I
The holidays were over.The Coles were once more back in Polchester,and the most exciting period of Jeremy's life had begun.So at any rate he felt it.It might be that in later years there would be new exciting events,lion-hunting,for instance,or a war,or the tracking of niggers in the heart of Africa--he would be ready for them when they came--but these last weeks before his first departure for school offered him the prospect of the first real independence of his life.There could never be anything quite like that again.
Nevertheless,school seemed still a long way distant.It was only his manliness that he was realising and a certain impatience and restlessness that underlay everything that he did.
September and October are often very lovely months in Polchester;autumn seems to come there with a greater warmth and richness than it does elsewhere.Along all the reaches of the Pol,right down to the sea,the leaves of the woods hung with a riotous magnificence that is glorious in its recklessness.The waters of that silent river are so still,so glassy,that the banks of gold and flaming red are reflected in all their richest colour down into the very heart of the stream,and it is only when a fish jumps or a twig falls from the overhanging trees that the mirror is broken and the colours flash into ripples and shadows of white and grey.The utter silence of all this world makes the Cathedral town sleepy,sluggish,forgotten of all men.As the autumn comes it seems to drowse away into winter to the tune of its Cathedral bells,to the scent of its burning leaves and the soft steps of its Canons and clergy.There is every autumn here a clerical conference,and long before the appointed week begins,and long after it is lawfully concluded,clergymen,strange clergymen with soft black hats,take the town for their own,gaze into Martin the pastry-cook's,sit in the dusk of the Cathedral listening to the organ;walk,their heads in air,their arms folded behind their backs,straight up Orange Street as though they were scaling Heaven itself;stop little children,pat their heads,and give them pennies;stand outside Poole's bookshop and delve in the 2d.box for thumb-marked sermons;stand gazing in learned fashion at the great West Door,investigating the saints and apostles portrayed thereon;hurry in their best hats and coats along the Close to some ladies'tea-party,or pass with solemn and anxious mien into the palace of the Bishop himself.
All these things belong to autumn in Polchester,as Jeremy very well knew,but the event that marks the true beginning of the season,the only way by which you may surely know that summer is over and autumn is come is Pauper's Fair.
This famous fair has been,from time immemorial,a noted event in Glebeshire life.Even now,when fairs have yielded to cinematographs as attractions for the people,Pauper's Fair gives its annual excitement.Thirty years ago it was the greatest event of the year in Polchester.All our fine people,of course,disliked it extremely.It disturbed the town for days,the town rocked in the arms of crowds of drunken sailors,the town gave shelter to gipsies and rogues and scoundrels,the town,the decent,amiable,happy town actually for a week or so seemed to invite the world of the blazing fire and the dancing clown.No wonder that our fine people shuddered.Only the other day--I speak now of these modern times--the Bishop tried to stop the whole business.He wrote to the Glebeshire Morning News,urging that Pauper's Fair,in these days of enlightenment and culture,cannot but be regretted by all those who have the healthy progress of our dear country at heart.Well,you would be amazed at the storm that his protest raised.People wrote from all over the County,and there were ultimately letters from patriotic Glebeshire citizens in New Zealand and South Africa.And in Polchester itself!Everyone--even those who had shuddered most at the fair's iniquities--was indignant.Give up the fair!One of the few signs left of that jolly Old England whose sentiment is cherished by us,whose fragments nevertheless we so readily stamp upon.No,the fair must remain and will remain,I have no doubt,until the very end of our national chapter.
Nowadays it has shed,very largely,I am afraid,the character that it gloriously maintained thirty years ago.Then it was really an invasion by the seafaring element of the County.All the little country ports and harbours poured out their fishermen and sailors,who came walking,driving,singing,laughing,swearing;they filled the streets,and went peering,like the wildest of ancient Picts,into the mysterious beauties of the Cathedral,and late at night,when the town should have slept,arm in arm they went roaring past the dark windows,singing their songs,stamping their feet,and every once and again ringing a decent door-bell for their amusement.
It was very seldom that any harm was done.Once a serious fire broke out amongst the old wooden houses down on the river,and some of them were burnt to the ground,a fate that no one deplored;once a sailor was murdered in a drunken squabble at "The Dog and Pilchard,"the wildest of the riverside hostelries;and once a Canon was caught and stripped and ducked in the waters of the Pol by a mob who resented his gentle appeals that they should try to prefer lemonade to gin;but these were the only three catastrophes in all the history of the fair.
During the fair week the town sniffed of the sea--of lobster and seaweed and tar and brine--and all the tales of the sea that have ever been told by man were told during these days in Polchester.