A TRAVELLER IN LITTLE THINGS

BY

W. H. HUDSON

NOTE

Of the sketches contained in this volume, fourteen have appeared in thefollowing periodicals: _The New Statesman_, _The SaturdayReview_, _The Nation_, and _The Cornhill Magazine_. 

CONTENTS

 I. HOW I FOUND MY TITLE II. THE OLD MAN'S DELUSION III. AS A TREE FALLS IV. BLOOD: A STORY OF TWO BROTHERS V. A STORY OF LONG DESCENT VI. A SECOND STORY OF TWO BROTHERS VII. A THIRD STORY OF TWO BROTHERS VIII. THE TWO WHITE HOUSES: A MEMORY IX. DANDY: A STORY OF A DOG X. THE SAMPHIRE GATHERER XI. A SURREY VILLAGE XII. A WILTSHIRE VILLAGE XIII. HER OWN VILLAGE XIV. APPLE BLOSSOMS AND A LOST VILLAGE XV. THE VANISHING CURTSEY XVI. LITTLE GIRLS I HAVE MET XVII. MILLICENT AND ANOTHER XVIII. FRECKLES XIX. ON CROMER BEACH XX. DIMPLES XXI. WILD FLOWERS AND LITTLE GIRLS XXII. A LITTLE GIRL LOST XXIII. A SPRAY OF SOUTHERNWOOD XXIV. IN PORCHESTER CHURCHYARD XXV. HOMELESS XXVI. THE STORY OF A SKULL XXVII. A STORY OF A WALNUT XXVIII. A STORY OF A JACKDAW XXIX. A WONDERFUL STORY OF A MACKEREL XXX. STRANGERS YET XXXI. THE RETURN OF THE CHIFF-CHAFF XXXII. A WASP AT TABLE XXXIII. WASPS AND MEN XXXIV. IN CHITTERNE CHURCHYARD XXXV. A HAUNTER OF CHURCHYARDS XXXVI. THE DEAD AND THE LIVING XXXVII. A STORY OF THREE POEMS

A TRAVELLER IN LITTLE THINGS

I

HOW I FOUND MY TITLE

It is surely a rare experience for an unclassified man, past middleage, to hear himself accurately and aptly described for the first timein his life by a perfect stranger! This thing happened to me atBristol, some time ago, in the way I am about to relate. I slept at aCommercial Hotel, and early next morning was joined in the big emptycoffee-room, smelling of stale tobacco, by an intensely respectable-looking old gentleman, whose hair was of silvery whiteness, and whowore gold-rimmed spectacles and a heavy gold watch-chain with manyseals attached thereto; whose linen was of the finest, and whose outergarments, including the trousers, were of the newest and blackestbroadcloth. A glossier and at the same time a more venerable-looking"commercial" I had never seen in the west country, nor anywhere in thethree kingdoms. He could not have improved his appearance if he hadbeen on his way to attend the funeral of a millionaire. But with allhis superior look he was quite affable, and talked fluently andinstructively on a variety of themes, including trade, politics, andreligion. Perceiving that he had taken me for what I was not--one ofthe army in which he served, but of inferior rank--I listenedrespectfully as became me. Finally he led the talk to the subject ofagriculture, and the condition and prospects of farming in England. Here I perceived that he was on wholly unfamiliar ground, and in returnfor the valuable information he had given me on other and moreimportant subjects, I proceeded to enlighten him. When I had finishedstating my facts and views, he said: "I perceive that you know a greatdeal more about the matter than I do, and I will now tell you why youknow more. You are a traveller in little things--in something verysmall--which takes you into the villages and hamlets, where you meetand converse with small farmers, innkeepers, labourers and their wives, with other persons who live on the land. In this way you get to hear agood deal about rent and cost of living, and what the people are ableand not able to do. Now I am out of all that; I never go to a villagenor see a farmer. I am a traveller in something very large. In thesouth and west I visit towns like Salisbury, Exeter, Bristol, Southampton; then I go to the big towns in the Midlands and the North, and to Glasgow and Edinburgh; and afterwards to Belfast and Dublin. Itwould simply be a waste of time for me to visit a town of less thanfifty or sixty thousand inhabitants. "

He then gave me some particulars concerning the large thing hetravelled in; and when I had expressed all the interest and admirationthe subject called for, he condescendingly invited me to tell himsomething about my own small line. 

Now this was wrong of him; it was a distinct contravention of anunwritten law among "Commercials" that no person must be interrogatedconcerning the nature of his business. The big and the little man, onceinside the hostel, which is their club as well, are on an equality. Idid not remind my questioner of this--I merely smiled and said nothing, and he of course understood and respected my reticence. With a pleasantnod and a condescending let-us-say-no-more-about-it wave of the hand hepassed on to other matters. 

Notwithstanding that I was amused at his mistake, the label he hadsupplied me with was something to be grateful for, and I am now findinga use for it. And I think that if he, my labeller, should see thissketch by chance and recognise himself in it, he will say with hispleasant smile and wave of the hand, "Oh, that's his line! Yes, yes, Idescribed him rightly enough, thinking it haberdashery or floral textsfor cottage bedrooms, or something of that kind; I didn't imagine hewas a traveller in anything quite so small as this. "

II

THE OLD MAN'S DELUSION

We know that our senses are subject to decay, that from our middleyears they are decaying all the time; but happily it is as if we didn'tknow and didn't believe. The process is too gradual to trouble us; wecan only say, at fifty or sixty or seventy, that it is doubtless thecase that we can't see as far or as well, or hear or smell as sharply, as we did a decade ago, but that we don't notice the difference. LatelyI met an extreme case, that of a man well past seventy who did notappear to know that his senses had faded at all. He noticed that theworld was not what it had been to him, as it had appeared, for example, when he was a plough-boy, the time of his life he remembered mostvividly, but it was not the fault of his senses; the mirror was allright, it was the world that had grown dim. I found him at the gatewhere I was accustomed to go of an evening to watch the sun set overthe sea of yellow corn and the high green elms beyond, which divide thecornfields from the Maidenhead Thicket. An old agricultural labourer, he had a grey face and grey hair and throat-beard; he stooped a gooddeal, and struck me as being very feeble and long past work. But hetold me that he still did some work in the fields. The older farmerswho had employed him for many years past gave him a little to do; healso had his old-age pension, and his children helped to keep him incomfort. He was quite well off, he said, compared to many. There was asubdued and sombre cheerfulness in him, and when I questioned him abouthis early life, he talked very freely in his slow old peasant way. Hewas born in a village in the Vale of Aylesbury, and began work as aploughboy on a very big farm. He had a good master and was well fed, the food being bacon, vegetables, and homemade bread, also suet puddingthree times a week. But what he remembered best was a rice puddingwhich came by chance in his way during his first year on the farm. There was some of the pudding left in a dish after the family haddined, and the farmer said to his wife, "Give it to the boy"; so he hadit, and never tasted anything so nice in all his life. How he enjoyedthat pudding! He remembered it now as if it had been yesterday, thoughit was sixty-five years ago. 

He then went on to talk of the changes that had been going on in theworld since that happy time; but the greatest change of all was in theappearance of things. He had had a hard life, and the hardest time waswhen he was a ploughboy and had to work so hard that he was tired todeath at the end of every day; yet at four o'clock in the morning hewas ready and glad to get up and go out to work all day again becauseeverything looked so bright, and it made him happy just to look up atthe sky and listen to the birds. In those days there were larks. Thenumber of larks was wonderful; the sound of their singing filled thewhole air. He didn't want any greater happiness than to hear themsinging over his head. A few days ago, not more than half a mile fromwhere we were standing, he was crossing a field when a lark got upsinging near him and went singing over his head. He stopped to listenand said to himself, "Well now, that do remind me of old times!"

"For you know, " he went on, "it is a rare thing to hear a lark now. What's become of all the birds I used to see I don't know. I rememberthere was a very pretty bird at that time called the yellow-hammer--abird all a shining yellow, the prettiest of all the birds. " He neversaw nor heard that bird now, he assured me. 

That was how the old man talked, and I never told him that yellowhammers could be seen and heard all day long anywhere on the commonbeyond the green wall of the elms, and that a lark was singing loudlyhigh up over our heads while he was talking of the larks he hadlistened to sixty-five years ago in the Vale of Aylesbury, and sayingthat it was a rare thing to hear that bird now. 

III

AS A TREE FALLS

At the Green Dragon, where I refreshed myself at noon with bread andcheese and beer, I was startlingly reminded of a simple and, I suppose, familiar psychological fact, yet one which we are never conscious ofexcept at rare moments when by chance it is thrust upon us. 

There are many Green Dragons in this world of wayside inns, even asthere are many White Harts, Red Lions, Silent Women and otherincredible things; but when I add that my inn is in a Wiltshirevillage, the headquarters of certain gentlemen who follow a form ofsport which has long been practically obsolete in this country, andindeed throughout the civilised world, some of my readers will have nodifficulty in identifying it. 

After lunching I had an hour's pleasant conversation with the geniallandlord and his buxom good-looking wife; they were both natives of aNew Forest village and glad to talk about it with one who knew itintimately. During our talk I happened to use the words--I forget whatabout--"As a tree falls so must it lie. " The landlady turned on me herdark Hampshire eyes with a sudden startled and pained look in them, andcried: "Oh, please don't say that!'

"Why not?" I asked. "It is in the Bible, and a quite common saying. "

"I know, " she returned, "but I can't bear it--I hate to hear it!"

She would say no more, but my curiosity was stirred, and I set aboutpersuading her to tell me. "Ah, yes, " I said, "I can guess why. It'ssomething in your past life--a sad story of one of your family--onevery much loved perhaps--who got into trouble and was refused all helpfrom those who might have saved him. "

"No, " she said, "it all happened before my time--long before. I neverknew her. " And then presently she told me the story. 

When her father was a young man he lived and worked with his father, afarmer in Hampshire and a widower. There were several brothers andsisters, and one of the sisters, named Eunice, was most loved by all ofthem and was her father's favourite on account of her beauty and sweetdisposition. Unfortunately she became engaged to a young man who wasnot liked by the father, and when she refused to break her engagementto please him he was dreadfully angry and told her that if she wentagainst him and threw herself away on that worthless fellow he wouldforbid her the house and would never see or speak to her again. 

Being of an affectionate disposition and fond of her father it grievedher sorely to disobey him, but her love compelled her, and by-and-byshe went away and was married in a neighbouring village where her loverhad his home. It was not a happy marriage, and after a few anxiousyears she fell into a wasting illness, and when it became known to herthat she was near her end she sent a message by a brother to the oldfather to come and see her before she died. She had never ceased tolove him, and her one insistent desire was to receive his forgivenessand blessing before finishing her life. His answer was, "As a treefalls so shall it lie. " He would not go near her. Shortly afterwardsthe unhappy young wife passed away. 

The landlady added that the brother who had taken the message was herfather, that he was now eighty-two years old and still spoke of hislong dead and greatly loved sister, and always said he had neverforgiven and would never forgive his father, dead half a century ago, for having refused to go to his dying daughter and for speaking thosecruel words. 

IV

"BLOOD"

A STORY OF TWO BROTHERS

A certain titled lady, great in the social world, was walking down thevillage street between two ladies of the village, and theirconversation was about some person known to the two who had behaved inthe noblest manner in difficult circumstances, and the talk ran onbetween the two like a duet, the great lady mostly silent and payingbut little attention to it. At length the subject was exhausted, and asa proper conclusion to round the discourse off, one of them remarked:"It is what I have always said, --there's nothing like blood!" Whereuponthe great person returned, "I don't agree with you: it strikes me youtwo are always praising blood, and I think it perfectly horrid. Thevery sight of a black pudding for instance turns me sick and makes mewant to be a vegetarian. "

The others smiled and laboriously explained that they were not praisingblood as an article of diet, but had used the word in its other andpartly metamorphical sense. They simply meant that as a rule persons ofgood blood or of old families had better qualities and a higherstandard of conduct and action than others. 

