and various other articles, more useful than ornamental.  At this writing establishment, unique of its kind, he could turn his mind with equal facility, in company or alone, to any subject, whether of business, study, politics, instruction, or amusement, and move the minds of his hearers to laughter or tears at his pleasure.”

The daily life at Combe Florey was eminently patriarchal.  He lived surrounded by children, grandchildren, and friends; chatting with the poor, comforting the sick, and petting the babies of the village.  Old and young alike he doctored with extraordinary vehemence and persistency, “As I don’t shoot or hunt, it is my only rural amusement.”  He wrote to a friend—­“The influenza to my great joy has appeared here, and I am in high medical practice.”  “This is the house to be ill in,” he used to say, “I take it as a delicate compliment when my guests have a slight illness here.  Come and see my apothecary’s shop.”  The “shop” was a room filled on one side with drugs and on the other with groceries.  “Life is a difficult thing in the country, I assure you, and it requires a good deal of forethought to steer the ship, when you live twelve miles from a lemon.”

The church of Combe Florey was described by Francis Jeffrey as “a horrid old barn.”  There the Rector performed two services a Sunday, celebrated the Holy Communion once a month, and preached his practical sermons, transcribed from his own execrable manuscript by a sedulous clerk.  “I like,” he said, “to look down upon my congregation—­to fire into them.  The common people say I am a bould preacher, for I like to have my arms free, and to thump the pulpit.”  A lady dressed in crimson velvet he welcomed with the words, “Exactly the colour of my preaching cushion!  I really can hardly keep my hands off you.”

An anonymous correspondent kindly furnishes me with this description of the Valley of Flowers as it was in more recent years:—­

“I visited Combe Florey, with camera and vasculum, in 1893.  It is one of the loveliest spots in that district of lovely villages, lying in the Vale of Taunton on the southern slope of the Quantocks.  The parsonage is entirely unchanged:  there is Sydney’s study, a low-ceilinged room supported partly by pillars, level with the garden and opening into it.  There is the old-fashioned fireplace by which he and his wife sate opposite each other in his last illness.  ’Mrs. Sydney has eight distinct illnesses, and I have nine.  We take something every hour, and pass the mixture from one to the other.’  Outside still grow his Conifers, a large Atlantic Cedar and a Deodara; unchanged too are the palings over which Jack and Jill[97] peered with antlered heads.  Old villagers still talk of his medical dispensary, and of the care with which he drove round to collect and carry into Taunton their monthly deposits for the Savings Bank.”

Meanwhile, great events were transacting themselves in the political world, and they had an important bearing on the tranquil life of Combe Florey.  On the 4th of May 1830, Sydney Smith wrote from London to his wife in the country:—­