forming those duties which we are so frequently reminded accompany the rights of property, we rode into the village again, to meet the other members of the Committee for adjudicating the prizes for garden produce and length of servitude. They soon turned up, and together we examined the neat baskets of potatoes, french beans, carrots, and turnips. We were far above being influenced by mere size, and freely used a knife to test the quality of the productions. Our decision was unanimous, and I believe perfectly equitable. Then we proceeded to open a broad schedule, in which, betwixt many red lines, and beneath many headings, were recorded the names and qualifications of certain waggoners, farm and in-door servants, the latter both male and female. The qualifying conditions for the prizes were very simple, and when it was settled that all the candidates referred to the time they had served the same employer, it remained only to select the two in each class which could show the longest period of servitude. This was soon done, and we trotted back to the field, where the Judges were engaged in making their award. The symptoms which betray a ploughman’s excitement are not very readable; but it pleased me to see that there was some spirit of emulation in the competitors, who were for the most part busy in putting up their ploughs, placing them in carts and waggons ready for the return home. The President would not disturb the Judges; so we hung about, waiting for them, he, good-humouredly talking to some of the ploughmen. I think he hoped they had all won the first prize, which pleased them, though involving a rather obvious impossibility. The Judges soon came up and walked by our horses’ side back to Oakford. Their decision was never adverted to, for it is part of the etiquette of these occasions that the names of the winners should be kept secret until the announcement is made by the Chairman of the dinner, in its proper place, after the “usual loyal toasts.”
I did not mention the dinner in my heading to this paper, which some may regard as a deception; however, I supposed it was implied, for every one knows that a dinner is the crown and cornerstone of an English Association. Who can say that Douglas Jerrold was wrong when he remarked that “if an earthquake were to swallow up England to-morrow, the English would contrive to assemble and dine together somewhere in the ruins, if only to celebrate the event?”
In the large room of the Golden Lion we found two long tables well filled, with a cross table at the top of the room, raised a few inches above the others, at which were arranged seats for the gentry and clergy. I found myself placed next a a rural dean, whose manners and conversation were gentlemanlike and agreeable. Sucking-pigs, legs of mutton, and loins of beef disappeared rapidly; the hum of talking, the clash of knives and forks, and the clatter of plates and dishes filled the room; but as the gastronomic accompaniment died off into silence, and men had eaten and were full, the vocal sounds grew louder and louder, until the rap of my friend’s hammer proclaimed silence—and “The Queen, God bless her!” The National Anthem followed, but with very uncertain progress; some were at “gracious Queen,” while others were at “knavish tricks,” drowning completely the screams of a concertina, which vainly struggled to preserve harmony. Clara Novello would probably have gone off into hysterics, had she been present at the murder of that beautiful solo, which she has so often rendered with such grace and dignity. I believe most of the company knew that it does not improve a song for fifty people to have a way of their own, irrespective altogether of each other; but we were not particular about time or tune, and met together over the last two words in each verse to start afresh upon our ramble through the next. At the conclusion, when we resumed our seats, I should say the general impression was that we had done the handsome thing towards Her Majesty, and that the professional singer who attempted to control our loyal voices, had been signally and deservedly defeated. Toast and song followed in quick succession, the President pointing each sentiment with a few appropriate words, and showing how well he understood his audience by continually evoking their hearty cheers. Presently the door opens, and enter—his three daughters, bowing with easy and well-bred confidence as the company rises to receive the honour of their visit. Preceded by an obsequious waiter, who, by the way, had a very stable-boyish appearance, they took seats behind us, and then the ploughmen were introduced in a long file, and the President announced that William Rugg had gained the first prize, and that “bold peasant” came towards the table, the most miserable-looking victor I ever saw. Clamp, clamp, tramped his boots upon the sanded floor; if it had not been for his hat, I think he would have lost his very moderate stock of senses, but by dint of constantly trying how this would fit his knee, or what sort of a seat it might make, he managed to receive the congratulations of the President. I believe he was proud of his success, and that the contest had done the man good morally as well as in his pocket. It was some proof that skill in ploughing is a real and not a fanciful acquisition, to hear the fourth prizeman say he had already taken fourteen prizes. He bore his honours bravely and looked a man, which is more than I can say for all the competitors. The money was to be given privately the next morning, which is a very considerate provision, for otherwise the winners might be subject to heavy demands for “backsheesh” from their convivial friends and admirers.
The “servants” did not enter an appearance, and after the ploughmen had left, we drank “the Ladies,” for whom a young gentleman with whom you have already made some acquaintance returned thanks. Many a jolly laugh followed his mention of the old lawyer’s apostrophe:
“Fee simple, and a simple fee, and all the fees in tail,
Are nothing when compared with thee, thou best of fees, female.”
