RELEASE
“We have had enough of action, and of motion we,
Roll’d to starboard, roll’d to larboard, when the surge was seething
free,
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea.”
“_Lotos-Eaters._”
The Psalmist fixed three score and ten years as the limit of man’s
age; but he did not go into the question of efficiency. That has been
settled with less liberality by the rules of the Civil Service, which
“pluck away five lagging winters and five wanton springs” from the more
generous sum, and decree that survivors shall be put on the Pension
List at 65.
But this, as Isabella (she of _Measure for Measure_) would say, is
for the soldier: the captain is free. The Prime Minister[52] is five
years my senior: the Secretary for India, and the late Secretary for
Ireland, now Ambassador in Washington, took their degrees at Oxford
in my first or second year. These hoary statesmen, still as I write,
flourish like green bay-trees, and I am become a lean and slippered
pantaloon. For these high offices, says the Treasury, there is no need
of restriction; but for posts requiring activity and intelligence (such
as the Inspectorate of schools) there must be an age limit.
Nay, more: a later circular of the Board regrets that men should be
kept on to 65 when “in many cases they have lost that freshness and
originality which, &c., &c.” And it proposes to cut down the limit by
degrees to 60.
On the other hand, I have read that the Prime Minister has appointed
one right reverend gentleman, aged 67, to be Bishop of A.; another
reverend gentleman, aged 71, to be Dean of B.; and a third, who
graduated a year before me, to be Bishop of C. But the Premier himself
is 71, and this alters a man’s point of view. I admit that a dean
requires little freshness and originality: but in the annals of another
branch of the public service I read, that in 1857, when the Indian
Mutiny broke out, the Government asked Sir Colin Campbell to take
command of the British forces in India, he being then 65, and that he
started in 24 hours.
“It’s Tommy this an’ Tommy that, an’ Tommy go away,
But it’s good grey ’eaded ’ero, when the band begins to play.”
I have taken a slight liberty with Mr. Kipling’s lines.
However, the arrangement suited me admirably, and it is only to
preserve my British right to grumble, that I grumble. I had intended to
retire at the age of sixty, when I became eligible for a pension: but,
like Andrew Fairservice, whom I have already twice quoted, I had “e’en
daikered on frae year’s end to year’s end.” Therefore when the spring
of 1906 clearly revealed to me that the coming December would bring
me freedom, I made no complaint. That spring had added Salford, with
220,000 people, to my already enormous family. Salford, be it known
to southern readers, adjoins Manchester much as Westminster adjoins
London, but in part as Westminster adjoins Lambeth; for the Irwell
is the boundary for some distance. Salford is a County Borough with
three members of Parliament: there is no visible boundary between the
Manchester and Salford types of M.P.: they have all bathed in Irwell.
Nor is there any visible boundary between the two styles of school
architecture: there, too, Manchester has set the fashion, and Salford,
_nimium vicina Cremonae_, has followed it; but Salford, being the
poor relation, is in a more deplorable state. Educationally, however,
Salford is now full of zeal. We got on very well together, and--so
far--I should have been glad to stay for another six months, in order
to weld together the inspecting machinery of the two towns. “There’s
aye something to saw that I would like to see sawn, or something to
maw that I would like to see mawn, or something to ripe that I would
like to see ripen,” said the same Andrew; but it could not be. My
hands were full. I yearned to empty them, and fold them, and write no
more reports with them. The prospect of another November in Manchester
was unendurable, and I determined to retire on October 1st, thus
incidentally relieving the country of the burden of maintaining me on
the active staff for the two months before my birthday. “What loss is
it to be rid of care?” said the deposed Richard II.
But the Board of Education, which would wrangle doggedly for three
weeks about a charge of sixpence in travelling expenses, is both
considerate and generous in greater matters. It was, they said,
convenient to them that changes should be made at the end of the summer
holidays, and if I liked to go at the end of September, they would give
me “leave of absence” with full pay for the remaining two months. I
gratefully accepted this really handsome offer: bought a new bicycle
with the latest improvements to carry my tottering limbs, and went off
to the Isle of Man to prove it.
On my previous visits to the island I had relied on trains and
carriages, and had found some parts difficult of access. With a bicycle
exploration is easy. There are rudimentary railways, which put one down
at convenient spots, and thence there are good roads to nearly all the
schools. It is advisable to make the journey agree with the wind, if
possible, for the breeze is often fresh; but, with so much caution,
there is unbounded delight. Two journeys stand out in my memory: one in
the wild flat country to the north of the island, from sea to sea, and
finally over T. E. Brown’s Ballaugh Curragh: the other from Peel over
the shoulder of I forget what hill, and then with free running wheel
for miles down a smooth road to Port Erin. It was June, and I was only
sixty-four.
Here let me record an event which certainly does not belong to the
island, but may be conveniently hidden away here. I had been cycling,
and inspecting, and cycling again all day, and I was weary as I got
nearer home. There was a long stretch of smooth footpath, and no one
in sight: the prospect of relief from “the ’ammer, ’ammer of the ’ard
’igh road” tempted me, and I strayed from the macadamised road of
virtue to the cinder path of illegality. Suddenly a policeman shot out
from a side lane and blocked my path. He demanded my name, and wanted
to know whether the high road was not a good high road. I praised his
high road fulsomely, but I went on to point out that I had been out
all day, riding twenty miles _on H.M. Service_, and that I was wearied
in doing good works. And I put it to him whether he did not think that
members of the Civil Service, _like himself and me_, were entitled
to some little indulgence. He was much moved, but not more than an
official should be moved. He could not admit the justice of my plea,
but he would “name it to the sergeant.” I heard no more of it, and I
asked no questions.
