William George Glanfield, 1855-1935
William Glanfield was born at the School House, Sandgate on 29th March 1855, and baptised at St Paul’s, Sandgate, on 30th May. His father – also William – was head master at the National School in Sandgate from 1854 to 1884, and this was the school which young William attended. When he left school he was apprenticed to a Folkestone printer, and then worked for a printing company in London. On returning to Folkestone, he joined the staff of the Folkestone Chronicle, subsequently absorbed by the Folkestone Herald (there were four rival newspapers in the town at that time). His association with the Folkestone Herald began in November 1891, about six months after the birth of that newspaper. His obituary in the Folkestone, Hythe, Sandgate & Cheriton Herald, 2nd February 1935, recorded that
In the first special article that he penned for the paper to which he was to devote his life during the next 44 years, there was a touch of romance and drama. It was a graphic account of the wreck of the “Benvenue,” a ship which was wrecked at Sandgate on November 11th, 1891, in a terrific gale. It was this story of the terrible peril of the crew of the wrecked vessel and the gallant attempts at rescue that “Felix” submitted to the then very young “Folkestone Herald.” It was accepted, and in the issue of the paper that week appeared a picture of the rescued crew. “Felix” had taken the precious negative to London and returned to Folkestone with the process block from which the first picture of the kind was printed in a local newspaper. […]
It was a memorable beginning to a great career In which his powers as a descriptive writer were so often brilliantly used.
Under the non-de-plume ‘Felix’, Glanfield was most closely associated with the “About the neighbourhood” columns which appeared in the paper. In these he wrote about local events he had attended, and about characters he had met, and the sights he had seen, on his lengthy walks around the countryside. The events sometimes included harvest homes and hunt suppers, where singing might take place, while the local characters he wrote about were sometimes identified as singers. These included Charley Appleton, James Rye, George Mount, and Tom Catt. He did not himself collect any folk songs; indeed when he reproduced the words of ‘We are all Jolly Fellows that Follow the Plough’ in his column, these had been written out and sent to him by Charley Appleton.
Glanfield himself was a singer, for 19 years a member of the choir of Holy Trinity, Folkestone, with whom he took the role of bass soloist: “He had a voice of quality, and could sing some of the best-loved of the older songs with tremendous feeling”.1 The phrase “older songs” here almost certainly does not refer to traditional folk songs, but is probably reflective of his distaste for more modern musical styles (see the article quoted below, headed ‘The Folkestone Harbour Marine Staff’). His writings about singing events, certainly towards the end of his life, are decidedly nostalgic, but consistently applaud and promote the virtues of “community singing”. For example, writing in 1934 about the singing of ‘The Farmer’s Boy’ at an annual dinner of the Shorncliffe Drag Hunt some forty years earlier, he concludes
Singing! Rough and ready it might have been, but what a treat to hear those yeomen “go it.” 2
William Glanfield was knocked down by a motor car in November 1934 and, after having spent some time in hospital, he died at his home, 6 Russell Road, Folkestone, on 29th January 1935, at the age of 79.
Extracts from Glanfield’s writing
HARVEST HOME AT NEWINGTON.
FARM HANDS ENJOY A SUBSTANTIAL DINNER.
A CELEBRATED BRAND OF BEEF PUDDINGS.
“THE EMPEROR OF NEWINGTON, “KING OF CHERITON,” AND “SHAH OF FOLKESTONE.”
A RATTLING GOOD EVENING.
(By Felix.).
We are just now in the thick of harvest celebrations, both religious and secular. I have no doubt that nearly all the company I had the pleasure of meeting on Wednesday evening at the “Star,” Newington, had been at least reminded of the spiritual lessons of the ingathering of the crops, and thus, in a measure, they had been prepared for the festivity, which, so far as Cheriton and Newington are concerned, marks an annual red-letter day in the lives of those who “plough the fields and scatter the good seed on the land.” This harvest home, unique in its way, is given to the men in their employ by Mr. Quested, of “The Firs,” Cheriton, and Mr. F. Graves, of “Pound Farm,” Newington. For six months in the year the past Celebration is a pleasant memory, and during the other half of the twelve months, the coming festivity provides the pleasures of anticipation. Five years have slipped past since I was enabled to accept the hospitality of the founders of this particular feast.
