FOOTNOTES:
[48] One of my colleagues was unable to land on the Island, and was carried on to Barrow. Till I had seen these lines, I fully believed that it was the ordinary result of an easterly gale. Now I see that he was after no good.
[49] Letters of T. E. Brown, 2 vols. (Constable.)
[50] “Cotton” = Lancashire man?
[51] That was when the Archdeacon of Oxford acted as “Chairman of Hardy’s Committee”; the Bishop favouring Gladstone. Mansel’s epigram is famous, beginning—
When the versatile Prelate of Oxford’s famed city
Spied the name of the chairman of Hardy’s Committee,
Said Samuel (from Samson his metaphor seekin’)
“You have ploughed with my heifer,—that is my Archdeacon.”
&c., &c. (see Burgon’s Life of Mansel).
CHAPTER XXX
RELEASE
“We have had enough of action, and of motion we,
Roll’d to starboard, roll’d to larboard, when the surge was seething free,
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea.”
“Lotos-Eaters.”
The Psalmist fixed three score and ten years as the limit of man’s age; but he did not go into the question of efficiency. That has been settled with less liberality by the rules of the Civil Service, which “pluck away five lagging winters and five wanton springs” from the more generous sum, and decree that survivors shall be put on the Pension List at 65.
But this, as Isabella (she of Measure for Measure) would say, is for the soldier: the captain is free. The Prime Minister[52] is five years my senior: the Secretary for India, and the late Secretary for Ireland, now Ambassador in Washington, took their degrees at Oxford in my first or second year. These hoary statesmen, still as I write, flourish like green bay-trees, and I am become a lean and slippered pantaloon. For these high offices, says the Treasury, there is no need of restriction; but for posts requiring activity and intelligence (such as the Inspectorate of schools) there must be an age limit.
Nay, more: a later circular of the Board regrets that men should be kept on to 65 when “in many cases they have lost that freshness and originality which, &c., &c.” And it proposes to cut down the limit by degrees to 60.
On the other hand, I have read that the Prime Minister has appointed one right reverend gentleman, aged 67, to be Bishop of A.; another reverend gentleman, aged 71, to be Dean of B.; and a third, who graduated a year before me, to be Bishop of C. But the Premier himself is 71, and this alters a man’s point of view. I admit that a dean requires little freshness and originality: but in the annals of another branch of the public service I read, that in 1857, when the Indian Mutiny broke out, the Government asked Sir Colin Campbell to take command of the British forces in India, he being then 65, and that he started in 24 hours.
“It’s Tommy this an’ Tommy that, an’ Tommy go away,
But it’s good grey ’eaded ’ero, when the band begins to play.”
I have taken a slight liberty with Mr. Kipling’s lines.
However, the arrangement suited me admirably, and it is only to preserve my British right to grumble, that I grumble. I had intended to retire at the age of sixty, when I became eligible for a pension: but, like Andrew Fairservice, whom I have already twice quoted, I had “e’en daikered on frae year’s end to year’s end.” Therefore when the spring of 1906 clearly revealed to me that the coming December would bring me freedom, I made no complaint. That spring had added Salford, with 220,000 people, to my already enormous family. Salford, be it known to southern readers, adjoins Manchester much as Westminster adjoins London, but in part as Westminster adjoins Lambeth; for the Irwell is the boundary for some distance. Salford is a County Borough with three members of Parliament: there is no visible boundary between the Manchester and Salford types of M.P.: they have all bathed in Irwell. Nor is there any visible boundary between the two styles of school architecture: there, too, Manchester has set the fashion, and Salford, nimium vicina Cremonae, has followed it; but Salford, being the poor relation, is in a more deplorable state. Educationally, however, Salford is now full of zeal. We got on very well together, and—so far—I should have been glad to stay for another six months, in order to weld together the inspecting machinery of the two towns. “There’s aye something to saw that I would like to see sawn, or something to maw that I would like to see mawn, or something to ripe that I would like to see ripen,” said the same Andrew; but it could not be. My hands were full. I yearned to empty them, and fold them, and write no more reports with them. The prospect of another November in Manchester was unendurable, and I determined to retire on October 1st, thus incidentally relieving the country of the burden of maintaining me on the active staff for the two months before my birthday. “What loss is it to be rid of care?” said the deposed Richard II.
But the Board of Education, which would wrangle doggedly for three weeks about a charge of sixpence in travelling expenses, is both considerate and generous in greater matters. It was, they said, convenient to them that changes should be made at the end of the summer holidays, and if I liked to go at the end of September, they would give me “leave of absence” with full pay for the remaining two months. I gratefully accepted this really handsome offer: bought a new bicycle with the latest improvements to carry my tottering limbs, and went off to the Isle of Man to prove it.
On my previous visits to the island I had relied on trains and carriages, and had found some parts difficult of access. With a bicycle exploration is easy. There are rudimentary railways, which put one down at convenient spots, and thence there are good roads to nearly all the schools. It is advisable to make the journey agree with the wind, if possible, for the breeze is often fresh; but, with so much caution, there is unbounded delight. Two journeys stand out in my memory: one in the wild flat country to the north of the island, from sea to sea, and finally over T. E. Brown’s Ballaugh Curragh: the other from Peel over the shoulder of I forget what hill, and then with free running wheel for miles down a smooth road to Port Erin. It was June, and I was only sixty-four.