The other listened and said nothing, for although of good blood herselfshe was an out-and-out democrat, a burning Radical, burning bright inthe forests of the night of dark old England, and she considered thatall these lofty notions about old families and higher standards wereconfined to those who knew little or nothing about the life of theupper classes. 

She, the aristocrat, was wrong, and the two village ladies, members ofthe middle class, were right, although they were without a sense ofhumour and did not know that their distinguished friend was poking alittle fun at them when she spoke about black puddings. 

They were right, and it was never necessary for Herbert Spencer to tellus that the world is right in looking for nobler motives and ideals, ahigher standard of conduct, better, sweeter manners, from those who arehighly placed than from the ruck of men; and as this higher, betterlife, which is only possible in the leisured classes, is correlatedwith the "aspects which please, " the regular features and personalbeauty, the conclusion is the beauty and goodness or "inwardperfections" are correlated. 

All this is common, universal knowledge: to all men of all races and inall parts of the world it comes as a shock to hear that a person of anoble countenance has been guilty of an ignoble action. It is only theugly (and bad) who fondly cherish the delusion that beauty doesn'tmatter, that it is only skin-deep and the rest of it. 

Here now arises a curious question, the subject of this little paper. When a good old family, of good character, falls on evil days and iseventually submerged in the classes beneath, we know that the aspectswhich please, the good features and expression, will often persist forlong generations. Now this submerging process is perpetually going onall over the land and so it has been for centuries. We notice from yearto year the rise from the ranks of numberless men to the highestpositions, who are our leaders and legislators, owners of great estateswho found great families and receive titles. But we do not notice thecorresponding decline and final disappearance of those who were highlyplaced, since this is a more gradual process and has nothingsensational about it. Yet the two processes are equally great and far-reaching in their effects, and are like those two of Elaboration andDegeneration which go on side by side for ever in nature, in the animalworld; and like darkness and light and heat and cold in the physicalworld. 

As a fact, the country is full of the descendants of families that have"died out. " How long it takes to blot out or blur the finer featuresand expression we do not know, and the time probably varies accordingto the length of the period during which the family existed in itshigher phase. The question which confronts us is: Does the higher orbetter nature, the "inward perfections" which are correlated with theaspects which please, endure too, or do those who fall from their ownclass degenerate morally to the level of the people they live and areone with?

It is a nice question. In Sussex, with Mr. M. A. Lower, who has writtenabout the vanished or submerged families of that county, for my guideas to names, I have sought out persons of a very humble condition, somewho were shepherds and agricultural labourers, and have been surprisedat the good faces of many of them, the fine, even noble, features andexpression, and with these an exceptionally fine character. Labourerson the lands that were once owned by their forefathers, and children oflong generations of labourers, yet still exhibiting the marks of theiraristocratic descent, the fine features and expression and the finemoral qualities with which they are correlated. 

I will now give in illustration an old South American experience, anexample, which deeply impressed me at the time, of the sharp contrastbetween a remote descendant of aristocrats and a child of the people ina country where class distinctions have long ceased to exist. 

It happened that I went to stay at a cattle ranch for two or threemonths one summer, in a part of the country new to me, where I knewscarcely anyone. It was a good spot for my purpose, which was birdstudy, and this wholly occupied my mind. By-and-by I heard about twobrothers, aged respectively twenty-three and twenty-four years, wholived in the neighbourhood on a cattle ranch inherited from theirfather, who had died young. They had no relations and were the last oftheir name in that part of the country, and their grazing land was buta remnant of the estate as it had been a century before. The name ofthe brothers first attracted my attention, for it was that of an oldhighly-distinguished family of Spain, two or three of whose adventuroussons had gone to South America early in the seventeenth century to seektheir fortunes, and had settled there. The real name need not bestated: I will call it de la Rosa, which will serve as well as another. Knowing something of the ancient history of the family I became curiousto meet the brothers, just to see what sort of men they were who hadblue blood and yet lived, as their forbears had done for generations, in the rough primitive manner of the gauchos--the cattle-tendinghorsemen of the pampas. A little later I met the younger brother at ahouse in the village a few miles from the ranch I was staying at. Hisname was Cyril; the elder was Ambrose. He was certainly a very finefellow in appearance, tall and strongly built, with a high colour onhis open genial countenance and a smile always playing about thecorners of his rather large sensual mouth and in his greenish-hazeleyes; but of the noble ancestry there was no faintest trace. Hisfeatures were those of the unameliorated peasant, as he may be seen inany European country, and in this country, in Ireland particularly, butwith us he is not so common. It would seem that in England there is alarger mixture of better blood, or that the improvements in featuresdue to improved conditions, physical and moral, have gone further. Atall events, one may look at a crowd anywhere in England and see only aface here and there of the unmodified plebeian type. In a very largemajority the forehead will be less low and narrow, the nose less coarsewith less wide-spreading alae, the depression in the bridge not sodeep, the mouth not so large nor the jowl so heavy. These marks of theunimproved adult are present in all infants at birth. Lady Clara Verede Vere's little bantling is in a sense not hers at all but the childof some ugly antique race; of a Palaeolithic mother, let us say, wholived before the last Glacial epoch and was not very much better-looking herself than an orang-utan. It is only when the bony andcartilaginous framework, with the muscular covering of the face, becomes modified, and the wrinkled brown visage of the ancient pigmygrows white and smooth, that it can be recognised as Lady Clara's ownoffspring. The infant is ugly, and where the infantile features survivein the adult the man is and must be ugly too, _unless the expressionis good_. Thus, we may know numbers of persons who would certainlybe ugly but for the redeeming expression; and this good expression, which is "feature in the making, " is, like good features, an "outwardsign of inward perfections. "

To continue with the description of my young gentleman of blue bloodand plebeian countenance, his expression not only saved him fromugliness but made him singularly attractive, it revealed a good nature, friendliness, love of his fellows, sincerity, and other pleasingqualities. After meeting and conversing with him I was not surprised tohear that he was universally liked, but regarding him critically Icould not say that his manner was perfect. He was too self-conscious, too anxious to shine, too vain of his personal appearance, of his wit, his rich dress, his position as a de la Rosa and a landowner. There waseven a vulgarity in him, such as one looks for in a person risen fromthe lower orders but does not expect in the descendant of an ancientand once lustrous family, however much decayed and impoverished, orsubmerged. 

Shortly afterwards a gossipy old native estanciero, who lived close by, while sitting in our kitchen sipping maté, began talking freely abouthis neighbour's lives and characters, and I told him I had feltinterested in the brothers de la Rosa; partly on account of the greataffection these two had for one another, which was like an idealfriendship; and in part too on account of the ancient history of thefamily they came from. I had met one of them, I told him, --Cyril--avery fine fellow, but in some respects he was not exactly like mypreconceived idea of a de la Rosa. 

"No, and he isn't one!" shouted the old fellow, with a great laugh; andmore than delighted at having a subject presented to him and at hiscapture of a fresh listener, he proceeded to give me an intimatehistory of the brothers. 

The father, who was a fine and a lovable man, married early, and hisyoung wife died in giving birth to their only child--Ambrose. He didnot marry again: he was exceedingly fond of his child and was bothfather and mother to it and kept it with him until the boy was aboutnine years old, and then determined to send him to Buenos Ayres to givehim a year's schooling. He himself had been taught to read as a smallboy, also to write a letter, but he did not think himself equal toteach the boy, and so for a time they would have to be separated. 

Meanwhile the boy had picked up with Cyril, a little waif in rags, thebastard child of a woman who had gone away and left him in infancy tothe mercy of others. He had been reared in the hovel of a poor gauchoon the de la Rosa land, but the poor orphan, although the dirtiest, raggedest, most mischievous little beggar in the land, was anattractive child, intelligent, full of fun, and of an adventurousspirit. Half his days were spent miles from home, wading through thevast reedy and rushy marshes in the neighbourhood, hunting for birds'nests. Little Ambrose, with no child companion at home, where his lifehad been made too soft for him, was exceedingly happy with his wildcompanion, and they were often absent together in the marshes for awhole day, to the great anxiety of the father. But he could notseparate them, because he could not endure to see the misery of his boywhen they were forcibly kept apart. Nor could he forbid his child fromheaping gifts in food and clothes and toys or whatever he had, on hislittle playmate. Nor did the trouble cease when the time came now forthe boy to be sent from home to learn his letters: his grief at theprospect of being separated from his companion was too much for thefather, and he eventually sent them together to the city, where theyspent a year or two and came back as devoted to one another as whenthey went away. From that time Cyril lived with them, and eventually dela Rosa adopted him, and to make his son happy he left all he possessedto be equally divided at his death between them. He was in bad health, and died when Ambrose was fifteen and Cyril fourteen; from that timethey were their own masters and refused to have any division of theirinheritance but continued to live together; and had so continued forupwards of ten years. 

Shortly after hearing this history I met the brothers together at ahouse in the village, and a greater contrast between two men it wouldbe impossible to imagine. They were alike only in both being big, well-shaped, handsome, and well-dressed men, but in their faces they had thestamp of widely separated classes, and differed as much as if they hadbelonged to distinct species. Cyril, with a coarse, high-coloured skinand the primitive features I have described; Ambrose, with a pale darkskin of a silky texture, an oval face and classic features--forehead, nose, mouth and chin, and his ears small and lying against his head, not sticking out like handles as in his brother; he had black hair andgrey eyes. It was the face of an aristocrat, of a man of blue blood, orof good blood, of an ancient family; and in his manner too he was aperfect contrast to his brother and friend. There was no trace ofvulgarity in him; he was not self-conscious, not anxious to shine; hewas modesty itself, and in his speech and manner and appearance he was, to put it all in one word, a gentleman. 

Seeing them together I was more amazed than ever at the fact of theirextraordinary affection for each other, their perfect amity which hadlasted so many years without a rift, which nothing could break, aspeople said, except a woman. 

But the woman who would break or shatter it had not yet appeared on thehorizon, nor do I know whether she ever appeared or not, since afterleaving the neighbourhood I heard no more of the brothers de la Rosa. 

V

A STORY OF LONG DESCENT

It was rudely borne in upon me that there was another side to theshield. I was too much immersed in my own thoughts to note the peculiarcharacter of the small remote old-world town I came to in theafternoon; next day was Sunday, and on my way to the church to attendmorning service, it struck me as one of the oldest-looking of the smallold towns I had stumbled upon in my rambles in this ancient land. Therewas the wide vacant space where doubtless meetings had taken place fora thousand years, and the steep narrow crooked medieval streets, andhere and there some stately building rising like a castle above thehumble cottage houses clustering round it as if for protection. Best ofall was the church with its noble tower where a peal of big bells werejust now flooding the whole place with their glorious noise. 