OPPORTUNITY, HOWEVER, OFFERED ITSELF
on this occasion. Accordingly I found myself at the celebrated hostelry referred to on the evening in question. Here I had the pleasure of meeting Alderman Banks, a number of invited guests, and about fifty sons of toil. The dining room was a picture and a reminder of the special nature of the celebration. From the ceiling were suspended huge specimens of gourds, mangold wurtzels, marrows, cow cabbage, cauliflower, turnips, etc., whilst autumnal flowers added yet another touch of colour and brightness to the scene, which was lighted by means of oil lamps and candles. When the senior Alderman of Folkestone, surrounded by several old and young friends, sank into his comfortable arm-chair, he received a right down hearty welcome from the assembled company. Dressed all in their Sunday best, each wearing a flower or wisp of corn in their coats, these workers, with their ruddy, shining faces, presented a typical picture of the English agricultural labourer. The clear air of Wednesday last will be remembered for its exhilarating qualities, and this, coupled with the healthful calling of the men, will readily account for the fact that appetites were in perfect condition. No supper at the “Star” would be complete without a supply of Mrs. Maycock’s special brand of Newington beef puddings.
THESE DELICACIES ARE FAMED THE COUNTRY ROUND,
and the farm hands swear by them. Offer these sons of toil clear or thick ox-tail soup, turbot, and shrimp sauce, or salmon and cucumber, and their faces would probably wear a look of disgust or wonderment, , but substitute beef pudding for these, and then they will understand matters, adding, perhaps, by way of comment: “Ah! That’s the tackle, There’s summut there to lay hold on.” Therefore, when the stalwart sons of Mr. Maycock entered the room, each bearing on a dish a mammoth and steaming beef pudding, knives and forks were seized almost involuntarily. Mr. “Freddy” Graves and Mr. Councillor Quested,
EACH ARMED WITH A CARVER,
proceeded to cut the light crust of the puddings, and as the water gushed out of the rock at the touch of Moses, so did the delicious gravy at the hands of the gentlemen mentioned. Thereafter the puddings (during the short time they remained) were as islands of beef and crust, surrounded by rich gravy. Mashed turnips, floury potatoes, and tender cabbage, also contributed to the first course, which a neighbouring ploughman remarked, was very well by way of foundation. Puddings are generally supposed to be satisfying. One helping is generally thought to be amply sufficient to meet the requirements of an average townsman, but with the “man on the land,” it is a mere “paving of the way.” Thus it was that when rounds of roast beef and boiled legs of mutton made their appearance, only to disappear, that somewhat Nelsonian command
was strictly obeyed : “Newington expects that every man, this night, will do his duty.” Just by way of settling these substantial courses, “Christmas” puddings were then discussed with astounding vigour. Now
EMPTY PLATES AND SATISFIED EXPRESSIONS
told their own eloquent tale. Mr. Evans, the ever genial manager of the Royal Pavilion Hotel, graced the company with his presence, and I doubt, with all his experience of banquets, and their tempting menus, if he ever gazed upon a company that did better justice to a spread than did the guests over at Newington. The Alderman having “returned thanks,” tables were cleared, “Churchwarden” pipes, “jugs of beer,” and beverages from the Emerald Isle and North of the Tweed, were now much in evidence. “Minerals” also there were in plenty for those who needed them. The Chairman, in spite of the 76 years that weigh lightly upon him, was in his best form—full of “go,” racy, and witty. In glowing Ianguage he proposed the health of “The Queen,” and in doing so he expressed his opinion that in 50 years’ time the English language would be almost universal. The toast was accorded the usual loyal honours, Mr. Percy Greenstreet presiding at the piano. Thereafter
SPEECH AND SONG ALTERNATED.