Those were delightful days, those last days on the island. There was
heavy work; for besides the Manx schools, each of which wanted a
report, there were six active sub-inspectors visiting and reporting on
Lancashire schools, and there were boats from Liverpool weighed down to
the Plimsoll mark with school portfolios from Manchester and Salford
in particular, and the Palatinate in general, requiring “remarks,” and
“suggestions,” and “reports.” But one learns to think without “taking
thought.” All day long there was the charm of the island, and in the
evenings, by great good fortune, I had the companionship of an old
colleague, who was engaged in educational work for the Manx Council.
I grieved to leave thee, O Ellan Vannin![53] May the herring and the
mackerel return to thy shores! May the trippers abound and behave
decently!
And I was grieved to return to Manchester; but it was not for long.
Late in July I finished the work there, and retired to North Wales,
“on the way” to the Continent; and there, with a foreground of school
portfolios and a background of mountains, I worked in peace.
Suddenly a new prospect was opened before me, dimming the sight of
portfolios and mountains. There came two urgent letters, announcing
a vacancy on the Chester Town Council,[54] and urging me to be a
candidate! If I would accept I should be unopposed; and I should
be put on the Education Committee, where I might give the city the
benefit of that experience which, &c., &c. I laughed, and telegraphed
back--“Impossible; contrary to rules of Civil Service.”
That seemed to me to be conclusive. It merely produced an embassage
of two, who begged me to reconsider. Finally I agreed to write to the
Office for instructions. To my surprise there came a letter stating
that I might stand, if I would before the contest hand over the mantle
to my already nominated successor. In that case they would give me so
much extra leave. This was more than generous, and it took away my last
dilatory plea. I accepted the Chester invitation, and proffered the
mantle with apologies to my successor. Then I proceeded to do all the
electioneering things that I had read of other people doing in like
circumstances. I had an indefatigable Committee. I issued an address;
some one placarded the walls of Chester with my name. A hostile
candidate appeared; there was canvassing, in which I took a lamentably
ineffective part; there was mural literature. At the critical moment,
nay twice, on the day before the polling-day and on the fateful day
itself, I had to go into Lancashire on an official enquiry. But by the
afternoon post of the latter day I sent to Whitehall the announcement
that I had handed over the seals of office, and I went to the poll a
free man.
All day long the noise of battle rolled, and in the evening there was
quite a thrill of excitement in the street. My excellent and friendly
opponent and I sat on a low wall outside the polling station, and
shook hands with our supporters as they filed by. I thought he was the
favourite, but the ballot is as deceitful as the heart of man. At eight
o’clock the poll was closed, and we adjourned to the Town Hall that
the votes might be counted. It was a slow process, and I filled up the
time by writing a report of the Lancashire enquiry, that was my last
official act.
The poll was declared about 9, and to the surprise of my supporters I
was elected by a handsome majority. I was a Town Councillor!
“Quod optanti divum promittere nemo
Auderet, volvenda dies en attulit ultro,”[55]
said a pedantic friend next day.
After uproarious rejoicings, I walked home, and in the narrow street
that leads the traveller eastward from out the ancient city I found my
best supporters. They were all under the age of 15, and they seemed to
have been waiting for me. In the dim light, I came all unsuspecting
upon them expectant. “Three cheers for Mr. Kensley: Oorĩ, Oorĩ,” and I
was in the midst of an innumerable multitude. Every child in the parish
was there, and crowded round me. It was a personal victory for _them_:
_their_ inspector had been elected, and to _them_ was the glory. Brawny
mothers brought out babies in arms, and brandished them: “You examined
me, Mr. Kensley: eh, I am glad.” The crowd yelled on F sharp, and the
drums of my ears vibrated like telegraph wires in I know not what
condition of the atmosphere. “Oorĩ, Oorĩ.” They surged round
me up the narrow lane, and in at my gate, and up my modest drive, and
on the doorstep, as I sought for the latchkey. It wanted little that
they should enter like Bishop Hatto’s rats:
“And in at the windows, and in at the door,
And through the walls helter-skelter they pour;
And down from the ceiling, and up through the floor,
From the right, and the left, from behind and before--”
But they paused, and I escaped the Bishop’s doom.
Good-night, children; good-night, and good-bye.
FOOTNOTES:
[52] This was written in 1907.
[53] This is not a lady’s name, but a synonym for the Isle of Man
(Mannin).
[54] Not wishing to be biographical, I omitted to mention that I kept
on my house at Chester while in charge of Manchester.
[55] “That, which no god dared promise to thy prayer, The wheel of time
brings of its own accord.”
THE END
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Transcriber’s Notes
A few minor errors in punctuation have been corrected.
Page 83: “little by virture” changed to “little by virtue”
Page 197: “exist anny way” changed to “exist any way”