It was even better when, inside, I rose from my knees and looked aboutme, to find myself in an ideal interior, the kind I love best; rich inmetal and glass and old carved wood, the ornaments which the goodMethody would scornfully put in the hay and stubble category, but whichowing to long use and associations have acquired for others a symbolicand spiritual significance. The beauty and richness were all thefresher for the dimness, and the light was dim because it filteredthrough old oxydised stained glass of that unparalleled loveliness ofcolour which time alone can impart. It was, excepting in vastness, likea cathedral interior, and in some ways better than even the best ofthese great fanes, wonderful as they are. Here, recalling them, onecould venture to criticise and name their several deficits:--a Wellsdivided, a ponderous Ely, a vacant and cold Canterbury, a too light andairy Salisbury, and so on even to Exeter, supreme in beauty, spoilt bya monstrous organ in the wrong place. That wood and metal giant, standing as a stone bridge to mock the eyes' efforts to dodge past itand have sight of the exquisite choir beyond, and of an east windowthrough which the humble worshipper in the nave might hope, in somerare mystical moment, to catch a glimpse of the far Heavenly countrybeyond. 

I also noticed when looking round that it was an interior rich inmemorials to the long dead--old brasses and stone tablets on the walls, and some large monuments. By chance the most imposing of the tombs wasso near my seat that with little difficulty I succeeded in reading andcommitting to memory the whole contents of the very long inscriptioncut in deep letters on the hard white stone. It was to the memory ofSir Ranulph Damarell, who died in 1531, and was the head of a familylong settled in those parts, lord of the manor and many other things. On more than one occasion he raised a troop from his own people andcommanded it himself, fighting for his king and country both in and outof England. He was, moreover, a friend of the king and his counsellor, and universally esteemed for his virtues and valour; greatly loved byall his people, especially by the poor and suffering, on account of hisgenerosity and kindness of heart. 

A very glorious record, and by-and-by I believed every word of it. For after reading the inscription I began to examine the effigy inmarble of the man himself which surmounted the tomb. He was lyingextended full length, six feet and five inches, his head on a lowpillow, his right hand grasping the handle of his drawn sword. The moreI looked at it, both during and after the service, the more convinced Ibecame that this was no mere conventional figure made by some lapidarylong after the subject's death, but was the work of an inspired artist, an exact portrait of the man, even to his stature, and that he hadsucceeded in giving to the countenance the very expression of theliving Sir Ranulph. And what it expressed was power and authority and, with it, spirituality. A noble countenance with a fine forehead andnose, the lower part of the face covered with the beard, and long hairthat fell to the shoulders. 

It produced a feeling such as I have whenever I stand before a certainsixteenth-century portrait in the National Gallery: a sense or anillusion of being in the presence of a living person with whom I amengaged in a wordless conversation, and who is revealing his inmostsoul to me. And it is only the work of a genius that can affect you inthat way. 

Quitting the church I remembered with satisfaction that my hostess atthe quiet home-like family hotel where I had put up, was an educatedintelligent woman (good-looking, too), and that she would no doubt beable to tell me something of the old history of the town andparticularly of Sir Ranulph. For this marble man, this knight ofancient days, had taken possession of me and I could think of nothingelse. 

At luncheon we met as in a private house at our table with our nicehostess at the head, and beside her three or four guests staying in thehouse; a few day visitors to the town came in and joined us. Next to meI had a young New Zealand officer whose story I had heard with painfulinterest the previous evening. Like so many of the New Zealanders I hadmet before, he was a splendid young fellow; but he had been terriblygassed at the front and had been told by the doctors that he would notbe fit to go back even if the war lasted another year, and we were thenwell through the third. The way the poison in his lungs affected himwas curious. He had his bad periods when for a fortnight or so he wouldlie in his hospital suffering much and terribly depressed, and at suchtime black spots would appear all over his chest and neck and arms sothat he would be spotted like a pard. Then the spots would fade and hewould rise apparently well, and being of an energetic disposition, wasallowed to do local war work. 

On the other side of the table facing us sat a lady and gentleman whohad come in together for luncheon. A slim lady of about thirty, with awell-shaped but colourless face and very bright intelligent eyes. Shewas a lively talker, but her companion, a short fat man with a roundapple face and cheeks of an intensely red colour and a black moustache, was reticent, and when addressed directly replied in monosyllables. Hegave his undivided attention to the thing on his plate. 

The young officer talked to me of his country, describing withenthusiasm his own district which he averred contained the finestmountain and forest scenery in New Zealand. The lady sitting oppositebegan to listen and soon cut in to say she knew it all well, and agreedin all he said in praise of the scenery. She had spent weeks of delightamong those great forests and mountains. Was she then his country-woman? he asked. Oh, no, she was English but had travelled extensivelyand knew a great deal of New Zealand. And after exhausting this subjectthe conversation, which had become general, drifted into others, andpresently we were all comparing notes about our experience of the lategreat frost. Here I had my say about what had happened in the village Ihad been staying in. The prolonged frost, I said, had killed all ormost of the birds in the open country round us, but in the villageitself a curious thing had happened to save the birds of the place. Itwas a change of feeling in the people, who are by nature or traininggreat persecutors of birds. The sight of them dying of starvation hadaroused a sentiment of compassion, and all the villagers, men, women, and children, even to the roughest bush-beating boys, started feedingthem, with the result that the birds quickly became tame and spenttheir whole day flying from house to house, visiting every yard andperching on the window-sills. While I was speaking the gentlemanopposite put down his knife and fork and gazed steadily at me with asmile on his red-apple face, and when I concluded he exploded in ahalf-suppressed sniggering laugh. 

It annoyed me, and I remarked rather sharply that I didn't see whatthere was to laugh at in what I had told them. Then the lady with readytact interposed to say she had been deeply interested in myexperiences, and went on to tell what she had done to save the birds inher own place; and her companion, taking it perhaps as a snub tohimself from her, picked up his knife and fork and went on with hisluncheon, and never opened his mouth to speak again. Or, at all events, not till he had quite finished his meal. 

By-and-by, when I found an opportunity of speaking to our hostess, Iasked her who that charming lady was, and she told me she was a MissSomebody--I forget the name--a native of the town, also that she was agreat favourite there and was loved by everyone, rich and poor, andthat she had been a very hard worker ever since the war began, and hadinspired all the women in the place to work. 

"And who, " I asked, "was the fellow who brought her in to lunch--arelative or a lover?"

"Oh, no, no relation and certainly not a lover. I doubt if she wouldhave him if he wanted her, in spite of his position. "

"I don't wonder at that--a perfect clown! And who is he?"

"Oh, didn't you know! Sir Ranulph Damarell. "

"Good Lord!" I gasped. "That your great man--lord of the manor and whatnot! He may bear the name, but I'm certain he's not a descendant of theSir Ranulph whose monument is in your church. "

"Oh, yes, he is, " she replied. "I believe there has never been a breakin the line from father to son since that man's day. They were allknights in the old time, but for the last two centuries or so have beenbaronets. "

"Good Lord!" I exclaimed again. "And please tell me what is he----whatdoes he do? What is his distinction?"

"His distinction for me, " she smilingly replied, "is that he prefersmy house to have his luncheon in after Sunday morning service. He knowswhere he can get good cooking. And as a rule he invites some friend inthe town to lunch with him, so that should there be any conversation attable his guest can speak for both and leave him quite free to enjoyhis food. "

"And what part does he take in politics and public affairs--how does hestand among your leading men?"

Her answer was that he had never taken any part in politics--had neverbeen or desired to be in Parliament or in the County Council, and wasnot even a J. P. , nor had he done anything for his country during thewar. Nor was he a sportsman. He was simply a country gentleman, andevery morning he took a ride or walk, mainly she supposed to give him abetter appetite for his luncheon. And he was a good landlord to histenants and he was respected by everybody and no one had ever said aword against him. 

There was nothing now for me to say except 'Good Lord!' so I said itonce more, and that made three times. 

VI

A SECOND STORY OF TWO BROTHERS

Shortly after writing the story of two brothers in the last part butone I was reminded of another strange story of two brothers in thatsame distant land, which I heard years ago and had forgotten. It nowcame back to me in a newspaper from Miami, of all places in the world, sent me by a correspondent in that town. He--Mr. J. L. Rodger--sometime ago when reading an autobiographical book of mine made thediscovery that we were natives of the same place in the Argentinepampas--that the homes where we respectively first saw the light stoodbut a couple of hours' ride on horseback apart. But we were not born onthe same day and so missed meeting in our youth; then left our homes, and he, after wide wanderings, found an earthly paradise in Florida todwell in. So that now that we have in a sense met we have the Atlanticbetween us. He has been contributing some recollections of the pampasto the Miami paper, and told this story of two brothers among otherstrange happenings. I tell it in my own way more briefly. 

 * * * * *

It begins in the early fifties and ends thirty years later in the earlyeighties of last century. It then found its way into the Buenos Ayresnewspapers, and I heard it at the time but had utterly forgotten ituntil this Florida paper came into my hand. 

In the fifties a Mr. Gilmour, a Scotch settler, had a sheep and cattleranch on the pampas far south of Buenos Ayres, near the Atlantic coast. He lived there with his family, and one of the children, aged five, wasa bright active little fellow and was regarded with affection by one ofthe hired native cattlemen, who taught the child to ride on a pony, andtaught him so well that even at that tender age the boy could followhis teacher and guide at a fast gallop over the plain. One day Mr. Gilmour fell out with the man on account of some dereliction of duty, and after some hot words between them discharged him there and then. The young fellow mounted his horse and rode off vowing vengeance, andon that very day the child disappeared. The pony on which he had goneout riding came home, and as it was supposed that the little boy hadbeen thrown or fallen off, a search was made all over the estate andcontinued for days without result. Eventually some of the child'sclothing was found on the beach, and it was conjectured that the youngnative had taken the child there and drowned him and left the clothesto let the Gilmours know that he had had his revenge. But there wasroom for doubt, as the body was never found, and they finally came tothink that the clothes had been left there to deceive them, and that asthe man had been so fond of the child he had carried him off. Thisbelief started them on a wider and longer quest; they invoked the aidof the authorities all over the province; the loss of the child wasadvertised and a large reward offered for his recovery and agents wereemployed to look for him. In this search, which continued for years, Mr. Gilmour spent a large part of his fortune, and eventually it had tobe dropped; and of all the family Mrs. Gilmour alone still believedthat her lost son was living, and still dreamed and hoped that shewould see him again before her life ended. 

One day the Gilmours entertained a traveller, a native gentleman, who, as the custom was in my time on those great vacant plains where houseswere far apart, had ridden up to the gate at noon and asked forhospitality. He was a man of education, a great traveller in the land, and at table entertained them with an account of some of the strangeout-of-the-world places he had visited. 

Presently one of the sons of the house, a tall slim good-looking youngman of about thirty, came in, and saluting the stranger took his seatat the table. Their guest started and seemed to be astonished at thesight of him, and after the conversation was resumed he continued fromtime to time to look with a puzzled questioning air at the young man. Mrs. Gilmour had observed this in him and, with the thought of her lostson ever in her mind, she became more and more agitated until, unablelonger to contain her excitement, she burst out: "O, Señor, why do youlook at my son in that way?--tell me if by chance you have not metsomeone in your wanderings that was like him. "

Yes, he replied, he had met someone so like the young man before himthat it had almost produced the illusion of his being the same person;that was why he had looked so searchingly at him. 

Then in reply to their eager questions he told them that it was an oldincident, that he had never spoken a word to the young man he had seen, and that he had only seen him once for a few minutes. The reason of hisremembering him so well was that he had been struck by his appearance, so strangely incongruous in the circumstances, and that had made himlook very sharply at him. Over two years had passed since, but it wasstill distinct in his memory. He had come to a small frontiersettlement, a military outpost, on the extreme north-eastern border ofthe Republic, and had seen the garrison turn out for exercise from thefort. It was composed of the class of men one usually saw in theseborder forts, men of the lowest type, miztiros and mulattos most ofthem, criminals from the gaols condemned to serve in the frontier armyfor their crimes. And in the midst of the low-browed, swarthy-faced, ruffianly crew appeared the tall distinguished-looking young man with awhite skin, blue eyes and light hair--an amazing contrast!

