WITHOUT PREJUDICE

Dominion, Volume 20, Issue 17, 15 October 1926, Page 8

WITHOUT PREJUDICE

NOTES AT RANDOM (By .T.D.11.) A man who never touches meat, alcohol, or tobacco is said recently to have celebrated his eightieth birthday in Britain.—But what can’t be discovered is how he did it. Britain’s long line of sporting parsons has not come to an end, judging by the message yesterday that the Rev. J. Jennings had ridden a winner in a race at Chantilly last Sunday afternoon. It was only Sunday school, not church, that Mr. Jennings missed, for we. were told that he had conducted service in the morning. .A good many years ago the Rev Mr. Seabrook, a Leicestershire parson, rode in’s own horse in the Grand National. That race, however, doesn’t happen to be run on a Sunday, , and Mr. Seabrook thought it wise, to spare the feelings of squeamish parishioners by entering for the race as “Mr. C. Brook.” « « * “A nice gentleman, but he didn’t quite ought to have been a parson,” said one of the country folk who sat under Mr. Seabrook. Perhaps this critic may have been jaundiced, for he may have been a relative of the corpse'that had to wait for a candlelight burial until this sporting vicar at length returned long after nightfall from a distant kill in a run with the fox hounds.

' The sporting . parson was common enough in Britain a century ago, and he seems to have lasted out as long in Leicestershire as anywhere. In the middle of the last century the Rev. Robert Story, of Lockington, was master of tlie fox hounds for the local hunt, the last clergyman, it is said, to occupy such a position. Mr. Story, in common with his neighbour, the fourth and last Marquis of Hastings, had also a passion for the unlawful pastime of code-fighting. The parson bred fighting cocks and matched them against those of his noble friend. It is related that the Marquis drove over from Donington for service one Sunday, and as Mr. Story came down the aisle in his surplice he told him he had a cock that would fight any of his. “I’ll bet von haven’t,” said the parson. “Done with you,” said the Marquis, who had brought his bird over with him. And there and then the main was fought out in one of the big square pews of Lockington Church. * * e

Another once well-known Leicestershire cleric was the Rev. Henry Costabadie, rector of Hallatou, who on one Sunday took four services, rode forty miles, jumped four gates, and shot two wild duck. Mr. Costabadie was asked by some influential parishioners one droughty summer if he . would be so good as to prey for raim “All right,” said the reverend gentleman, “I’ll pray for .it, but it's no d d, good with the wind in this quarter.” Perhaps tlie most determined of all clerical sportsmen on record in Leicestershire was the. Rev. Edward Stokes, who was on his 'last legs of age and blindness at the. end of the eighteenth century. Despite • his blindness he still rode to hounds, having an attendant who rode by his side and rang a bell whenever there was a jump ahead. This shows us that even clergymen can sometimes grow aged without becoming venerable.

A change came over the face ol things and Bishop Blomfield in the Early Victorian era began refusing to license curates if they rode to bounds. Even with the older vicars the bishop never lost an opportunitv of directing attention to the unseemliness, of grave divines tearing and hallooing over half a county in pursuit of Reynard. Here is a report of a conversation said to have transpired during one of the bishop’s visitations: The Bishop: “Mr. Blank, I have not a word to sav against your ministrations. But this is a tattling world, and thev tell me you hunt.” The Vicar: “It is indeed a tattling world. They say your lordship goes to the Queen’s Balls.” The Bishop: “It is true that when I am invited by Her Majesty I do not think it proper to decline. But lam never in the room where the dancing is going on.” The Vicar: “That is just my case, mv lord. I have only an old mare, and I am never in the field in which the hounds are.”

Ha? a spider got a mind? Professor J. Arthur Thomson thinks it has a glimmering of intelligence He tells us that Professor Fr. Dahl, one of the most careful students of spiders., had a Jumping Spider; Evarche by name, that was accustomed to being fed with small house-flies. She was offered cue that had been dipped in turpentine, and although she sprang upon it as usual, she retreated hastily before the strong odour. She did this on three successive occasions, but after three disappointments she could not be induced to move. Even an ordinary fly, that had not been dipped in turpentine, evoked no response. But a few hours afterwards she took it! Next morning she sprang upon a turpentined fly, but ietreated as before. For the rest of that dav she would not look at any housefly' whatsoever, but she responded normally to a normal midge. 1 his is a simple instance of. the kind of behaviour that seems to imply a spice oi judgment, just a little of the power of putting two and two together, at least a flash of intelligence.. So we conclude that a spider has a bit of a mind. Perhaps this paragraph from the New York “Outlook” thrrtvs light on why we have to have a film censor: Movie trade papers,” says the Outlook, “tell us that our moving-picture studios make foreign negatives of each picture in addition to the regular domestic negative. In the foreign negative are inserted spice and vulgarity which is deemed improper for showing m this country'. Some of the . pictures v Inch have failed in this country are made risque and sent abroad to redeem , local losses. Hardly the way to increase respect for this country or to Cement friendly relations with other nations. According to the trade papers, cur exports of film have now reached the astounding total of thirty-five million dollars annually. Five years ago it was only about five million dollars.” Customer: “When I put the coat on for the first time and buttoned it up, I burst the seam down the back.’ Tailor: “That shows how well our buttons are sewed on ” A WISH. Mine be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook that turns a mill, With manv a fall shall linger near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her .clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch. And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that' drinks the dew; . And Lucv, at her wheel, shall sing In russet gown and apron blue. The village Church among the trees. Where first our marriage-vows were given, . , , With nierrv peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to heaven. —Samuel Rogers.