Here let me record an event which certainly does not belong to the island, but may be conveniently hidden away here. I had been cycling, and inspecting, and cycling again all day, and I was weary as I got nearer home. There was a long stretch of smooth footpath, and no one in sight: the prospect of relief from “the ’ammer, ’ammer of the ’ard ’igh road” tempted me, and I strayed from the macadamised road of virtue to the cinder path of illegality. Suddenly a policeman shot out from a side lane and blocked my path. He demanded my name, and wanted to know whether the high road was not a good high road. I praised his high road fulsomely, but I went on to point out that I had been out all day, riding twenty miles on H.M. Service, and that I was wearied in doing good works. And I put it to him whether he did not think that members of the Civil Service, like himself and me, were entitled to some little indulgence. He was much moved, but not more than an official should be moved. He could not admit the justice of my plea, but he would “name it to the sergeant.” I heard no more of it, and I asked no questions.
Those were delightful days, those last days on the island. There was heavy work; for besides the Manx schools, each of which wanted a report, there were six active sub-inspectors visiting and reporting on Lancashire schools, and there were boats from Liverpool weighed down to the Plimsoll mark with school portfolios from Manchester and Salford in particular, and the Palatinate in general, requiring “remarks,” and “suggestions,” and “reports.” But one learns to think without “taking thought.” All day long there was the charm of the island, and in the evenings, by great good fortune, I had the companionship of an old colleague, who was engaged in educational work for the Manx Council.
I grieved to leave thee, O Ellan Vannin![53] May the herring and the mackerel return to thy shores! May the trippers abound and behave decently!
And I was grieved to return to Manchester; but it was not for long. Late in July I finished the work there, and retired to North Wales, “on the way” to the Continent; and there, with a foreground of school portfolios and a background of mountains, I worked in peace.
Suddenly a new prospect was opened before me, dimming the sight of portfolios and mountains. There came two urgent letters, announcing a vacancy on the Chester Town Council,[54] and urging me to be a candidate! If I would accept I should be unopposed; and I should be put on the Education Committee, where I might give the city the benefit of that experience which, &c., &c. I laughed, and telegraphed back—“Impossible; contrary to rules of Civil Service.”
That seemed to me to be conclusive. It merely produced an embassage of two, who begged me to reconsider. Finally I agreed to write to the Office for instructions. To my surprise there came a letter stating that I might stand, if I would before the contest hand over the mantle to my already nominated successor. In that case they would give me so much extra leave. This was more than generous, and it took away my last dilatory plea. I accepted the Chester invitation, and proffered the mantle with apologies to my successor. Then I proceeded to do all the electioneering things that I had read of other people doing in like circumstances. I had an indefatigable Committee. I issued an address; some one placarded the walls of Chester with my name. A hostile candidate appeared; there was canvassing, in which I took a lamentably ineffective part; there was mural literature. At the critical moment, nay twice, on the day before the polling-day and on the fateful day itself, I had to go into Lancashire on an official enquiry. But by the afternoon post of the latter day I sent to Whitehall the announcement that I had handed over the seals of office, and I went to the poll a free man.
All day long the noise of battle rolled, and in the evening there was quite a thrill of excitement in the street. My excellent and friendly opponent and I sat on a low wall outside the polling station, and shook hands with our supporters as they filed by. I thought he was the favourite, but the ballot is as deceitful as the heart of man. At eight o’clock the poll was closed, and we adjourned to the Town Hall that the votes might be counted. It was a slow process, and I filled up the time by writing a report of the Lancashire enquiry, that was my last official act.
The poll was declared about 9, and to the surprise of my supporters I was elected by a handsome majority. I was a Town Councillor!
“Quod optanti divum promittere nemo
Auderet, volvenda dies en attulit ultro,”[55]
said a pedantic friend next day.
After uproarious rejoicings, I walked home, and in the narrow street that leads the traveller eastward from out the ancient city I found my best supporters. They were all under the age of 15, and they seemed to have been waiting for me. In the dim light, I came all unsuspecting upon them expectant. “Three cheers for Mr. Kensley: Oorĩ, Oorĩ,” and I was in the midst of an innumerable multitude. Every child in the parish was there, and crowded round me. It was a personal victory for them: their inspector had been elected, and to them was the glory. Brawny mothers brought out babies in arms, and brandished them: “You examined me, Mr. Kensley: eh, I am glad.” The crowd yelled on F sharp, and the drums of my ears vibrated like telegraph wires in I know not what condition of the atmosphere. “Oorĩ, Oorĩ.” They surged round me up the narrow lane, and in at my gate, and up my modest drive, and on the doorstep, as I sought for the latchkey. It wanted little that they should enter like Bishop Hatto’s rats:
“And in at the windows, and in at the door,
And through the walls helter-skelter they pour;
And down from the ceiling, and up through the floor,
From the right, and the left, from behind and before—”
But they paused, and I escaped the Bishop’s doom.
Good-night, children; good-night, and good-bye.