That was all he could tell them, but it was a clue, the first they hadhad in thirty years, and when they told the story of the lost child totheir guest he was convinced that it was their son he had seen--therecould be no other explanation of the extraordinary resemblance betweenthe two young men. At the same time he warned them that the searchwould be a difficult and probably a disappointing one, as thesefrontier garrisons were frequently changed: also that many of the mendeserted whenever they got the chance, and that many of them gotkilled, either in fight with the Indians, or among themselves overtheir cards, as gambling was their only recreation. 

But the old hope, long dead in all of them except in the mother'sheart, was alive again, and the son, whose appearance had so stronglyattracted their guest's attention, at once made ready to go out on thatlong journey. He went by way of Buenos Ayres where he was given apassport by the War Office and a letter to the Commanding Officer todischarge the blue-eyed soldier in the event of his being found andproved to be a brother to the person in quest of him. But when he gotto the end of his journey on the confines of that vast country, aftertravelling many weeks on horseback, it was only to hear that the menwho had formed the garrison two years before, had been long orderedaway to another province where they had probably been called to aid inor suppress a revolutionary outbreak, and no certain news could be hadof them. He had to return alone but not to drop the search; it was butthe first of three great attempts he made, and the second was the mostdisastrous, when in a remote Province and a lonely district he met witha serious accident which kept him confined in some poor hovel for manymonths, his money all spent, and with no means of communicating withhis people. He got back at last; and after recruiting his health andproviding himself with funds, and obtaining fresh help from the WarOffice, he set out on his third venture; and at the end of three yearsfrom the date of his first start, he succeeded in finding the object ofhis search, still serving as a common soldier in the army. That theywere brothers there was no doubt in either of their minds, and togetherthey travelled home. 

And now the old father and mother had got their son back, and they toldhim the story of the thirty years during which they had lamented hisloss, and of how at last they had succeeded in recovering him:--whathad he to tell them in return? It was a disappointing story. For, tobegin with, he had no recollection of his child life at home--nofaintest memory of mother or father or of the day when the suddenviolent change came and he was forcibly taken away. His earliestrecollection was of being taken about by someone--a man who owned him, who was always at the cattle-estates where he worked, and how this mantreated him kindly until he was big enough to be set to workshepherding sheep and driving cattle, and doing anything a boy could doat any place they lived in, and that his owner and master then began tobe exacting and tyrannical, and treated him so badly that he eventuallyran away and never saw the man again. And from that time onward helived much the same kind of life as when with his master, constantlygoing about from place to place, from province to province, and finallyhe had for some unexplained reason been taken into the army. 

That was all--the story of his thirty years of wild horseback life toldin a few dry sentences! Could more have been expected! The mother hadexpected more and would not cease to expect it. He was her lost onefound again, the child of her body who in his long absence had gotten asecond nature; but it was nothing but a colour, a garment, which wouldwear thinner and thinner, and by-and-by reveal the old deeperineradicable nature beneath. So she imagined, and would take him out towalk to be with him, to have him all to herself, to caress him, andthey would walk, she with an arm round his neck or waist; and when shereleased him or whenever he could make his escape from the house, hewould go off to the quarters of the hired cattlemen and converse withthem. They were his people, and he was one of them in soul in spite ofhis blue eyes, and like one of them he could lasso or break a horse andthrow a bull and put a brand on him, and kill a cow and skin it, orroast it in its hide if it was wanted so; and he could do a hundredother things, though he couldn't read a book, and I daresay he found ita very misery to sit on a chair in the company of those who read inbooks and spoke a language that was strange to him--the tongue he hadhimself spoken as a child!

VII

A THIRD STORY OF TWO BROTHERS

Stories of two brothers are common enough the world over--probably moreso than stories of young men who have fallen in love with theirgrandmothers, and the main feature in most of them, as in the story Ihave just told, is in the close resemblance of the two brothers, for onthat everything hinges. It is precisely the same in the one I am about to relate, one I came upon a few years ago--just how many I wish not tosay, nor just where it happened except that it was in the west country;and for the real names of people and places I have substitutedfictitious ones. For this too, like the last, is a true story. Thereader on finishing it will perhaps blush to think it true, but apartfrom the moral aspect of the case it is, psychologically, a singularlyinteresting one. 

One summer day I travelled by a public conveyance to Pollhampton, asmall rustic market town several miles distant from the nearestrailroad. My destination was not the town itself, but a lonely heath-grown hill five miles further on, where I wished to find something thatgrew and blossomed on it, and my first object on arrival was to securea riding horse or horse and trap to carry me there. I was told at oncethat it was useless to look for such a thing, as it was market day andeverybody was fully occupied. That it was market day I already knewvery well, as the two or three main streets and wide market-place inthe middle of the town were full of sheep and cows and pigs and peoplerunning about and much noise of shoutings and barking dogs. However, the strange object of the strange-looking stranger in coming to thetown, interested some of the wild native boys, and they rushed about totell it, and in less than five minutes a nice neat-looking middle-agedman stood at my elbow and said he had a good horse and trap and forseven-and-sixpence would drive me to the hill, help me there to findwhat I wanted, and bring me back in time to catch the conveyance. Accordingly in a few minutes we were speeding out of the town drawn bya fast-trotting horse. Fast trotters appeared to be common in theseparts, and as we went along the road from time to time a small cloud ofdust would become visible far ahead of us, and in two or three minutesa farmer's trap would appear and rush past on its way to market, tovanish behind us in two or three minutes more and be succeeded byanother and then others. By-and-by one came past driven by two youngwomen, one holding the reins, the other playing with the whip. Theywere tall, dark, with black hair, and colourless faces, aged aboutthirty, I imagined. As they flew by I remarked, "I would lay asovereign to a shilling that they are twins. " "You'd lose your money--there's two or three years between them, " said my driver. "Do you knowthem--you didn't nod to them nor they to you?" I said. "I know them, "he returned, "as well as I know my own face when I look at myself in aglass. " On which I remarked that it was very wonderful. "'Tis only apart of the wonder, and not the biggest part, " he said. "You've seenwhat they are like and how like they are, but if you passed a day withthem in the house you'd be able to tell one from the other; but if youlived a year in the same house with their two brothers you'd never beable to tell one from the other and be sure you were right. Thestrangest thing is that the brothers who, like their sisters, have twoor three years between them, are not a bit like their sisters; they areblue-eyed and seem a different race. "

That, I said, made it more wonderful still. A curiously symmetricalfamily. Rather awkward for their neighbours, and people who hadbusiness relations with them. 

"Yes--perhaps, " he said, "but it served them very well on one occasionto be so much alike. "

I began to smell a dramatic rat and begged him to tell me all about it. 

He said he didn't mind telling me. Their name was Prage--Antony andMartin Prage, of Red Pit Farm, which they inherited from their fatherand worked together. They were very united. One day one of them, whenriding six miles from home, met a girl coming along the road, andstopped his horse to talk to her. She was a poor girl that worked at adairy farm near by, and lived with her mother, a poor old widow-woman, in a cottage in the village. She was pretty, and the young man took aliking to her and he persuaded her to come again to meet him on anotherday at that spot; and there were many more meetings, and they were fondof each other; but after she told him that something had happened toher he never came again. When she made enquiries she found he had givenher a false name and address, and so she lost sight of him. Then herchild was born, and she lived with her mother. And you must know whather life was--she and her old mother and her baby and nothing to keepthem. And though she was a shy ignorant girl she made up her mind tolook for him until she found him to make him pay for the child. Shesaid he had come on his horse so often to see her that he could not betoo far away, and every morning she would go off in search of him, andshe spent weeks and months tramping about the country, visiting all thevillages for many miles round looking for him. And one day in a smallvillage six miles from her home she caught sight of him galloping by onhis horse, and seeing a woman standing outside a cottage she ran to herand asked who that young man was who had just ridden by. The woman toldher she thought it was Mr. Antony Prage of Red Pit Farm, about twomiles from the village. Then the girl came home and was advised what todo. She had to do it all herself as there was no money to buy a lawyer, so she had him brought to court and told her own story, and the judgewas very gentle with her and drew out all the particulars. But Mr. Prage had got a lawyer, and when the girl had finished her story he gotup and put just one question to her. First he called on Antony Prage tostand up in court, then he said to her, "Do you swear that the manstanding before you is the father of your child?"

And just when he put that question Antony's brother Martin, who hadbeen sitting at the back of the court, got up, and coming forward stoodat his brother's side. The girl stared at the two, standing together, too astonished to speak for some time. She looked from one to the otherand at last said, "I swear it is one of them. " That, the lawyer said, wasn't good enough. If she could not swear that Antony Prage, the manshe had brought into court, was the guilty person, then the case fellto the ground. 

My informant finished his story and I asked "Was that then the end--wasnothing more done about it?" "No, nothing. " "Did not the judge say itwas a mean dirty trick arranged between the brothers and the lawyer?""No, he didn't--he non-suited her and that was all. " "And did notAntony Prage, or both of them, go into the witness box and swear thatthey were innocent of the charge?" "No, they never opened their mouthsin court. When the judge told the young woman that she had failed toestablish her case, they walked out smiling, and their friends cameround them and they went off together. " "And these brothers, I suppose, still live among you at their farm and are regarded as good respectableyoung men, and go to chapel on Sundays, and by-and-by will probablymarry nice respectable Methodist girls, and the girls' friends willcongratulate them on making such good matches. "

"Oh, no doubt; one has been married some time and his wife has got ababy; the other one will be married before long. "

"And what do you think about it all?"

"I've told you what happened because the facts came out in court andare known to everyone. What I think about it is what I think, and I'veno call to tell that. "

"Oh, very well!" I said, vexed at his noncommittal attitude. Then Ilooked at him, but his face revealed nothing; he was just the man witha quiet manner and low voice who had put himself at my service andengaged to drive me five miles out to a hill, help me to find what Iwanted and bring me back in time to catch the conveyance to my town, all for the surprisingly moderate sum of seven-and-sixpence. But he hadtold me the story of the two brothers; and besides, in spite of ourfaces being masks, if one make them so, mind converses with mind insome way the psychologists have not yet found out, and I knew that inhis heart of hearts he regarded those two respectable members of thePollhampton community much as I did. 

VIII

THE TWO WHITE HOUSES: A MEMORY

There's no connection--not the slightest--between this two and theother twos; it was nevertheless the telling of the stories of thebrothers which brought back to me this ancient memory of two houses. Nor were the two houses connected in any way, except that they wereboth white, situated on the same road, on the same side of it; alsoboth stood a little way back from the road in grounds beautifullyshaded with old trees. It was the great southern road which leads fromthe city of Buenos Ayres, the Argentine capital, to the vast levelcattle-country of the pampas, where I was born and bred. Naturally itwas a tremendously exciting adventure to a child's mind to come fromthese immense open plains, where one lived in rude surroundings withthe semi-barbarous gauchos for only neighbours, to a great civilisedtown full of people and of things strange and beautiful to see. And totouch and taste. 

Thus it happened that when I, a child, with my brothers and sisters, were taken to visit the town we would become more and more excited aswe approached it at the end of a long journey, which usually took ustwo days, at all we saw--ox-carts and carriages and men on horseback onthe wide hot dusty road, and the houses and groves and gardens oneither side. .. . It was thus that we became acquainted with the twowhite houses, and were attracted to them because in their whiteness andgreen shade they looked beautiful to us and cool and restful, and wewished we could live in them. 

