My old vicar was somewhat scandalized at this Sunday work, and some of my neighbours fancied themselves shocked, but a day or two later I happened to meet another clergyman friend, who farmed a little himself.  “I was so pleased,” he said, “to hear that you were carrying wheat last Sunday; when I was preaching I was strongly disposed to conclude by telling my people—­’Now you have been to church, go home to your dinners, and then off with your jackets and carry wheat for the rest of the day.’” Next Sunday all my neighbours were busy with their wheat, but I had managed to complete my harvest during the previous week, on the 8th of October, quite a month or six weeks later than usual, and an extraordinary contrast to the very dry year 1868, when all the corn on the farm, I was told, was carried before the last day of July.

I attended a neighbour’s sale that autumn; the wet seasons and the low prices had been too much for him, and he was leaving for the United States; his rick-yard was empty, all the corn sold, and nothing but straw left.  I heard him remark, “Folks are saying that I’m very backward with my payments, but I’m very forward with my thrashing, anyway!” Before the following spring nearly all the rick-yards were empty, and wheat-ricks, it was said, were as scarce as churches—­one in each parish.  The situation was summed up later in a phrase which passed into a proverb:  “In 1879 farmers lived on faith, in 1880 they are living on hope, and in 1881 they will have to live on charity.”

The attitude of the towns was one of apathy and indifference, like that of the General in Bracebridge Hall, which, published in 1822, proves how history repeats itself in agricultural as in other matters: 

“He is amazingly well-contented with the present state of things, and apt to get a little impatient at any talk about national ruin and agricultural distress.  ‘They talk of public distress,’ said the General this day to me at dinner, as he smacked a glass of rich burgundy and cast his eyes about the ample board:  ’They talk of public distress, but where do we find it, sir?  I see none; I see no reason anyone has to complain.  Take my word for it, sir, this talk about public distress is all humbug!’”

At Evesham, long before the depression grew into a debacle, the shadows of coming events could easily be detected.  There was the disappearance of the long rows of farmers’ conveyances at the inns in the town on market-days; there was the eclipse of shops—­for other than necessities—­such as a little fish shop, opposite the corner at the cross roads; a corner where much business was formerly transacted in the open street, and where I myself have sold by sample some thousands of sacks of wheat.  A tempting little shop it used to be, displaying shining Severn salmon; and it was here that the farmers, after the market, obtained the supplies commanded by the missus at home.