naturally he was visited there by his grandson, who would
return well primed with political anecdote to our rustic circle, and was
deemed by me more of an authority than ever. Once or twice, too, I had
the honour of being a visitor, and heard Mr. Medley, a fine old
gentleman, who lived to a very advanced age, talk of art and artists and
other matters quite out of my usual sphere. It is not surprising, then,
that the grandson became in time quite an artist himself, though he is
better known to the world, not so much in that capacity, but as Sir Henry
Thompson, certainly not the least distinguished surgeon of our day. In
Lord Beaconsfield's last novel, 'Endymion,' we have a passing reference
to one Wrentham lad, Sir Charles Wetherell, as 'the eccentric and too
uncompromising Wetherell.' Assuredly the fame of another lad, Sir Henry
Thompson, connected with Wrentham, will longer live.

This reference to Sir Henry Thompson reminds me of his early attempts at
rhyme, which I trust he will forgive me for rescuing from oblivion. Once
upon a time we captured a young cuckoo, and having carefully gorged it
with bread-and-milk, and left it in a nest in an outhouse, which we
devoted mainly to rabbits, the next morning the poor bird was found to be
dead. A prize was offered for the best couplet. Three of us contended.
My sister wrote:

'This lonely sepulchre contains
A little cuckoo's dead remains.'

I wrote:

'To our grief, cuckoo sweet
Is lying underneath our feet.'

Thompson took quite a different and, read by the light of his subsequent
career, a far more characteristic view of the case. He took care, as a
medical man, to dwell on the cause which had terminated the career of so
interesting a bird. According to him,

'It had a breast as soft as silk,
And died of eating bread-and-milk.'

Assuredly in this case the child was father to the man.

But the great awakening of the time, that which made the dry bones live,
and fluttered the dove-cotes of Toryism--we never heard the word
Conservative then--was the General Election. At that time we were always
having General Elections. We had one, of course, when George IV. died
and King William reigned in his stead; we had another when the Duke was
out and the Whigs came in; and then we had another when the cry ran
through the land, and reached even the most remote villages of East
Anglia, of 'The Bill, the whole Bill, and nothing but the Bill!'