They were well outside of the town, the nearest being about two milesfrom its old south wall and fortifications, the other one a little overtwo miles further out. The last being the farthest out was the firstone we came to on our journeys to the city; it was a somewhat singular-looking building with a verandah supported by pillars painted green, and it had a high turret. And near it was a large dovecot with a cloudof pigeons usually flying about it, and we came to calling it DovecotHouse. The second house was plainer in form but was not without apeculiar distinction in its large wrought-iron front gate with whitepillars on each side, and in front of each pillar a large cannonplanted postwise in the earth. 

This we called Cannon House, but who lived in these two houses nonecould tell us. 

When I was old enough to ride as well as any grown-up, and myoccasional visits to town were made on horseback, I once had threeyoung men for my companions, the oldest about twenty-eight, the two notmore than nineteen and twenty-one respectively. I was eagerly lookingout for the first white house, and when we were coming to it I criedout, "Now we are coming to Dovecot House, let's go slow and look atit. "

Without a word they all pulled up, and for some minutes we sat silentlygazing at the house. Then the eldest of the three said that if he was arich man he would buy the house and pass the rest of his life veryhappily in it and in the shade of its old trees. 

In what, the others asked, would his happiness consist, since arational being must have something besides a mere shelter from thestorm and a tree to shade him from the sun to be happy?

He answered that after securing the house he would range the wholecountry in search of the most beautiful woman in it, and that when hehad found and made her his wife he would spend his days and years inadoring her for her beauty and charm. 

His two young companions laughed scornfully. Then one of them--theyounger--said that he too if wealthy would buy the house, as he had notseen another so well suited for the life he would like to live. A lifespent with books! He would send to Europe for all the books he desiredto read and would fill the house with them; and he would spend his daysin the house or in the shade of the trees, reading every day frommorning to night undisturbed by traffic and politics and revolutions inthe land, and by happenings all the world over. 

He too was well laughed at; then the last of the three said he didn'tcare for either of their ideals. He liked wine best, and if he hadgreat wealth he would buy the house and send to Europe--O not for booksnor for a beautiful wife! but for wine--wines of all the choicest kindsin bottle and casks--and fill the cellars with it. And his choice wineswould bring choice spirits to help him drink them; and then in theshade of the old trees they would have their table and sit over theirwine--the merriest, wittiest, wisest, most eloquent gathering in allthe land. 

The others in their turn laughed at him, despising his ideal, and thenwe set off once more. 

They had not thought to put the question to me, because I was only aboy while they were grown men; but I had listened with such intenseinterest to that colloquy that when I recall the scene now I can seethe very expressions of their sun-burnt faces and listen to the verysound of their speech and laughter. For they were all intimately knownto me and I knew they were telling openly just what their severalnotions of a happy life were, caring nothing for the laughter of theothers. I was mightily pleased that they, too, had felt the attractionsof my Dovecot House as a place where a man, whatsoever his individualtaste, might find a happy abiding-place. 

Time rolled on, as the slow-going old storybooks written before we wereborn used to say, and I still preserved the old habit of pulling up myhorse on coming abreast of each one of the two houses on every journeyto and from town. Then one afternoon when walking my horse past theCannon House I saw an old man dressed in black with snow-white hair andside-whiskers in the old, old style, and an ashen grey face, standingmotionless by the side of one of the guns and gazing out at thedistance. His eyes were blue--the dim weary blue of a tired old man'seyes, and he appeared not to see me as I walked slowly by him within afew yards, but to be gazing at something beyond, very far away. I tookhim to be a resident, perhaps the owner of the house, and this was thefirst time I had seen any person there. So strongly did the sight ofthat old man impress me that I could not get his image out of my mind, and I spoke to those I knew in the city, and before long I met with onewho was able to satisfy my curiosity about him. The old man I had seen, he told me, was Admiral Brown, an Englishman who many years before hadtaken service with the Dictator Rosas at the time when Rosas was at warwith the neighbouring Republic of Uruguay, and had laid siege to thecity of Montevideo. Garibaldi, who was spending the years of his exilefrom Italy in South America, fighting as usual wherever there was anyfighting to be had, flew to the help of Uruguay, and having acquiredgreat fame as a sea-fighter was placed in command of the naval forces, such as they were, of the little Republic. But Brown was a betterfighter, and he soon captured and destroyed his enemies' ships, Garibaldi himself escaping shortly afterwards to come back to the oldworld to renew the old fight against Austria. 

When old Admiral Brown retired he built this house, or had it given tohim by Rosas who, I was told, had a great affection for him, and hethen had the two cannons he had taken from one of the captured shipsplanted at his front gate. 

Shortly after that one glimpse I had had of the old Admiral, he died. And I think that when I saw him standing at his gate gazing past me atthe distance, he was looking out for an expected messenger--a figure inblack moving swiftly towards him with a drawn sword in his hand. 

Oddly enough it was but a short time after seeing the old man at hisgate that I had my first sight of an inmate of Dovecot House. Whileslowly riding by it I saw a lady come out from the front door--young, good-looking, very pale and dressed in the deepest mourning. She had abowl in her hand, and going a little distance from the house she calledthe pigeons and down they flew in a crowd to her feet to be fed. 

A few months later when passing I saw this same lady once more, and onthis occasion she was coming to the gate as I rode by, and I saw herclosely, for she turned and looked at me, not unseeingly like the oldman, and her face was perfectly colourless and her large dark eyes themost sorrowful I had ever seen. 

That was my last sight of her, nor did I see any human creature aboutthe house after that for about two years. Then one hot summer day Icaught sight of three persons who looked like servants or caretakers, sitting in the shade some distance from the house and drinking maté, the tea of the country. 

Here, thought I, is an opportunity not to be lost--one long waited for!Leaving my horse at the gate I went to them, and addressing a largewoman, the most important-looking person of the three, as politely as Icould, I said I was not, as they perhaps imagined, a long absent friendor relation returned from the wars, but a perfect stranger, a travelleron the great south road; that I was hot and thirsty, and the sight ofthem refreshing themselves in that pleasant shade had tempted me tointrude myself upon them. 

She received me with smiles and a torrent of welcoming words, and theexpected invitation to sit down and drink maté with them. She was avery large woman, very fat and very dark, of that reddish or mahoganycolour which, taken with the black eyes and coarse black hair, iscommonly seen in persons of mixed blood--Iberian with aboriginal. Itook her age to be about fifty years. And she was as voluble as she wasfat and dark, and poured out such a stream of talk on or rather over melike warm greasy water, and so forcing me to keep my eyes on her, thatit was almost impossible to give any attention to the other two. Onewas her husband, Spanish and dark too, but with a different sort ofdarkness; a skeleton of a man with a bony ghastly face, in old frayedworkman's clothes and dust-covered boots; his hands very grimy. And thethird person was their daughter, as they called her, a girl of fifteenwith a clear white and pink skin, regular features, beautiful grey eyesand light brown hair. A perfect type of a nice looking English girlsuch as one finds in any village, in almost any cottage, in theMidlands or anywhere else in this island. 

These two were silent, but at length, in one of the fat woman's briefpauses, the girl spoke, in a Spanish in which one could detect no traceof a foreign accent, in a low and pleasing voice, only to say somethingabout the garden. She was strangely earnest and appeared anxious toimpress on them that it was necessary to have certain beds ofvegetables they cultivated watered that very day lest they should belost owing to the heat and dryness. The man grunted and the woman saidyes, yes, yes, a dozen times. Then the girl left us, going back to hergarden, and the fat woman went on talking to me. I tried once or twiceto get her to tell me about her daughter, as she called her, but shewould not respond--she would at once go off into other subjects. Then Itried something else and told her of my sight of a handsome young ladyin mourning I had once seen there feeding the pigeons. And now sheresponded readily enough and told me the whole story of the lady. 

She belonged to a good and very wealthy family of the city and was anonly child, and lost both parents when very young. She was a verypretty girl of a joyous nature and a great favourite in society. At theage of sixteen she became engaged to a young man who was also of a goodand wealthy family. After becoming engaged to her he went to the war inParaguay, and after an absence of two years, during which he haddistinguished himself in the field and won his captaincy, he returnedto marry her. She was at her own house waiting in joyful excitement toreceive him when his carriage arrived, and she flew to the door towelcome him. He, seeing her, jumped out and came running to her withhis arms out to embrace her, but when still three or four yards distantsuddenly stopped short and throwing up his arms fell to the earth adead man. The shock of his death at this moment of supreme bliss forboth of them was more than she could bear; it brought on a fever of thebrain and it was feared that if she ever recovered it would be with ashattered mind. But it was not so: she got well and her reason was notlost, but she was changed into a different being from the happy girl ofother days--fond of society, of dress, of pleasures; full of life andlaughter. "Now she is sadness itself and will continue to wear mourningfor the rest of her life, and prefers always to be alone. This oldhouse, built by her grandfather when there were few houses in thissuburb, she once liked to visit, but since her loss she has been butonce in it. That was when you saw her, when she came to spend a fewmonths in solitude. She would not even allow me to come and sit andtalk to her! Think of that! She thinks nothing of her possessions andallows us to live here rent free, to grow vegetables and raise poultryfor the market. That is what we do for a living; my husband and ourlittle daughter attend to these things out of doors, and I look afterthe house. "

When she got to the end of this long relation I rose and thanked herfor her hospitality and made my escape. But the mystery of the white, gentle-voiced, grey-eyed girl haunted me, and from that time I made itmy custom to call at Dovecot House on every journey to town, always tobe received with open arms, so to speak, by the great fat woman. Butshe always baffled me. The girl was usually to be seen, always thesame, quiet, unsmiling, silent, or else speaking in Spanish in thatgentle un-Spanish voice of some practical matter about the garden, thepoultry, and so on. I was not in love with her, but extremely curiousto know who she really was and how she came to be a "daughter, " or inthe hands of these unlikely people. For it was really one of thestrangest things I had ever come across up to that early period of mylife. Since then I have met with even more curious things; but beingthen of an age when strange things have a great fascination I was benton getting to the bottom of the mystery. However, it was in vain;doubtless the fat woman suspected my motives in calling on her andsipping maté and listening to her talk, for whenever I mentioned herdaughter in a tentative way, hoping it would lead to talk on thatsubject, she quickly and skilfully changed it for some other subject. And at last seeing that I was wasting my time, I dropped calling, butto this day I am rather sorry I allowed myself to be defeated. 

And now once more I must return for the space of two or three pages tothe _brother_ white house before saying good-bye to both. 

For it had come to pass that while my investigations into the mysteryof Dovecot House were in progress I had by chance got my foot in CannonHouse. And this is how it happened. When the old Admiral whose ghostlyimage haunted me had received his message and vanished from this scene, the house was sold and was bought by an Englishman, an old resident inthe town, who for thirty years had been toiling and moiling in abusiness of some kind until he had built a small fortune. It thenoccurred to him, or more likely his wife and daughters suggested it, that it was time to get a little way out of the hurly-burly, and theyaccordingly came to live at the house. There were two daughters, tall, slim, graceful girls, one, the elder, dark and pale like her oldCornish father, with black hair; the other a blonde with a rose colourand of a lively merry disposition. These girls happened to be friendsof my sisters, and so it fell out that I too became an occasionalvisitor to Cannon House. 

