It happened that both Mr. Hutton and Mr. Townsend had great belief
in the literary judgment of Canon Ainger, a man, it is to be feared, now
almost forgotten, but whose opinion was looked upon in the 'eighties and
'nineties with something approaching reverence.
In 1886--my "Spectator" year, as I may call it--when I was acting as
election-agent to Mr. Henry Hobhouse, I happened to be searching in the
old library at Hadspen House for something to read, something with which
to occupy the time of waiting between the issue of the writ and
nomination-day. If there was to be no opposition it did not seem worth
while to get too busy over the electorate. We remained, therefore, in a
kind of enchanter's circle until nomination-day was over. It was a time
in which everybody whispered mysteriously that a very strong candidate,
name unknown, would suddenly appear at Yeovil, Langport, or Chard--I
forget which of these pleasant little towns was the place of nomination
--and imperil our chances. As was natural to me then, and, I must
confess, would be natural to me now, my search for a book took me
straight to that part of the library in which the poets congregated. My
eye wandered over the shelves, and lighted upon _Poems in the
Dorsetshire Dialect_ by the Rev.
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