On the appointed day I examined the school, and, when the afternoon work was done, strolled up to the Rectory, to wait for the arrival of the exhausted clerics.
There were seven or eight of them at dinner: the rest went empty away. It would be easy to describe the guests individually, but all the clergy between the North Sea and the Irish Channel, between Carlisle and the borders of Salop, would waste their precious time in hunting for the lineaments of themselves, or their neighbours. I need mention only two: first, the Archdeacon, who had views about the Burials Bill (which was the burning question of that day), the Revised Version, and the Unity of Christendom. He was full of goodness; rather lacking in humour, and rather hostile to inspectors, whom he regarded as a lay and inferior form of archdeacon. There were two Archdeacons in the diocese, both worthy, and both wooden; so that Canon Miller had said, in his epigrammatic way, “The Archdeacon is the oculus episcopi, and our Bishop suffers from that form of ophthalmia which is known to the faculty as amaurosis, or dullness of sight.”
The other notable was the Rev. O. Goodfellow. He was the butt of the Rural Deanery. For five tedious years he had toiled at Oxford for his degree; his college had ejected him at the end of his fourth year, and he had taken refuge in a Hall. There he exhausted the pass-coaches of Oxford, and he might have exhausted his father’s patience, but a soft-hearted examiner took pity on him, and his fate was like that of Augustus Smalls of old:
“Men said he made strange answers
In his Divinity;
And that strange words were in his Prose
Canine to a degree:
But they called his vivâ voce ‘Fair,’
And they said his books would do;
And native cheek, where facts were weak,
Brought him in triumph through.”
Possibly he might have done better in the schools if he had not devoted the October term to football, the Lent term to the Torpids, and the summer term to cricket. There is little time for reading, if a man really tries to do his duty by his college in these three branches of industry. In his parochial work his athletics helped him greatly; for the rest he was the most good-natured of men, and his wife was charming. Every one laughed at him, and everybody liked him. Also he was known to all men as Robin.
The dinner was simple and good; the conversation was varied, except in two directions: the Canon announced at the outset that if any one mentioned the Burials Bill or the word “education” he should be sconced. This, as my neighbour on the left remarked sotto voce, trumped the Archdeacon’s best trick, and left me without a card to lead.
I have omitted to mention Mrs. Miller, most delightful of hostesses, whom I, “as the representative of the Crown,” had, with friendly laughter, been instructed to take in to dinner. At this moment she asked me confidentially what would happen if she were sconced. I told her that the penalty in the case of a man was to pay for a quart of beer for the company; but that if the sconcee could drink the whole quart without stopping to take breath, the penalty rebounded on to the informer; presumably in the cases of “lunatics, infants, and married women” (under the law of that date) the guardian, parent, or husband would be liable. I gave this legal opinion with some solemnity, and the company rather embarrassed me by suspending their conversation that they might hear the decision of the Court. The Archdeacon, who, like St. Peter, “was himself a married man,” showed marked disapproval, and I hastily diverted discussion by adding that I had seen the draught completed, and the penalty reflected.
Johnson, my left-hand neighbour, a Yorkshire man, said that in his county it would not be a remarkable feat. “I remember a case in point,” he continued; “a discussion arose at the ‘Red Lion’ in ——ton, whether any man could drink two quarts without stopping to take breath. Finally it was agreed that if such a man existed, it was Will Pike. Bets were made, Will was sent for, and the case was laid frankly before him; would he try?
“To the surprise of his backers he hesitated, and at last asked whether they could give him a two-three minutes just to see about it. This was conceded; Will retired, and in less than three minutes he returned, and drank his two quarts in manner prescribed. The opposition paid up, but one man, feeling a little sore, complained of the delay. Why didn’t Will begin at once?
“Will hesitated a minute, and then confessed that he himself didn’t feel quite sure of his ability—I might say ‘capacity’—so, to make sure, he had just stepped down to the ‘Black Lion’ to try. As he stood there, he contained four quarts.”