in the post of schoolmaster, which at first he had only taken temporarily, and quaintly managing it. He was found setting as a copy “A blind man’s wife needs no paint,” which he defended as “Proverbs, sir, Proverbs.” Giving up part of his business to his nephew, he still sat up at night baking, for the nephew, he said, was only in the A B C book of baking, and he also had other troubles: there was insanity in his family, and he was much harassed. His kindness and simplicity were sometimes abused. He never had the heart to refuse to lend money, or to deny bread on credit to hopeless debtors; and altogether debts, distress, baking, and watching his sisters all night, and school keeping all day, were too much for him. The first hint of an examination of his school completed the mischief and he died insane, drowning himself in the canal. It is a sad story, but many of us will remember with affectionate regard the good, kind, quaint, and most excellent little man. * * * * * A few lines, half parody, half original, may be added as picturing the old aspect of Otterbourne, about 1830:— OLD REMEMBRANCES I remember, I remember, Old times at Otterbourne, Before the building of the Church, And when smock frocks were worn! I remember, I remember, When railroads there were none, When by stage coach at early dawn The journey was begun. And through the turnpike roads till eve Trotted the horses four, With inside passengers and out They carried near a score. “Red Rover” and the “Telegraph,” We knew them all by name, And Mason’s and the Oxford coach, Full thirty of them came. The coachman wore his many capes, The guard his bugle blew; The horses were a gallant sight, Dashing upon our view. I remember, I remember, The posting days of old; The yellow chariot lined with blue And lace of colour gold. The post-boys’ jackets blue or buff, The inns upon the road; The hills up which we used to walk To lighten thus the load. The rattling up before the inn, The horses led away, The post-boy as he touched his hat And came to ask his pay. The perch aloft upon the box, Delightful for the view; The turnpike gates whose keepers stood Demanding each his due. I remember, I remember, When ships were beauteous things, The floating castles of the deep Borne upon snow-white wings; Ere iron-dads and turret ships, Ugly as evil dream, Became the hideous progeny Of iron and of steam. You crossed the Itchen ferry All in an open boat, Now, on a panting hissing bridge You scarcely seem afloat.