Dick Mount, a farm hand of some seventy summers, in a twenty-verse song, told the story of a bashful swain and an innocent country lass, whilst another follower of the plough related in a ditty the doings of a certain little tailor of Dover3, much to the amusement of the company. Other successful vocal efforts were also duly enjoyed, and notable amongst these were the contributions of the ill-used Folkestone minstrels. A few toasts were proposed. One ancient countryman, in lieu of a song, was heard to express himself to the following effect :-
“Here’s to mountains of beef
And rivers of beer,
A good-temper’d wife,
And a thousand a year.”
Perhaps the first three he has realised, but whether the thousand will ever come to him time alone will prove. Let us hope so, but perhaps, after all, he is just as happy without it.
ALDERMAN BANKS,
in a humorous speech, proposed “The Founders of the feast,” Messrs. Quested and Graves. The former gentleman is generally known as Chairman of the Cheriton Urban District Council, but the Alderman has conferred upon him the title of the King of Cheriton, whilst the owner of Pound Farm is henceforward to be known as the “Emperor of Newington.” Thus the senior Alderman orders it. The Chairman then proceeded to give a learned dissertation on matters generally appertaining to agriculture, and, in the course of his remarks, proceeded to tell the labourers that they were better off than their masters, that was, “If they could only see it.” He had known both Mr. Quested and Mr. Graves for several years, and from what he knew of them both, he had no hesitation in describing them as “jolly good fellows.” The company, now warming up to the occasion, appeared to agree with this latter opinion, for the men burst out in loud applause. The “The Emperor of Newington” replied and acknowledged, in grateful terms,
THE GAME OLD ALDERMAN’S
remarks, expressing a hope they would be able to welcome him on many similar occasions. “The King of Cheriton,” not to be outdone in courtesy, expressed the pleasure it gave him to listen to Alderman Banks’ remarks, and before sitting down he felt he was only interpreting the wishes of all when he conferred upon the Alderman a fresh title. A few days since, at a meeting at the Town Hall, Sir Ed. Sassoon had described the chairman as The “Grand Old Man of Folkestone,” but he (Mr. Quested) would go a step further in exchange for the honours accorded both himself and his colleague by conferring upon the Alderman the title of “The Shah of Folkestone.” Amidst loud laughter the speaker concluded by proposing the Chairman’s health. “The Shah,” in acknowledging the honour, said although he did not possess so many wives as the eastern potentate, he was very well satisfied with one. He could assure them all he was proud of his new title, and would do his best to be worthv of his exalted position. The speaker concluded a characteristic racy speech by declaring that although at his advanced age he could not expect to be present at many more such gatherings, yet he hoped they would meet for many years in a similar manner, for it was well that men and masters should gather round the festive board. The hour’s extension (11 o’clock) having been reached, the company separated, the farm hands to dream of beef pudding; the royalty” and other guests of a more pleasant diversion from the ordinary trammels of daily existence. 4
“We’ll all go a hunting to-day,” etc.
A few nights since I found myself sitting at the festive board of the Hythe Gardeners’ Society, the occasion being the annual dinner, now revived after the upset of the Great War. Thus old England is gradually reverting back to its good old institutions. Sweep away nearly all the provisions of D.O.R.A. [Defence of the Realm Act, 1914] and Englishmen will once again really feel that they are living in the land of the free. The Mayor (AIderman F. W. Butler, J.P.) presided over the happy gathering I refer to. Right down pleased was I to renew acquaintance with many old friends. Yes, there was a nice “go” about the proceedings. The order went forth that speeches were to be of the briefest, and this injunction was obeyed. There was indeed a feast of song rather than oratory. Quite informally, Major Butler said : “Let’s have some community singing,” and, suiting his words to the occasion, he called upon that jolly veteran, Mr. S. Brogdale, Chairman of the Saltwood Gardeners’ Society. This gentleman, whom age does not wither, has a rollicking style, and this was in full evidence when he sang “We’ll all go a hunting to-day “—one of those old songs which, similarly to “The Farmer’s Boy,” will never die. But it was the chorus to the many verses that one so much enjoyed. Looking around the room, every face appeared to be lighted up with joy as the company sang with strident voices :
“We’ll all go a-hunting to-day,
All nature is smiling and gay.”
