The Mayor of Troy | Page 2

an oar,
as a symbol of jurisdiction over our river from its mouth (forsooth) so
far inland as a pair of oxen yoked together can be driven in its bed.
He has, in fact, no such jurisdiction. Above bridge he may, an it please
him, drive his oxen up the riverbed, and welcome. I leave him to the
anglers he will discommodate by it. But his jurisdiction below bridge
was very properly taken from him by order of our late Queen (whose
memory be blessed!) in Council, and vested in the Troy Harbour
Commission. Now I am Chairman of that Commission, and yet the
fellow declines to yield up his silver oar! We in Troy feel strongly
about it. It is not for nothing (we hold) that when he or his burgesses
come down the river for a day's fishing the weather invariably turns
dirty. We mislike them even worse than a German band--which brings
us no worse, as a rule, than a spell of east wind.
Nevertheless, the Mayor of Lestiddle is a jolly good fellow, and I am
glad that his townsmen (such as they are) have re-elected him. One day
this last summer he came down to fish for mackerel at the harbour's
mouth, which can be done at anchor since our sardine factory has taken
to infringing the by-laws and discharging its offal on the wrong side of
the prescribed limit. (We Harbour Commissioners have set our faces
against this practice, but meanwhile it attracts the fish.) It was raining,
of course. Rowing close up to me, the Mayor of Lestiddle asked--for
we observe the ordinary courtesies-- what bait I was using. I answered,
fresh pilchard bait; and offered him some, delicately forbearing to
return the question, since it is an article of faith with us that the
burgesses of Lestiddle bait with earthworms which they dig out of their
back gardens. Well, he accepted my pilchard bait, and pulled up two
score of mackerel within as many minutes, which doubtless gave him

something to boast about on his return.
He was not ungrateful. Next week I received from him a parcel of MS.
with a letter saying that he had come across it, "a fly in amber," in
turning over a pile of old Stannary records. How it had found its way
among them he could not guess.
A fly in amber, quotha! A jewel in a midden, rather! How it came
among his trumpery archives I know as little as he, but can guess.
Some Lestiddle man must have stolen it, and chosen them as a safe
hiding-place.
It gave me the clue, and more than the clue. I know now the history of
that Mayor of Troy who was so popular that the town made him
Ex-Mayor the year following.
Listen! Stretch out both hands; open your mouth and shut your eyes! It
is a draught of Troy's own vintage that I offer you; racy, fragrant of the
soil, from a cask these hundred years sunk, so that it carries a smack,
too, of the submerging brine. You know the old recipe for Wine of Cos,
that full-bodied, seignorial, superlative, translunary wine.
Yet I know not how to begin.
"Fortunam Priami cantabo et nobile bellum."
"I will sing you Troy and its Mayor and a war of high renown," that is
how I want to begin; but Horace in his Ars Poetica--confound
him!--has chosen this very example as a model to avoid, and the critics
would be down on me in a pack.
Very well, then, let us try a more reputable way.
CHAPTER I.
OUR MAJOR.
Arms and the Man I sing!

When, on the 16th of May, 1803, King George III. told his faithful
subjects that the Treaty of Amiens was no better than waste paper, Troy
neither felt nor affected to feel surprise. King, Consul, Emperor--it
knew these French rulers of old, under whatever title they might
disguise themselves. More than four centuries ago an English King had
sent his pursuivants down to us with a message that "the Gallants of
Troy must abstain from attacking, plundering, and sinking the ships of
our brother of France, because we, Edward of England, are at peace
with our brother of France": and the Gallants of Troy had returned an
answer at once humble and firm: "Your Majesty best knows your
Majesty's business, but we are at war with your brother of France." Yes,
we knew these Frenchmen. Once before, in 1456, they had thought to
surprise us, choosing a night when our Squire was away at market, and
landing a force to burn and sack us: and our Squire's wife had met them
with boiling lead. His Majesty's Ministers might be taken at unawares,
not we. We slept Bristol fashion, with one eye open.