Another specimen of agricultural intelligence is this:  A labourer in my field one day said to me, “Master, please to tell me where Jerusalem is, because me and my mates have been disputing about it, and I says as its in Ireland, because the Romans goes there!” He meant the Roman Catholics! and he might have heard also that St. John’s Pat-mos was in fact an Irish bog, Pat’s-moss:  many of our legislative constituency being found to believe that.

But not only is the common labourer thus dense:  take these two instances of country guests at my table.  One whom I had asked to meet two Americans told me of his disappointment at not finding them—­red men!  And another (this time a provincial parson) wanted me to expostulate with my friend Hatchard (afterwards Bishop of Mauritius) because he meditated in his philanthropy giving a drinking fountain to Guildford.  “Only think, a drinking fountain! surely you cannot approve?” The poor man supposed it was one of those pumping apparatuses for spirits presided over by barmaids!  It is manifest that the schoolmaster was not so much abroad a few years ago as he has been since board schools have arisen.

Amongst other specialities of ancient Albury House, which has 1561 on a weathercock and 1701 on a kitchen wing, is the same peculiarity which Tennyson told me at Farringford vexes him in his own less ancient dwelling,—­and which Pindar of old declared to be the privilege of poets.  We are, and have been for generations, a very house-hive of bees:  the whole front of two gables has them under its oak floors and panelled walls throughout,—­and when guests sleep in certain rooms they have to be forewarned that the groans at midnight are not those of perturbed spirits, but the hum and bustle of multitudinous bees.  We cannot drive them away, nor destroy them utterly,—­as often has been attempted; and if we did, the worry would be only worsened, as in that case hornets would come and succeed to the sweet heritage of bee-dom.  When the stuccoed front of our house was demolished, to show the oaken pattern (but it had to be re-roughcast to keep out the weather), there were pailsful of honey carried off by the labourers, of course not without wounds and strife:  but in ordinary times it is a strange fact that our bees never sting their hosts; be careful only to remain quiet, and there is no war between man and bee.  Two years ago a great comb was built outside an eaveboard, probably because there was no room for more comb inside.  It is curious that it should have survived two hard winters.  Is not all this apposite, as suited (let Pindar and Tennyson bear witness) to a poet’s home?