, historical chant—do you understand stops? Just pull out that chap’—and he pointed with his big nose—‘listen to that tenor; he’s as flat as Holland’—and he warmed him up with a reed on the solo—‘we can’t afford Sims Reeves, and this is a decent little chap; now that coupler, please;’ and he “brought waters out of the stony rock”: ‘verse 19 brings us into D, with a heavy bass, good for the plagues farther on. Dean’s away this week, don’t know where—now the reeds, please’—and he “rained down manna,” and “brought in the south-west wind,” and with a sudden cyclone “slew the wealthiest of them,” and then bit by bit he muzzled the monster, while the Israelites were falling into forgetfulness, till there was only just enough to keep up the pitch. Then he broke out again: ‘Did you hear of the Dean’s uncle, and his will? Always hoped to get something out of him, and last Christmas the old fellow died in town—now those two at the side:’ and suddenly the organ began to live again, and to grow, and we rushed into the plagues of Egypt. I looked over the rail and saw the eyes of the boys positively shine: the men were shifting from one leg to another, as the growl of the pedals increased.”

(“Dear me! how strange,” the old man interpolated; “I always change legs every verse when I am excited.”)

“They were singing Tutti, and insensibly quickening the pace; I heard Trackers absently mutter something about the Dean and his uncle—‘of course the Dean went to the funeral’—and then even he joined in the chase: “hailstones,” and they danced on the floor; “hot thunderbolts” that rumbled and scorched; “furiousness of His wrath, anger, displeasure, and trouble”; and “the prophets blazoned on the panes” rattled, and the old fabric swam before my eyes, and I clutched at the rail for safety: there came a sudden roar, like an advancing earthquake, and the pestilence smote the first-born of Egypt, so that the tower shook, and then, without warning, we slipped into the smooth waters of G: “He led them forth like sheep”; Israel sat in shady places by the water side in the Promised Land, playing on the harmonic flute, and—Trackers, half turning his head, said:

“‘And they found he’d married his cook, and left her the money.’

But I was leaning over the rail and crying like a girl at her first play.”

“Look here, rector,” I interposed, “I must catch the 6.30.” And I fled.

Poor old Chaunters! We were not to have many more meetings. The next year, on my arrival at the rectory, I was warned that there was something special in store for me, and in due course the secret was revealed. Some old friend had bequeathed to him two dozen of 1847 port, and a bottle had been decanted with extraordinary care. I own I find it difficult to drink port in the afternoon, but such nectar could not come at a wrong time. The Rector was with difficulty induced to join me: he would have just one glass to see whether it had “suffered by translation”; and just another glass because he wouldn’t see me again for a whole year; and the merest drop more to drink Church and Queen, because we had forgotten that ceremony. As I was going away he charged me to remember that the ’47 was to be kept for me: “no one else came to see the old man,” and with his gout he couldn’t touch it himself: so long as the old man lasted there was a bottle for me.

Alas for good intentions! Next October, when I came to the rectory, the Rector had had the gout, and the port was gone.

It was not on that account, but because of the increase of work which necessitated devolution of the smaller schools to the sub-inspectors, that in the following year I had to delegate the inspection of Chaunters’ school to my senior colleague. But I charged him to deal gently with the old man; to lunch with him; to tell him about the anthems at the cathedral; and specially to be careful to introduce into his conversation such fragments of Latin as would give it a scholarly flavour without straining his host’s classical memory; and to this end we compiled a list of phrases, such as bona fide, in situ, in statu quo, timeo Danaos, festina lente, profanum vulgus, and others which I forget.

It was a great success. The Rector wrote to me, expressing his sincere regret that I could not come; but thanking me for sending so excellent a substitute: it was rare, he remarked, in these days to meet a man whose conversation gave such ample proof of a liberal education.

I think I never saw him again: his death occurred soon afterwards, and I trust his nephew “carved his epitaph aright.” Like Browning’s Bishop he would have liked Latin; but he would not have cared whether it were Tully or Ulpian, so long as it was familiar; and he would have given a preference to examples from the Latin Grammar. It would have sufficed, I think, to begin with “Hic jacet,” and to wind up with “Multis ille bonis flebilis occidit”; and I should heartily have appended “Nulli flebilior quam MIHI.”