ivered me up to the police without scruple, and have chuckled
over their sagacity.

The thing was amusing enough, and yet it had a certain serious
significance. It was a striking illustration of the way in which the
growth of cities had perverted even the rural mind. I had thoughts of
writing an article on _The Reluctant Villagers_, and a very good
article I could have made of it; for I found hardly any one who was a
villager by choice. A village might appear fair as Paradise to the
casual eye; but closer inspection always revealed the serpent of
discontent among the flowers. Where every outward object breathed of
rest, there was universal restlessness among the people. The common
ambition of all the younger generation was to get to London by almost
any means, and in almost any capacity. There was not a household that
had not children or relatives in London. The young ploughman went to
London as a carter or ostler; the milkmaid as a servant. The village
carpenter was invariably a middle-aged or an old man, secretly despised
by his apprentice, if he had one, for his contentment with his lot.
One saw very few young people in the village street, except mere
children. The universal complaint was that life was dull. There were
no libraries or reading-rooms; no concerts or entertainments; even the
innocuous penny-reading had died out. Nor were there cricket clubs, or
any organised system of sport, except in isolated cases. Here and
there a modern-minded clergyman had recognised the need of recreation
in his parishioners, and had done something to provide for it; but he
was an exception. Hence it happened that the public-house was the
common centre of the village life: it was the poor man's club, and it
was used less for purposes of social intercourse than for the
discussing of racing odds.

Artists have often painted village politicians in earnest confabulation
in an oak-pannelled inn-parlour. I can only say that, so far as my
experience went, I found the village politician quite extinct. The
sort of talk I heard in village bar-rooms was inane and contemptible to
the last degree, and it never once touched on politics. Nor, as a
rule, was there any trace of that leaven of superior intelligence which
comes from a fusion of the classes. All the landlords were practically
non-resident. They knew nothing of their tenants; and that pleasant
intercourse between hall and cottage which poets and novelists depict,
r