Village people, I am afraid, are rather fond of horrors; the newspaper accounts of events which come under that description, such as murders, suicides, and sensational trials, afford, apparently, much interest.  A man was working for me on some repairs close to my door; as he was a stranger, I tried, as usual, to induce him to talk whenever I passed.  I had no success and could not get a word out of him, until, one morning, I chanced to see a sensational headline in a local paper about a suicide in a neighbouring town.  On passing my workman, he immediately broke out in great excitement, “Did you read in the paper about that bloke who went to his father’s house at W——­, sat down on the doorstep, and cut his throat?” The account had evidently seized upon his imagination, and had thoroughly roused him out of himself, but the following day he was as silent as before.

Births, marriages, and deaths are interesting topics in the village, and perhaps with reason, for, after all, they are the most important events in our lives, and in the villages most of the cottagers are more or less related.  All the inhabitants were much excited when a poor old widow, living very near my house, sitting on a low circular stone parapet round her well, lost her balance in some way, fell in, and was drowned.  I was foreman of the jury at the inquest, and after hearing the evidence, which amounted to no more than the finding of the body soon after the event, the coroner expressed his opinion that it was a case of accidental death, with which I at once concurred.  With some reluctance, the other jurymen agreed; they had, I imagine, as usual, made up their minds for a more sensational verdict, but scarcely liked to suggest it, and a verdict of accidental death was accordingly returned.  Afterwards I heard that the villagers were saying that it was very kind of me to bring in such an indulgent verdict, but they “knowed very well it was suicide.”

I was invited to the wedding feast of my bailiff’s daughter, and being, I suppose, regarded as the principal guest, was, according to custom, requested to carve the excellent leg of mutton which formed the piece de resistance.  The parish clerk, considerably over eighty at the time, was one of the most sprightly members of the company; he kept us interested with historical recollections going back to the Battle of Waterloo, and spoke of Wellington and Napoleon almost as familiarly as we now speak of Earl Haig and the Kaiser.  He had a strong sense of humour, and, after a very hearty meal, announced that he didn’t know how it was, but he’d “sort of lost his appetite,” pretending to regard the fact as an injury, premeditated by the hospitality of our host and hostess.