THERE have been quite a few “red vicars” in this column, but I think this is the first one we’ve had who was burned in effigy on Guy Fawkes night.

Edward Maxted (not to be confused with Thaxted, which was the parish of another red vicar, Conrad Noel) was a working-class priest at the start of the 20th century — in itself a rarity. Born in Margate in 1874, he became an apprentice tinsmith, which was his father’s trade. But in his teens he felt called to the ministry, and managed to pay his way through theological college by spending four years working in Canada. By the time of his ordination he had become convinced that socialism was applied Christianity.

His induction as vicar of Tilty, in Essex, on May 11 1908, he owed to a meeting with a fascinating figure, unjustly ignored or mocked by history: Daisy Greville, Countess of Warwick (1868-1938), who described herself as “descended on one side from Nell Gwyn, the other from Oliver Cromwell.”

She was famous in her lifetime for three reasons: her great beauty, her shocking love affairs, and her tireless advocacy of socialism. Her political views had evolved out of the charitable work which a lady of her standing was expected to engage in. As a major landowner, the “Red Countess,” as the papers named her, was able to appoint the parsons in several parishes — and naturally she appointed red vicars.

Taking up his post at the little village of Tilty, near the market town of Great Dunmow, was, Maxted later told an interviewer, a great relief to him, as in previous positions he’d been ordered to keep his mouth shut about all the lefty stuff and concentrate on vicaring. He certainly made up for lost time now. His flock consisted of fewer than 250 souls, but he was determined that each one of them would be converted to the cause of Christian Socialism, which, in his interpretation at least, was based on common ownership and control of every industry and service.

Freed from prior constraints, Maxted became a noted (and gifted) speaker at labour meetings all over the county. He preached socialism and Christianity as indivisible, and it didn’t go down all that well in a part of England where the feudal system was still far from defeated in its struggle to avoid being replaced by capitalism, let alone socialism. No doubt his proletarian origins (and those of his wife) also counted against him, in a parish dominated by peasants and lords rather than men and masters.

During his decade at Tilty, Maxted persisted with holding open-air meetings on the village green despite the barracking — and worse — that he received in return. In 1909 a local paper reported that at one such gathering Maxted and his neighbour Conrad Noel were prevented from speaking by anti-socialist protesters, while the event “developed into a rancid interchange of personalities,” which doesn’t sound much fun.

Being physically attacked by his local opponents didn’t bother Maxted a lot. He obviously took the concept of muscular Christianity literally, and was quite happy to defend himself with his large fists when necessary. On one occasion — when he was pelted with eggs and one struck Mrs Maxted — he was upset. As he admitted to a newspaper reporter, had he caught the perpetrators he’d have given them a thorough hiding. He was asked whether this was the proper attitude for a man of the cloth to take, and he explained that while turning the other cheek was fine, it did not always suit the circumstances in which he found himself.

It was on Bonfire Night 1910 that anti-Maxted zealots from Great Dunmow pulled a cart through the streets, accompanied by a brass band, with a Guy intended to represent the troublesome vicar of Tilty. At Tilty, armed Maxted supporters stood ready to prevent the execution of the effigy, but police managed to keep the two groups from meeting.

During the weeks immediately prior to the first world war, farmworkers in the area were locked out by their bosses for daring to join a union. The result was magnificent — hundreds of men, from farms across nine parishes, immediately went on strike. As a sympathetic London paper reported it: “Peasant revolt in Essex. Nearly 400 men on strike. Determined to end life of serfdom.”

The landowners responded, as ever, with sackings, threats and brute force. The Red Vicar meanwhile involved himself thoroughly in supporting the men, deepening the fury felt against him by the local bourgeoisie. The strike was solid, and there was a real possibility of the farmers being unable to harvest their crops, when war broke out and, in the interest of national unity, the two sides were persuaded to settle their dispute.

That was more or less Edward Maxted’s last hurrah. He had perhaps, finally, had enough of the pressure on his family and he moved to a church in Bristol where his political activities were minimal. The man who had once written that “If Christians would think out their Christianity they would become socialists in three months,” emigrated to the United States in 1920, becoming a parish priest in Ohio and then Mississippi, dying in Texas at the age of 92.

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