Formerly, of course, people who lived in the country were much more dependent upon the shops in the local village than is now the case, when everything can be got down from London with the greatest ease. Most country houses of any size had a large brew-house attached to them, where home-made beer was brewed for the labourers and servants; this was at all events exceedingly wholesome, being quite free from all adulteration. Country households were also more or less self-dependent in other ways, and many articles of domestic use were made at home, which in these days are purchased from the huge emporiums with which London abounds. Those were the days of feather-beds, and the feathers of chickens and of game-birds were not thrown away as to-day, but carefully preserved and picked in order that they might be utilised as stuffing for this somewhat hot and uncomfortable sort of couch. At my old home in Norfolk two women were kept constantly employed at this work. I can still see in my mind’s eye old Phœbe Barwick, as she was called, picking away together with another aged character—they never seemed to stop from morning to night, a room being specially set aside for their use. Phœbe’s companion has ever lived in my recollection by reason of the fact that when she heard the news of my brother’s election, as member for East Norfolk, in 1835, she rushed downstairs, seized a huge dinner-bell, and rang a pæan of exultant triumph on the lawn in front of the house. My brother himself was imbued with but little political fervour even at that time, and in his later years his efforts on behalf of the Conservative party were limited to sending on one occasion a cartload of hares into his market town as presents for the Tory electors. The Liberals, however, having made the driver drunk, proceeded to distribute the hares amongst their own supporters, a proceeding which my brother ever afterwards declared had thoroughly disgusted him with all political propaganda.