Then a strange thing happened, which made it a sad and anxious home tothe inmates for many long months, running to nigh on two years. Theywere fond of riding, and one afternoon when there was no visitor or anyperson to accompany them, the youngest girl said she would have herride and ordered her horse to be brought from the paddock and saddled. Her elder sister, who was of a somewhat timid disposition, tried todissuade her from riding out alone on the highway. She replied that shewould just have one little gallop--a mile or so--and then come back. Her sister, still anxious, followed her out of the gate and said shewould wait there for her return. Half a mile or so from the gate thehorse, a high-spirited animal, took fright at something and bolted withits rider. The sister waiting and looking out saw them coming, thehorse at a furious pace, the rider clinging for dear life to the pummelof the saddle. It flashed on her mind that unless the horse could bestopped before he came crashing through the gate her sister would bekilled, and running out to a distance of thirty yards from the gate shejumped at the horse's head as it came rushing by and succeeded ingrasping the reins, and holding fast to them she was dragged to withintwo or three yards of the gate, when the horse was brought to astandstill, whereupon her grasp relaxed and she fell to the ground in adead faint. 

She had done a marvellous thing--almost incredible. I have had horsesbolt with me and have seen horses bolt with others many times; andevery person who has seen such a thing and who knows a horse--its powerand the blind mad terror it is seized with on occasions--will agreewith me that it is only at the risk of his life that even a strong andagile man can attempt to stop a bolting horse. We all said that she hadsaved her sister's life and were lost in admiration of her deed, butpresently it seemed that she would pay for it with her own life. Sherecovered from the faint, but from that day began a decline, until inabout three months' time she appeared to me more like a ghost than abeing of flesh and blood. She had not strength to cross the rooms--allher strength and life were dying out of her because of that oneunnatural, almost supernatural, act. She passed the days lying on acouch, speaking, when obliged to speak, in a whisper, her eyes sunk, her face white even to the lips, seeming the whiter for the mass ofloose raven-black hair in which it was set. There were few doctors, English and native, who were not first and last called intoconsultation over the case, and still no benefit, no return to life, but ever the slow drifting towards the end. And at the lastconsultation of all this happened. When it was over and the doctorswere asked into a room where refreshments were placed for them, thefather of the girl spoke aside to a young doctor, a stranger to him, and begged him to tell him truly if there was no hope. The otherreplied that he should not lose all hope if--then he paused, and whenhe spoke again it was to say, "I am, you see, a very young man, abeginner in the profession, with little experience, and hardly know whyI am called here to consult with these older and wiser men; andnaturally my small voice received but little attention. "

By-and-by, when they had all gone except the family doctor, he informedthe distracted parents that it was impossible to save their daughter'slife. The father cried out that he would not lose all hope and wouldcall in another man, whereupon old Dr. Wormwood seized his brass-headedcane and took himself off in a huff. The young stranger was then calledin. The patient had been given arsenic with other drugs; he gave herarsenic only, increasing the doses enormously, until she was given asmuch in a day or two as would have killed a healthy person; with milkfor only nourishment. As a result, in a week or so the decline wasstayed, and in that condition, very near to dissolution, she continuedsome weeks, and then slowly, imperceptibly, began to mend. But so slowwas the improvement that it went on for months before she was well. Itwas a complete recovery; she had got back all her old strength and joyin life, and went again for a ride every day with her sister. 

Not very long afterwards both sisters were married, and my visits toCannon House ceased automatically. 

Now the two White Houses are but a memory, revived for a brief periodto vanish quickly again into oblivion, a something seen long ago andfar away in another hemisphere; and they are like two white cliffs seenin passing from the ship at the beginning of its voyage--gazed at witha strange interest as I passed them, and as they receded from me, untilthey faded from sight in the distance. 

IX

DANDY A STORY OF A DOG

He was of mixed breed, and was supposed to have a strain of DandyDinmont blood which gave him his name. A big ungainly animal with arough shaggy coat of blue-grey hair and white on his neck and clumsypaws. He looked like a Sussex sheep-dog with legs reduced to half theirproper length. He was, when I first knew him, getting old andincreasingly deaf and dim of sight, otherwise in the best of health andspirits, or at all events very good-tempered. 

Until I knew Dandy I had always supposed that the story of Ludlam's dogwas pure invention, and I daresay that is the general opinion about it;but Dandy made me reconsider the subject, and eventually I came tobelieve that Ludlam's dog did exist once upon a time, centuries agoperhaps, and that if he had been the laziest dog in the world Dandy wasnot far behind him in that respect. It is true he did not lean his headagainst a wall to bark; he exhibited his laziness in other ways. Hebarked often, though never at strangers; he welcomed every visitor, even the tax-collector, with tail-waggings and a smile. He spent a gooddeal of his time in the large kitchen, where he had a sofa to sleep on, and when the two cats of the house wanted an hour's rest they wouldcoil themselves up on Dandy's broad shaggy side, preferring that bed tocushion or rug. They were like a warm blanket over him, and it was asort of mutual benefit society. After an hour's sleep Dandy would goout for a short constitutional as far as the neighbouring thoroughfare, where he would blunder against people, wag his tail to everybody, andthen come back. He had six or eight or more outings each day, and, owing to doors and gates being closed and to his lazy disposition, hehad much trouble in getting out and in. First he would sit down in thehall and bark, bark, bark, until some one would come to open the doorfor him, whereupon he would slowly waddle down the garden path, and ifhe found the gate closed he would again sit down and start barking. Andthe bark, bark would go on until some one came to let him out. But ifafter he had barked about twenty or thirty times no one came, he woulddeliberately open the gate himself, which he could do perfectly well, and let himself out. In twenty minutes or so he would be back at thegate and barking for admission once more, and finally, if no one paidany attention, letting himself in. 

Dandy always had something to eat at mealtimes, but he too liked asnack between meals once or twice a day. The dog-biscuits were kept inan open box on the lower dresser shelf, so that he could get one"whenever he felt so disposed, " but he didn't like the trouble thisarrangement gave him, so he would sit down and start barking, and as hehad a bark which was both deep and loud, after it had been repeated adozen times at intervals of five seconds, any person who happened to bein or near the kitchen was glad to give him his biscuit for the sake ofpeace and quietness. If no one gave it him, he would then take it outhimself and eat it. 

Now it came to pass that during the last year of the war dog-biscuits, like many other articles of food for man and beast, grew scarce, andwere finally not to be had at all. At all events, that was whathappened in Dandy's town of Penzance. He missed his biscuits greatlyand often reminded us of it by barking; then, lest we should think hewas barking about something else, he would go and sniff and paw at theempty box. He perhaps thought it was pure forgetfulness on the part ofthose of the house who went every morning to do the marketing and hadfallen into the habit of returning without any dog-biscuits in thebasket. One day during that last winter of scarcity and anxiety I wentto the kitchen and found the floor strewn all over with the fragmentsof Dandy's biscuit-box. Dandy himself had done it; he had dragged thebox from its place out into the middle of the floor, and thendeliberately set himself to bite and tear it into small pieces andscatter them about. He was caught at it just as he was finishing thejob, and the kindly person who surprised him in the act suggested thatthe reason of his breaking up the box in that way that he got somethingof the biscuit flavour by biting the pieces. My own theory was that asthe box was there to hold biscuits and now held none, he had come toregard it as useless--as having lost its function, so to speak--alsothat its presence there was an insult to his intelligence, a constanttemptation to make a fool of himself by visiting it half a dozen timesa day only to find it empty as usual. Better, then, to get rid of italtogether, and no doubt when he did it he put a little temper into thebusiness!

Dandy, from the time I first knew him, was strictly teetotal, but informer and distant days he had been rather fond of his glass. If aperson held up a glass of beer before him, I was told, he wagged histail in joyful anticipation, and a little beer was always given him atmealtime. Then he had an experience, which, after a little hesitation, I have thought it best to relate, as it is perhaps the most curiousincident in Dandy's somewhat uneventful life. 

One day Dandy, who after the manner of his kind, had attached himselfto the person who was always willing to take him out for a stroll, followed his friend to a neighbouring public-house, where the saidfriend had to discuss some business matter with the landlord. They wentinto the taproom, and Dandy, finding that the business was going to bea rather long affair, settled himself down to have a nap. Now itchanced that a barrel of beer which had just been broached had a leakytap, and the landlord had set a basin on the floor to catch the waste. Dandy, waking from his nap and hearing the trickling sound, got up, andgoing to the basin quenched his thirst, after which he resumed his nap. By-and-by he woke again and had a second drink, and altogether he wokeand had a drink five or six times; then, the business being concluded, they went out together, but no sooner were they in the fresh air thanDandy began to exhibit signs of inebriation. He swerved from side toside, colliding with the passers-by, and finally fell off the pavementinto the swift stream of water which at that point runs in the gutterat one side of the street. Getting out of the water, he started again, trying to keep close to the wall to save himself from another ducking. People looked curiously at him, and by-and-by they began to ask whatthe matter was. "Is your dog going to have a fit--or what is it?" theyasked. Dandy's friend said he didn't know; something was the matter nodoubt, and he would take him home as quickly as possible and see to it. 

When they finally got to the house Dandy staggered to his sofa, andsucceeded in climbing on to it and, throwing himself on his cushion, went fast asleep, and slept on without a break until the followingmorning. Then he rose quite refreshed and appeared to have forgottenall about it; but that day when at dinner-time some one said "Dandy"and held up a glass of beer, instead of wagging his tail as usual hedropped it between his legs and turned away in evident disgust. Andfrom that time onward he would never touch it with his tongue, and itwas plain that when they tried to tempt him, setting beer before himand smilingly inviting him to drink, he knew they were mocking him, andbefore turning away he would emit a low growl and show his teeth. Itwas the one thing that put him out and would make him angry with hisfriends and life companions. 

I should not have related this incident if Dandy had been alive. But heis no longer with us. He was old--half-way between fifteen and sixteen:it seemed as though he had waited to see the end of the war, since nosooner was the armistice proclaimed than he began to decline rapidly. Gone deaf and blind, he still insisted on taking severalconstitutionals every day, and would bark as usual at the gate, and ifno one came to let him out or admit him, he would open it for himselfas before. This went on till January, 1919, when some of the boys heknew were coming back to Penzance and to the house. Then he establishedhimself on his sofa, and we knew that his end was near, for there hewould sleep all day and all night, declining food. It is customary inthis country to chloroform a dog and give him a dose of strychnine to"put him out of his misery. " But it was not necessary in this case, ashe was not in misery; not a groan did he ever emit, waking or sleeping;and if you put a hand on him he would look up and wag his tail just tolet you know that it was well with him. And in his sleep he passedaway--a perfect case of euthanasia--and was buried in the large gardennear the second apple-tree. 

X

THE SAMPHIRE GATHERER

At sunset, when the strong wind from the sea was beginning to feelcold, I stood on the top of the sandhill looking down at an old womanhurrying about over the low damp ground beneath--a bit of sea-flatdivided from the sea by the ridge of sand; and I wondered at her, because her figure was that of a feeble old woman, yet she moved--I hadalmost said flitted--over that damp level ground in a surprisinglyswift light manner, pausing at intervals to stoop and gather somethingfrom the surface. But I couldn't see her distinctly enough to satisfymyself: the sun was sinking below the horizon, and that dimness in theair and coldness in the wind at day's decline, when the year too wasdeclining, made all objects look dim. Going down to her I found thatshe was old, with thin grey hair on an uncovered head, a lean dark facewith regular features and grey eyes that were not old and lookedsteadily at mine, affecting me with a sudden mysterious sadness. Forthey were unsmiling eyes and themselves expressed an unutterablesadness, as it appeared to me at the first swift glance; or perhaps notthat, as it presently seemed, but a shadowy something which sadness hadleft in them, when all pleasure and all interest in life forsook her, with all affections, and she no longer cherished either memories orhopes. This may be nothing but conjecture or fancy, but if she had beena visitor from another world she could not have seemed more strange tome. 

