There is quite a good Museum at Burford. It was formed, I believe, in
the pre-Corporation days, and so it is under intelligent control.
Local antiquities are represented with some attempt at completeness and
classification, and its educational value would be very great if the
people of the neighbourhood could be induced to give to it some of
the time that they devote to football. A few years ago, however,
an irresistible appeal was made to the culture of the town by the
acquisition for the collections of a human hand from the Solomon
Islands. As soon as it was understood that this treasure had just been
added to those in the Museum there was a rush to see it, and thousands
of persons paid their sixpences for a glance at it, and in the course of
a day or two after its arrival it had become the topic of the place.
If you had not seen it you were regarded as a complete outsider. It was
considered a great hardship that visitors were not allowed to touch
this exhibit; for, after all, a look at such an object is
unsatisfactory--quite different from a hearty handshake. To shake such
a hand would be satisfying, it was generally thought, and I have much
pleasure in associating myself with such an expression of opinion. A
little of it would satisfy any but the most grasping nature.
It was in this Museum that there reposed for years in one of its glass
cases an interesting exhibit labelled “Fragment of ancient pottery,
probably Saxon, effects of lead glazing still visible.”
It was thought to be part of a pitcher, and some ingenious and
imaginative antiquary had made an excellent drawing of the original
vessel, showing the bulge in the body from which the piece had
been broken. Many papers had been written about the fragment, some
authorities contending that it was not of Saxon but Roman origin, and
others that, as it had been found on a part of the coast which had
at one time been covered by the sea, it was almost certain to be of
Scandinavian origin: it had been on board one of the Norse pirate
galleys that had harried the whole of the South Coast, and marks were
pointed out along the edge which were said to be the traces of a rude
decoration of Scandinavian design.
For years the controversy was carried on with a large display of
learning on all sides, until one day a geologist of distinction visited
the Museum, and announced that the specimen of pottery was a section
of a human skull. A little examination and a comparison of the specimen
with an ordinary human skull showed beyond the possibility of doubt that
this view was the correct one, and the label was changed without delay.
But when it became known that the Museum was in possession of part of a
human skull, it was visited by hundreds of people all anxious to get
a glimpse of so interesting an object, and if possible--but this was
rather too much to hope for--to hold it in their hands; and for weeks
the contents of other cases lay unnoticed. The broken skull was the real
attraction.
It was an amazingly thick skull: if it had not been so thick it would
probably not have led its original owner to forfeit it, but would have
suggested to him a way of escape from those unfriendly persons who had
deprived him of its use. But the owner would certainly have made a
good show at an old election fight, or have reached a green old age in
Tipperary.
I once saw on a shelf in the Museum a piece of old ironwork in the form
of a rushlight holder. So it was labelled, and the date 1609 assigned
to it. It was stated on the label that it was probably the work of a
well-known ironworker of the neighbourhood in which it had been found.
I ventured, however, to differ from this last suggestion, the fact being
that this particular example of seventeenth-century ironwork was not
made during that century or by that craftsman, but by a more crafty
person during the latter years of the reign of Edward the Seventh.
My reason for coming to this conclusion was not the result of the
possession on my part of any special acquaintance with wrought-iron or
the methods of the old workers, but simply because I had been present
when the thing was in course of being forged--in both senses _forged._
The craftsman had been called away from his job suddenly, and when I
entered his unostentatious forge there the thing was lying as he had
left it, in an unfinished condition. Some days later I saw it among a
heap of scrap iron of various sorts in his yard, and it rather took my
fancy. I pulled it forth and asked the man if he had any idea what
it was. He replied that, so far as he could remember, an antiquarian
gentleman had told him that it was for holding a rushlight. I looked at
it closely and said that I did not think it was old, and he replied that
he didn't believe it to be very old either; but it wasn't a handsome
thing anyway.
I threw it down and began to talk about other matters, and the next I
saw of it was in the Museum above its neatly lettered label.