The first Vicar was the Reverend Walter Francis Elgie, who had already been six years curate, and had won the love and honour of all his flock.

Deeply did they all mourn him when it was G.o.d's will to take him from them on the 25th of February, 1881, in the 43rd year of his age, after ten years of zealous work.

It was felt as remarkable that a young pupil teacher in consumption, whom he had sent to the Home at Bournemouth, was taken on the same day, and buried here the day after, and that the schoolmaster, Walter Fisher, a man of gentle and saintly nature, followed him six weeks after.

We left them in the Church's shade, Our standard-bearer true, And near at hand the gentle maid Who well his guidance knew.

He fainted in the noon of life, Nor knew his victory won; She was fresh girded for the strife, Her battle scarce begun.

Long had we known Death's angel hand The maiden's brow had seal'd; He fell, like chief of warrior band, Struck down on battle-field.

So in G.o.d's acre here they meet As they have met above, Tasting beneath their Saviour's feet The treasures of His love.

For what they learnt and taught of here Is present with them there; May we speed on in faith and fear, Then heavenly rest to share.

With the coming of our present Vicar, the Rev. H. W. Brock, our Otterbourne story ends, as the times are no longer _old times_. The water works for the supply of Southampton are our last novelty, by which such of us benefit, as either themselves or their landlords pay a small contribution. They have given us some red buildings at one end and on the Hill a queer little round tower containing the staircase leading to the underground reservoir, a wonderful construction of circles of brick pillars and arches, as those remember who visited it before the water was let in. And, verily, we may be thankful that our record has so few events in it, no terrible disasters, but that there has been peace and health and comfort, more than falls to the lot of many a parish. Truly we may thankfully say, "The lot is fallen unto me in a fair ground, yea, I have a goodly heritage."

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Old Remembrances.

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I remember, I remember, Old times at Otterbourne, Before the building of the Church, And when smock frocks were worn!

I remember, I remember, When railroads there were none, When by stage coach at early dawn The journey was begun.

And through the turnpike roads till eve Trotted the horses four, With inside pa.s.sengers and out They carried near a score.

"Red Rover" and the "Telegraph,"

We knew them all by name, And Mason's and the Oxford coach, Full thirty of them came.

The coachman wore his many capes, The guard his bugle blew; The horses were a gallant sight, Dashing upon our view.

I remember, I remember, The posting days of old; The yellow chariot lined with blue And lace of colour gold.

The post-boys' jackets blue or buff, The inns upon the road; The hills up which we used to walk To lighten thus the load.

The rattling up before the inn, The horses led away, The post-boy as he touched his hat And came to ask his pay.

The perch aloft upon the box, Delightful for the view; The turnpike gates whose keepers stood Demanding each his due.

I remember, I remember, When ships were beauteous things, The floating castles of the deep Borne upon snow-white wings;

Ere iron-clads and turret ships, Ugly as evil dream, Became the hideous progeny Of iron and of steam.

You crossed the Itchen ferry All in an open boat, Now, on a panting hissing bridge You scarcely seem afloat.

Southampton docks were sheets of mud, Grim colliers at the quay.

No tramway, and no slender pier To stretch into the sea.

I remember, I remember, Long years ere Rowland Hill, When letters covered quarto sheets Writ with a grey goose quill;

Both hard to fold and hard to read, Crossed to the scarlet seal; Hardest of all to pay for ere Their news they might reveal.

No stamp with royal head was there, But eightpence was the sum For every letter, all alike, That did from London come!

I remember, I remember, The mowing of the hay; Scythes sweeping through the heavy gra.s.s At breaking of the day.

The haymakers in merry ranks Tossing the swaths so sweet, The hayc.o.c.ks tanning olive-brown In glowing summer heat.

The reapers 'mid the ruddy wheat, The thumping of the flail, The winnowing within the barn By whirling round a sail.

Long ere the whirr, and buz, and rush Became a harvest sound, Or monsters trailed their tails of spikes, Or ploughed the fallow ground.

Our sparks flew from the flint and steel, No lucifers were known, Snuffers with tallow candles came To prune the wick o'ergrown.

Hands did the work of engines then, But now some new machine Must hatch the eggs, and sew the seams, And make the cakes, I ween.

I remember, I remember, The homely village school, The dame with spelling book and rod, The sceptre of her rule.

A black silk bonnet on her head, Buff kerchief on her neck, With spectacles upon her nose, And ap.r.o.n of blue check.

Ah, then were no inspection days, No standards then were known, Children could freely make dirt pies, And learning let alone!

Those Sundays I remember too, When Service there was one; For living in the parish then Of clergy there were none.

And oh, I can recall to mind, The Church and every pew; William and Mary's royal arms Hung up in fullest view.

The lion smiling, with his tongue Like a pug dog's hung out; The unicorn with twisted horn Brooding upon his rout.

Exalted in the gallery high The tuneful village choir, With flute, ba.s.soon, and clarionet, Their notes rose high and higher.

They shewed the number of the Psalm In white upon a slate, And many a time the last lines sung Of Brady and of Tate.

While far below upon the floor Along the narrow aisle, The children on then benches sat Arranged in single file

And there the clerk would stump along And strike with echoing blow Each idle guilty little head That chattered loud or low.

Ah! I remember many things, Old middle-aged, and new; Is the new better than the old, More bright, more wise, more true?

The old must ever pa.s.s away, The new must still come in; When these new things are old to you Be they unstained by sin.

So will their memory be sweet, A treasury of bliss To be borne with us in the days When we their presence miss.