One does not need to write that the musical “polish” was not great, but the manner of the rendering of the chorus showed how much everyone enjoyed it. The Major, whom I recall having heard sing many years ago, gave that old-timer, “Tommy Atkins,” and here again the chorus was of the same rousing character. This only goes to prove how much community singing is enjoyed. The old Folkestone fishermen years ago must have had this kind of thing in their minds when they joined in the chorus, or community singing, as it is now termed.
“Join in the chor-i-us,
“Join in the chor-i-us,
Join in the chor-i-us,”
It is a chorus song.”
Our old friend “D’ye ken John Peel?” also figured in the programme on the enjoyable evening I allude to.
A Memory of Shorncliffe Gymnasium.
The foregoing reminds me that at one time the officers comprising members of the Shorncliffe Drag Hunt were wont to give a dinner to farmers whose lands were hunted over by the “Drag.” Those farmers, with their friends, were right royally entertained on such occasions. One such gathering occurs to me as I mention community singing. It was at that period when that splendid sportsman, the late Hon. A.S. Hardinge, was Brigade-Major. That gallant gentleman was a real favourite with the sturdy yeomen. His jet black hair, his dark flashing eyes, and his lithe, dapper figure come before me as I wield my pen. Probably there were 400 or 500 guests present at the particular dinner I refer to. After the good things had been properly attended to by the sons of the soil, the full band rendered some delightful selections. Suddenly there were cries of “Catt, Catt,” from all parts of the great building. ” Catt,” be it explained, died several years ago. He was a short sturdy man with a jolly countenance. He was not a great singer. He did not pretend to be. His repertoire was limited to about three songs, and one of these was “John Peel.” I well remember how the hero of the moment was greeted when he appeared on the platform. Catt had just the good old rollicking style for the song, but it was the community singing, as represented by the chorus of “John Peel,” that brought down the house, or rather, lifted the roof. The memory of the rendition of the song and chorus remains with me. Rough and ready it may have been, but Catt, who was a jolly farmer and poultry raiser at Ham Street, exactly fitted the song.5
The Folkestone Harbour Marine Staff.
On Saturday night I found myself in the company of as jolly a lot of young fellows as could wish to meet. They were the rank and file of those that do duty in handling the goods traffic when, as a rule, Folkestone is sleeping. They celebrated their existence on Saturday evening by enjoying what might be described as a “cut and come again” kind of repast. There were no printed menus, but there was a choice of roast or boiled (the latter with trimming,). There were no “hedgers.” Every man did his duty in this respect, and after their hearty repast they could adopt the lines of the song
“I feel content with all mankind,
For life’s a sea of pleasure.”
But although this kind of sentiment may be of a transient nature, yet it is wonderful how these little functions draw people together. In the long run it all tends to friendship and comradeship. On this occasion there was a flow of songs, not of the American jazz order, but those good old British ditties, that stand the test of time—”the songs my mother used to sing.” Time after time have I attended pleasant little functions where songs have a place, but invariably I have heard people express themselves after a fill of jazz. “Ah! After all, there is nothing like the old songs.” This gathering I was at on Saturday night was at the Harvey Hotel, where it was my lot a year or so ago to sit out an after-dinner programme. In the afternoon I had listened at the Pleasure Gardens to that great artiste, Mr. John Coates, who rendered in his incomparable style some of those now little known old English songs of periods long ago. It was a delightful experience. In the evening I had to hear the following twentieth century composition set to “jazz ” music:-
“I love doughnuts with jam in the
Jam in the middle, jam in the middle.'”
The contrast was great, and the more so owing to the rendering of another ditty termed, “They think I’m not all there.” But on Saturday last we had the “good old timers” including “Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep,” “The Farmer’s Boy,” “The Village Blacksmith,” and others of that ilk. As a sturdy harbour porter remarked to me: ” Say, Felix, there is ‘something to eat’ in those kind of songs.” Yes, that event at the Harvey Hotel reminded me of the good old sing-songs and “friendly leads” of years ago. I would like to see more of them. I firmly believe there will be a revival in this respect. 6
Further extracts from “About the neighbourhood” columns by ‘Felix’ can be found in the articles on Charley Appleton, James Rye, George Mount, and Tom Catt.