armhouse　upper　chamber；　very　pleasant　in　its　way；　and　to　the　fact　of　my　appearance　there　I　have　always　been　inclined；　rather　fancifully　perhaps；　to　attribute　the　strong　agricultural　tastes　which　I　believe　I　alone　of　my　family　possess。

Here　I　will　tell　you　a　little　story　which　shows　how　untrustworthy　even　contemporary　evidence　may　be。　On　the　occasion　of　this　visit　I　was　acpanied　by　a　friend；　Sir　Frederick　Wilson；　and　his　niece；　who　were　anxious　to　see　my　birthplace。　Now　near　to　the　Wood　Farm　at　Bradenham　stands　another　farm；　which　for　some　unknown　reason　I　had　got　into　my　head　to　be　the　real　spot；　and　as　such　I　showed　it　to　my　friends。　When　I　had　finished　a　farmer；　the　late　James　Adcock；　who　was　standing　by　and　who　remembered　the　event；　ejaculated：

“What　be　you　a…talking　of；　Mr。　Rider？　You　weren’t　born　there　at　all；　you　were　born　yinder。”

“Of　course；”　I　said；　“I　remember；”　and　led　the　way　to　the　Wood　Farm　with　every　confidence；　where　I　showed　the　window　of　the　birth…chamber。

As　I　was　doing　so　an　old　lady　thrust　her　head　out　of　the　said　window　and　called　out：

“Whatever　be　you　a…talking　of；　Mr。　Rider？　You　weren’t　born　in　this　’ere　room；　you　were　born　in　that　room　yinder。”

Then　amidst　general　laughter　I　retired　disfited。　Such；　I　repeat；　is　often　the　value　of　even　contemporary　evidence；　although　it　is　true　that　in　this　case　James　Adcock　and　the　old　lady　were　the　real　contemporary　witnesses；　since　a　man　can　scarcely　be　expected　to　remember　the　room　in　which　he　was　born。

It　seems　that　I　was　a　whimsical　child。　At　least　Hocking；　my　mother’s　maid；　a　handsome；　vigorous；　black…eyed；　raw…boned　Cornishwoman　who　spent　most　of　her　active　life　in　the　service　of　the　family；　informed　me　in　after　years　that　nothing　would　induce　me　to　go　to　s