I asked her what she was doing there so late in the day, and sheanswered in a quiet even voice which had a shadow in it too, that shewas gathering samphire of that kind which grows on the flat saltingsand has a dull green leek-like fleshy leaf. At this season, sheinformed me, it was fit for gathering to pickle and put by for useduring the year. She carried a pail to put it in, and a table-knife inher hand to dig the plants up by the roots, and she also had an oldsack in which she put every dry stick and chip of wood she came across. She added that she had gathered samphire at this same spot every Augustend for very many years. 

I prolonged the conversation, questioning her and listening withaffected interest to her mechanical answers, while trying to fathomthose unsmiling, unearthly eyes that looked so steadily at mine. 

And presently, as we talked, a babble of human voices reached our ears, and half turning we saw the crowd, or rather procession, of golferscoming from the golf-house by the links where they had been drinkingtea. Ladies and gentlemen players, forty or more of them, following ina loose line, in couples and small groups, on their way to the Golfers'Hotel, a little further up the coast; a remarkably good-looking lotwith well-fed happy faces, well-dressed and in a merry mood, all freelytalking and laughing. Some were staying at the hotel, and for theothers a score or so of motor-cars were standing before its gates totake them inland to their homes, or to houses where they were staying. 

We suspended the conversation while they were passing us, within threeyards of where we stood, and as they passed the story of the linkswhere they had been amusing themselves since luncheon-time came into mymind. The land there was owned by an old, an ancient, family; they hadoccupied it, so it is said, since the Conquest; but the head of thehouse was now poor, having no house property in London, no coal minesin Wales, no income from any other source than the land, the twenty orthirty thousand acres let for farming. Even so he would not have beenpoor, strictly speaking, but for the sons, who preferred a life ofpleasure in town, where they probably had private establishments oftheir own. At all events they kept race-horses, and had their cars, andlived in the best clubs, and year by year the patient old father wascalled upon to discharge their debts of honour. It was a painfulposition for so estimable a man to be placed in, and he was much pitiedby his friends and neighbours, who regarded him as a worthyrepresentative of the best and oldest family in the county. But he wascompelled to do what he could to make both ends meet, and one of thelittle things he did was to establish golf-links over a mile or so ofsand-hills, lying between the ancient coast village and the sea, and tobuild and run a Golfers' Hotel in order to attract visitors from allparts. In this way, incidentally, the villagers were cut off from theirold direct way to the sea and deprived of those barren dunes, whichwere their open space and recreation ground and had stood them in theplace of a common for long centuries. They were warned off and toldthat they must use a path to the beach which took them over half a milefrom the village. And they had been very humble and obedient and hadmade no complaint. Indeed, the agent had assured them that they hadevery reason to be grateful to the overlord, since in return for thattrivial inconvenience they had been put to they would have the golfersthere, and there would be employment for some of the village boys ascaddies. Nevertheless, I had discovered that they were not grateful butconsidered that an injustice had been done to them, and it rankled intheir hearts. 

I remembered all this while the golfers were streaming by, and wonderedif this poor woman did not, like her fellow-villagers, cherish a secretbitterness against those who had deprived them of the use of the duneswhere for generations they had been accustomed to walk or sit or lie onthe loose yellow sands among the barren grasses, and had also cut offtheir direct way to the sea where they went daily in search of bits offirewood and whatever else the waves threw up which would be a help tothem in their poor lives. 

If it be so, I thought, some change will surely come into thoseunchanging eyes at the sight of all these merry, happy golfers on theirway to their hotel and their cars and luxurious homes. But though Iwatched her face closely there was no change, no faintest trace of ill-feeling or feeling of any kind; only that same shadow which had beenthere was there still, and her fixed eyes were like those of a captivebird or animal, that gaze at us, yet seem not to see us but to lookthrough and beyond us. And it was the same when they had all gone byand we finished our talk and I put money in her hand; she thanked mewithout a smile, in the same quiet even tone of voice in which she hadreplied to my question about the samphire. 

I went up once more to the top of the ridge, and looking down saw heragain as I had seen her at first, only dimmer, swiftly, lightly movingor flitting moth-like or ghost-like over the low flat salting, stillgathering samphire in the cold wind, and the thought that came to mewas that I was looking at and had been interviewing a being that wasvery like a ghost, or in any case a soul, a something which could notbe described, like certain atmospheric effects in earth and water andsky which are ignored by the landscape painter. To protect himself hecultivates what is called the "sloth of the eye": he thrusts hisfingers into his ears so to speak, not to hear that mocking voice thatfollows and mocks him with his miserable limitations. He who seeks toconvey his impressions with a pen is almost as badly off: the most hecan do in such instances as the one related, is to endeavour to conveythe emotion evoked by what he has witnessed. 

Let me then take the case of the man who has trained his eyes, orrather whose vision has unconsciously trained itself, to look at everyface he meets, to find in most cases something, however little, of theperson's inner life. Such a man could hardly walk the length of theStrand and Fleet-street or of Oxford-street without being startled atthe sight of a face which haunts him with its tragedy, its mystery, thestrange things it has half revealed. But it does not haunt him long;another arresting face follows, and then another, and the impressionsall fade and vanish from the memory in a little while. But from time totime, at long intervals, once perhaps in a lustrum, he will encounter aface that will not cease to haunt him, whose vivid impression will notfade for years. It was a face and eyes of that kind which I met in thesamphire gatherer on that cold evening; but the mystery of it is amystery still. 

XI

A SURREY VILLAGE

Through the scattered village of Churt, in its deepest part, runs aclear stream, broad in places, where it spreads over the road-way andis so shallow that the big carthorses are scarce wetted above theirfetlocks in crossing; in other parts narrow enough for a man to jumpover, yet deep enough for the trout to hide in. And which is theprettiest one finds it hard to say--the wide splashy places where thecattle come to drink, and the real cow and the illusory inverted cowbeneath it are to be seen touching their lips; or where the oaks andashes and elms stretch and mingle their horizontal branches;--wherethere is a green leafy canopy above and its green reflection below withthe glassy current midway between. On one side the stream is Surrey, onthe other Hampshire. Where the two counties meet there is a vast extentof heath-land--brown desolate moors and hills so dark as to look almostblack. 

It is wild, and its wildness is of that kind which comes of a barrensoil. It is a country best appreciated by those who, rich or poor, takelife easily, who love all aspects of nature, all weathers, and aboveeverything the liberty of wide horizons. To others the cry of "Back tothe land" would have a somewhat dreary and mocking sound in such aplace, like that curious cry, half laughter and half wail, which thepeewit utters as he anxiously winnows the air with creaking wings abovethe pedestrian's head. But it is not all of this character. From someblack hill-top one looks upon a green expanse, fresh and lively bycontrast as the young leaves of deciduous trees in spring, with blackagain or dark brown of pine and heath beyond. It is the oasis whereChurt is. The vivifying spirit of the wind at that height, and thatvision of verdure beneath, produce an exhilarating effect on the mind. It is common knowledge that the devil once lived in or haunted theseparts: now my hill-top fancy tells me that once upon a time a betterbeing, a wandering angel, flew over the country, and looking down andseeing it so dark-hued and desolate, a compassionate impulse took him, and unclasping his light mantle he threw it down, so that the humaninhabitants should not be without that sacred green colour thatelsewhere beautifies the earth. There to this day it lies where itfell--a mantle of moist vivid green, powdered with silver and gold, embroidered with all floral hues; all reds from the faint blush on thepetals of the briar-rose to the deep crimson of the red trifolium; andall yellows, and blues, and purples. 

It was pleasant to return from a ramble over the rough heather to theshade of the green village lanes, to stand aside in some deep narrowroad to make room for a farmer's waggon to pass, drawn by five or sixponderous horses; to meet the cows too, smelling of milk and new-mownhay, attended by the small cow-boy. One notices in most rural districtshow stunted in growth many of the boys of the labourers are; here I wasparticularly struck by it on account of the fine physique of many ofthe young men. It is possible that the growing time may be later andmore rapid here than in most places. Some of the young men areexceptionally tall, and there was a larger percentage of tall handsomewomen than I have seen in any village in Surrey and Hampshire. But thechildren were almost invariably too small for their years. The moststunted specimen was a little boy I met near Hindhead. He was thin, with a dry wizened face, and looked at the most about eight years old;he assured me that he was twelve. I engaged this gnome-like creature tocarry something for me, and we had three or four miles ramble together. A curious couple we must have seemed--a giant and a pigmy, the pigmylooking considerably older than the giant. He was a heath-cutter'schild, the eldest of seven children! They were very poor, but he couldearn nothing himself, except by gathering whortleberries in theirseason; then he said, all seven of them turned out with their parents, the youngest in its mother's arms. I questioned him about the birds ofthe district; he stoutly maintained that he recognised only four, andproceeded to name them. 

"Here is another, " said I, "a fifth you didn't name, singing in thebushes half a dozen yards from where we stand--the best singer of all. "

"I did name it, " he returned, "that's a thrush. "

It was a nightingale, a bird he did not know. But he knew a thrush--itwas one of the four birds he knew, and he stuck to it that it was athrush singing. Afterwards he pointed out the squalid-looking cottagehe lived in. It was on the estate of a great lady. 

"Tell me, " I said, "is she much liked on the estate?"

He pondered the question for a few moments, then replied, "Some likesher and some don't, " and not a word more would he say on that subject. A curious amalgam of stupidity and shrewdness; a bad observer of bird-life, but a cautious little person in answering leading questions; hewas evidently growing up (or not doing so) in the wrong place. 

Going out for a stroll in the evening, I came to a spot where two smallcottages stood on one side of the road, and a large pond fringed withrushes and a coppice on the other. Just by the cottage five boys wereamusing themselves by throwing stones at a mark, talking, laughing andshouting at their play. Not many yards from the noisy boys some fowlswere picking about on the turf close to the pond; presently out of therushes came a moorhen and joined them. It was in fine feather, veryglossy, the brightest nuptial yellow and scarlet on beak and shield. Itmoved about, heedless of my presence and of the noisy stone-throwingboys, with that pretty dignity and unconcern which make it one of themost attractive birds. What a contrast its appearance and motionspresented to those of the rough-hewn, ponderous fowls, among which itmoved so daintily! I was about to say that he was "just like a moderngentleman" in the midst of a group of clodhoppers in rough old coats, hob-nailed boots, and wisps of straw round their corduroys, standingwith clay pipes in their mouths, each with a pot of beer in his hand. Such a comparison would have been an insult to the moorhen. Nevertheless some ambitious young gentleman of aesthetic tastes mightdo worse than get himself up in this bird's livery. An open coat ofolive-brown silk, with an oblique white band at the side; waistcoat orcummerbund, and knickerbockers, slaty grey; stockings and shoes ofolive green; and, for a touch of bright colour, an orange and scarlettie. It would be pleasant to meet him in Piccadilly. But he wouldnever, never be able to get that quaint pretty carriage. The "Buzzardlope" and the crane's stately stride are imitable by man, but not themoorhen's gait. And what a mess of it our young gentleman would make inattempting at each step to throw up his coat tails in order to displayconspicuously the white silk underlining!

While I watched the pretty creature, musing sadly the while on theugliness of men's garments, a sudden storm of violent rasping screamsburst from some holly bushes a few yards away. It proceeded from threeexcited jays, but whether they were girding at me, the shouting boys, or a skulking cat among the bushes, I could not make out. 

