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: