The Revs. Chard, Froude and Michell 115 



recipient feeling it was " charity " — that virtue that is supposed 

 to cover a multitude of sins, but often defeats its own ends by 

 creating them. 



Women as a rule predominate in our English churches, but 

 this order was reversed at Hatch Beauchamp ; the church was 

 generally full of men, young and old, with a good sprinkling of 

 women. I remarked on this once to one of his parishioners, who 

 was a well-to-do farmer ; he rephed, " We love and respect him 

 as a man, a sportsman, a gentleman, and a friend." 



Mr. Chard was not " out," as the schoolboys say, to save the 

 saints, though no doubt he was very pleased to see them ; it 

 was those who had made mistakes— the " sinners," I believe is 

 the usually accepted term ; he wanted to help them. 



Mr. Chard hunted all his life, beginning at the age of six and 

 continuing up to within a year or two of his death. At one 

 time he hunted a good deal with the Pytchley ; latterly mostly 

 in the Somerset, Devon, and Dorset countries. He was edu- 

 cated at Emmanuel College, Cambridge, as his father was 

 before him. His first curacy was in a big parish in Birmingham, 

 where he was exceedingly popular with the mothers ; at Cam- 

 bridge they thought he held the babies " so nice." 



Once while performing the christening ceremony he could not 

 make out whether the child's name was to be Anna or Hannah, 

 so stooping down he asked the child's mother, " How do you 

 spell it ? " The parent in an embarrassed and confidential 

 whisper replied, " Well, I ain't no schollard neither, sir ! " She 

 was evidently disappointed at his ignorance ; fancy his having 

 to ask her how to spell ! She had thought better of him. 



The last time I saw Mr. Chard was at a hunt breakfast we 

 gave when my son was hunting a pack of harriers in the west 

 country. He had been laid up for some time, and a small 

 crowd was around him congratulating him on being in the 

 field again ; all were merry and laughing, " The Bishop " one 

 of the merriest, but not at anyone's expense. He loved a 

 joke ; amongst the hearty laughter I heard his voice at intervals 

 as gentle as a woman's ; indeed, much more gentle than the 

 voices of some women I know, and they were out that day. 



It was a sorry day both for " The Bishop " and his friends 

 when he had to give up hunting ; for the last two years of his 

 life he was a martyr to gout, which is not a complaint that 



