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A Good Word For The Vicar of Bray


Some years ago a friend took me to the little Berkshire church of which
the celebrated Vicar of Bray was once the incumbent. (Actually it is a
few miles from Bray, but perhaps at that time the two livings were one.)
In the churchyard there stands a magnificent yew tree which, according to
a notice at its foot, was planted by no less a person than the Vicar of
Bray himself. And it struck me at the time as curious that such a man
should have left such a relic behind him.

The Vicar of Bray, though he was well equipped to be a leader-writer on
THE TIMES, could hardly be described as an admirable character. Yet,
after this lapse of time, all that is left of him is a comic song and a
beautiful tree, which has rested the eyes of generation after generation
and must surely have outweighed any bad effects which he produced by his
political quislingism.

Thibaw, the last King of Burma, was also far from being a good man. He
was a drunkard, he had five hundred wives--he seems to have kept them
chiefly for show, however--and when he came to the throne his first act
was to decapitate seventy or eighty of his brothers. Yet he did posterity
a good turn by planting the dusty streets of Mandalay with tamarind trees
which cast a pleasant shade until the Japanese incendiary bombs burned
them down in 1942.

The poet, James Shirley, seems to have generalised too freely when he
said that "Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in their
dust". Sometimes the actions of the unjust make quite a good showing
after the appropriate lapse of time. When I saw the Vicar of Bray's yew
tree it reminded me of something, and afterwards I got hold of a book of
selections from the writings of John Aubrey and reread a pastoral poem
which must have been written some time in the first half of the
seventeenth century, and which was inspired by a certain Mrs Overall.

Mrs Overall was the wife of a Dean and was extensively unfaithful to him.
According to Aubrey she "could scarcely denie any one", and she had "the
loveliest Eies that were ever seen, but wondrous wanton". The poem (the
"shepherd swaine" seems to have been somebody called Sir John Selby)
starts off:

Downe lay the Shepherd Swaine
So sober and demure
Wishing for his wench againe
So bonny and so pure
With his head on hillock lowe
And his arms akimboe
And all was for the losse of his
Hye nonny nonny noe. . . .
Sweet she was, as kind a love
As ever fetter'd Swaine;
Never such a daynty one
Shall man enjoy again.
Sett a thousand on a rowe
I forbid that any showe
Ever the like of her
Hye nonny nonny noe.

As the poem proceeds through another six verses, the refrain "Hye nonny
nonny noe" takes on an unmistakably obscene meaning, but it ends with the
exquisite stanza:

But gone she is the prettiest lasse
That ever trod on plaine.
What ever hath betide of her
Blame not the Shepherd Swaine.
For why? She was her owne Foe,
And gave herself the overthrowe
By being so franke of her
Hye nonny nonny noe.

Mrs Overall was no more an exemplary character than the Vicar of Bray,
though a more attractive one. Yet in the end all that remains of her is a
poem which still gives pleasure to many people, though for some reason it
never gets into the anthologies. The suffering which she presumably
caused, and the misery and futility in which her own life must have
ended, have been transformed into a sort of lingering fragrance like the
smell of tobacco-plants on a summer evening.

But to come back to trees. The planting of a tree, especially one of the
long-living hardwood trees, is a gift which you can make to posterity at
almost no cost and with almost no trouble, and if the tree takes root it
will far outlive the visible effect of any of your other actions, good or
evil. A year or two ago I wrote a few paragraphs in TRIBUNE about some
sixpenny rambler roses from Woolworth's which I had planted before the
war. This brought me an indignant letter from a reader who said that
roses are bourgeois, but I still think that my sixpence was better spent
than if it had gone on cigarettes or even on one of the excellent Fabian
Research Pamphlets.

Recently, I spent a day at the cottage where I used to live, and noted
with a pleased surprise--to be exact, it was a feeling of having done good
unconsciously--the progress of the things I had planted nearly ten years
ago. I think it is worth recording what some of them cost, just to show
what you can do with a few shillings if you invest them in something that

First of all there were the two ramblers from Woolworth's, and three
polyantha roses, all at sixpence each. Then there were two bush roses
which were part of a job lot from a nursery garden. This job lot
consisted of six fruit trees, three rose bushes and two gooseberry
bushes, all for ten shillings. One of the fruit trees and one of the rose
bushes died, but the rest are all flourishing. The sum total is five
fruit trees, seven roses and two gooseberry bushes, all for twelve and
sixpence. These plants have not entailed much work, and have had nothing
spent on them beyond the original amount. They never even received any
manure, except what I occasionally collected in a bucket when one of the
farm horses happened to have halted outside the gate.

Between them, in nine years, those seven rose bushes will have given what
would add up to a hundred or a hundred and fifty months of bloom. The
fruit trees, which were mere saplings when I put them in, are now just
about getting in their stride. Last week one them, a plum, was a mass of
blossom, and the apples looked as if they were going to do fairly well.
What had originally been the weakling of the family, a Cox's Orange
Pippin--it would hardly have been included in the job lot if it had been a
good plant--had grown into a sturdy tree with plenty of fruit spurs on it.
I maintain that it was a public-spirited action to plant that Cox, for
these trees do not fruit quickly and I did not expect to stay there long.
I never had an apple off it myself, but it looks as if someone else will
have quite a lot. By their fruits ye shall know them, and the Cox's
Orange Pippin is a good fruit to be known by. Yet I did not plant it with
the conscious intention of doing anybody a good turn. I just saw the job
lot going cheap and stuck the things into the ground without much

A thing which I regret, and which I will try to remedy some time, is that
I have never in my life planted a walnut. Nobody does plant them
nowadays--when you see a walnut it is almost invariably an old tree. If
you plant a walnut you are planting it for your grandchildren, and who
cares a damn for his grandchildren? Nor does anybody plant a quince, a
mulberry or a medlar. But these are garden trees which you can only be
expected to plant if you have a patch of ground of your own. On the other
hand, in any hedge or in any piece of waste ground you happen to be
walking through, you can do something to remedy the appalling massacre of
trees, especially oaks, ashes, elms and beeches, which has happened
during the war years.

Even an apple tree is liable to live for about 100 years, so that the Cox
I planted in 1936 may still be bearing fruit well into the twenty-first
century. An oak or a beech may live for hundreds of years and be a
pleasure to thousands or tens of thousands of people before it is finally
sawn up into timber. I am not suggesting that one can discharge all one's
obligations towards society by means of a private re-afforestation
scheme. Still, it might not be a bad idea, every time you commit an
antisocial act, to make a note of it in your diary, and then, at the
appropriate season, push an acorn into the ground.

And, if even one in twenty of them came to maturity, you might do quite a
lot of harm in your lifetime, and still, like the Vicar of Bray, end up
as a public benefactor after all.

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