When I finally left this curious company--noisy boys, great yellowfeather-footed fowls, dainty moorhen and vociferous jays--it was late, but another amusing experience was in store for me. Leaving the villageI went up the hill to the Devil's Jumps to see the sun set. The Devil, as I have said, was much about these parts in former times; his habitswere quite familiar to the people, and his name became associated withsome of the principal landmarks and features of the landscape. It washis custom to go up into these rocks, where, after drawing his longtail over his shoulder to have it out of his way, he would take one ofhis great flying leaps or jumps. On the opposite side of the village wehave the Poor Devil's Bottom--a deep treacherous hole that cuts like aravine through the moor, into which the unfortunate fellow once felland broke several of his bones. A little further away, on Hindhead, wehave the Devil's Punch Bowl, that huge basin-shaped hollow on the hillwhich has now become almost as famous as Flamborough Head or the Valleyof Rocks. 

At the Jumps a shower came on, and to escape a wetting I crept into ahole or hollow in the rude mass of black basaltic rock which standslike a fortress or ruined castle on the summit of the hill. When theshower was nearly over I heard the wing-beats and low guttural voice ofa cuckoo; he did not see my crouching form in the hollow and settled ona projecting block of stone close to me--not three yards from my head. Presently he began to call, and it struck me as very curious that hisvoice did not sound louder or different in quality than when heard at adistance of forty or fifty yards. When he had finished calling andflown away I crept out of my hole and walked back over the wet heath, thinking now of the cuckoo and now of that half natural, halfsupernatural but not very sublime being who, as I have said, wasformerly a haunter of these parts. This was a question that puzzled mymind. It is easy to say that legends of the Devil are common enough allover the land, and date back to old monkish times or to the beginningof Christianity, when the spiritual enemy was very much in man'sthoughts; the curious thing is, that the devil associated in traditionwith certain singular features in the landscape, as it is here in thisSurrey village, and in a thousand other places, has little or noresemblance to the true and only Satan. He is at his greatest a sort ofdemi-god, or a semi-human being or monster of abnormal power and wildlyeccentric habits, but not really bad. Thus, I was told by a native ofChurt that when the Devil met with that serious accident which gave itsname to the Poor Devil's Bottom, his painful cries and groans attractedthe villagers, and they ministered to him, giving him food and drinkand applying such remedies as they knew of to his hurts until herecovered and got out of the hole. Whether or not this legend has everbeen recorded I cannot say; one is struck with its curious resemblanceto some of the giant legends of the west of England. Near Devizes thereis a deep impression in the earth about which a very different story istold: it is called the Devil's Jumps and is, I believe, supposed to bean entrance to his subterranean dwelling-place. He jumps down throughthat hole, the earth opens to receive him, and closes behind him. Andit is (or was) believed that if any person will run three times roundthe hole the Devil will issue from it and start off in chase of a hare!Why he comes forth and chases a hare nobody knows. 

It was only recently, when in Cornwall, the most legendary of thecounties, that I found out who and what this rural village devil I hadbeen thinking of really was. In Cornwall one finds many legends of theDevil, as many in fact as in Flintshire, where the Devil has left somany memorials on the downs, but they are few to those relating to thegiants. These legends were collected by Robert Hunt, and firstpublished over half a century ago in his _Popular Romances of theWest of England_, and he points out in this work that "devil" inmost of the legends appears to be but another name for "giant, " that inmany cases the character of the being is practically the same. Hebelieves that traditions of giants, which probably date back toprehistoric times, were once common all over the country, that theywere always associated with certain impressive features in thelandscape--grotesque hills, chasms and hollows in the downs and hugemasses of rock; that the early teachers of Christianity, anxious tokill these traditions, or to blot out a false belief or superstitionwith the darker and more terrible image of a powerful being at war withman, taught that "giant" was but another name for Devil. If this is so, the teaching was not altogether good policy. The giants, it is true, were an awesome folk and flung immense rocks about in a reckless mannerand did many other mad things; and there were some that were whollybad, just as there are rogue elephants and as there are black sheep inthe human flock, but they were not really bad as a rule, and certainlynot too intelligent. Even little men with their cunning little brainscould get the better of them. The result of such teaching could only bethat the Devil would be regarded as not the unmitigated monster theyhad been told that he was, nor without human weaknesses and virtues. When we say now that he is not "as black as he is painted" we may bemerely repeating what was being said by the common people of England inthe days of St. Augustine and St. Colomb, and of the Irish missionariesin Cornwall. 

XII

A WILTSHIRE VILLAGE

"What is your nearest village?" I asked of a labourer I met on the roadone bleak day in early spring, after a great frost: for I had walkedfar enough and was cold and tired, and it seemed to me that it would bewell to find shelter for the night and a place to settle down in for aseason. 

"Burbage, " he answered, pointing the way to it. 

And when I came to it, and walked slowly and thoughtfully the entirelength of its one long street or road, my sister said to me:

"Yet another old ancient village!" and then, with a slight tremor inher voice, "And you are going to stay in it!"

"Yes, " I replied, in a tone of studied indifference: but as to whetherit was ancient or not I could not say;--I had never heard its namebefore, and knew nothing about it: doubtless it was characteristic--"That weary word, " she murmured. 

--But it was neither strikingly picturesque, nor quaint, nor did I wishit were either one or the other, nor anything else attractive orremarkable, since I sought only for a quiet spot where my brain mightthink the thoughts and my hand do the work that occupied me. A villageremote, rustic, commonplace, that would make no impression on mypreoccupied mind and leave no lasting image, nor anything but a faintand fading memory. 

 Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, And tempted her out of her gloom-- And conquered her scruples and gloom. 

And fortune favoured her, all things conspiring to keep me content towalk in that path which I had so readily, so lightly, promised to keep:for the work to be done was bread and cheese to me, and in a sense toher, and had to be done, and there was nothing to distract attention. 

It was quiet in my chosen cottage, in the low-ceilinged room where Iusually sat: outside, the walls were covered with ivy which made itlike a lonely lodge in a wood; and when I opened my small outward-opening latticed window there was no sound except the sighing of thewind in the old yew tree growing beside and against the wall, and atintervals the chirruping of a pair of sparrows that flew up from timeto time from the road with long straws in their bills. They werebuilding a nest beneath my window--possibly it was the first nest madethat year in all this country. 

All the day long it was quiet; and when, tired of work, I went out andaway from the village across the wide vacant fields, there was nothingto attract the eye. The deadly frost which had held us for long weeksin its grip had gone, for it was now drawing to the end of March, butwinter was still in the air and in the earth. Day after day a dullcloud was over all the sky and the wind blew cold from the north-east. The aspect of the country, as far as one could see in that level plain, was wintry and colourless. The hedges in that part are kept cut andtrimmed so closely that they seemed less like hedges than mere faintgreyish fences of brushwood, dividing field from field: they would nothave afforded shelter to a hedge-sparrow. The trees were few and farapart--grey naked oaks, un-visited even by the tits that find theirfood in bark and twig; the wide fields between were bare and devoid oflife of man or beast or bird. Ploughed and grass lands were equallydesolate; for the grass was last year's, long dead and now of thatneutral, faded, and palest of all pale dead colours in nature. It isnot white nor yellow, and there is no name for it. Looking down when Iwalked in the fields the young spring grass could be seen thrusting upits blades among the old and dead, but at a distance of a few yardsthese delicate living green threads were invisible. 

Coming back out of the bleak wind it always seemed strangely warm inthe village street--it was like coming into a room in which a fire hasbeen burning all day. So grateful did I find this warmth of the deepold sheltered road, so vocal too and full of life did it seem after thepallor and silence of the desolate world without, that I made it myfavourite walk, measuring its length from end to end. Nor was itstrange that at last, unconsciously, in spite of a preoccupied brainand of the assurance given that I would reside in the village, like asnail in its shell, without seeing it, an impression began to form andan influence to be felt. 

Some vague speculations passed through my mind as to how old thevillage might be. I had heard some person remark that it had formerlybeen much more populous, that many of its people had from time to timedrifted away to the towns; their old empty cottages pulled down and nonew ones built. The road was deep and the cottages on either side stoodsix to eight or nine feet above it. Where a cottage stood close to theedge of the road and faced it, the door was reached by a flight ofstone or brick steps; at such cottages the landing above the steps waslike a balcony, where one could stand and look down upon a passingcart, or the daily long straggling procession of children going to orreturning from the village school. I counted the steps that led up tomy own front door and landing place and found there were ten: I took itthat each step represented a century's wear of the road by hoof andwheel and human feet, and the conclusion was thus that the village wasa thousand years old--probably it was over two thousand. A fewcenturies more or less did not seem to matter much; the subject did notinterest me in the least, my passing thought about it was an idle strawshowing which way the mental wind was blowing. 

Albeit half-conscious of what that way was, I continued to assurePsyche--my sister--that all was going well: that if she would only keepquiet there would be no trouble, seeing that I knew my own weakness sowell--a habit of dropping the thing I am doing because something moreinteresting always crops up. Here fortunately for us (and our bread andcheese) there was nothing interesting--ab-so-lute-ly. 

But in the end, when the work was finished, the image that had beenformed could no longer be thrust away and forgotten. It was there, anentity as well as an image--an intelligent masterful being who said tome not in words but very plainly: _Try to ignore me and it will beworse for you: a secret want will continually disquiet you: recognizemy existence and right to dwell in and possess your soul, as you dwellin mine, and there will be a pleasant union and peace between us. _

To resist, to argue the matter like some miserable metaphysician wouldhave been useless. 

The persistent image was of the old deep road, the green bank on eachside, on which stood thatched cottages, whitewashed or of the pale redof old weathered bricks; each with its plot of ground or garden with, in some cases, a few fruit trees. Here and there stood a large shadetree--oak or pine or yew; then a vacant space, succeeded by a hedge, gapped and ragged and bare, or of evergreen holly or yew, smoothlytrimmed; then a ploughed field, and again cottages, looking up or downthe road, or placed obliquely, or facing it: and looking at onecottage and its surrounding, there would perhaps be a water-buttstanding beside it; a spade and fork leaning against the wall; awhite cat sitting in the shelter idly regarding three or four fowlsmoving about at a distance of a few yards, their red feathers ruffledby the wind; further away a wood-pile; behind it a pigsty shelteredby bushes, and on the ground, among the dead weeds, a chopping-block, some broken bricks, little heaps of rusty iron, and other litter. Eachplot had its own litter and objects and animals. 

On the steeply sloping sides of the road the young grass was springingup everywhere among the old rubbish of dead grass and leaves and sticksand stems. More conspicuous than the grass blades, green as verdigris, were the arrow-shaped leaves of the arum or cuckoo-pint. But there wereno flowers yet except the wild strawberry, and these so few and smallthat only the eager eyes of the little children, seeking for spring, might find them. 

Nor was the village less attractive in its sounds than in the naturalpleasing disorder of its aspect and the sheltering warmth of itsstreet. In the fields and by the skimpy hedges perfect silence reigned;only the wind blowing in your face filled your ears with a rushingaerial sound like that which lives in a seashell. Coming back from thisopen bleak silent world, the village street seemed vocal with birdvoices. For the birds, too, loved the shelter which had enabled them tolive through that great frost; and they were now recovering theirvoices; and whenever the wind lulled and a gleam of sunshine fell fromthe grey sky, they were singing from end to end of the long street. 

Listening to, and in some instances seeing the singers and countingthem, I found that there were two thrushes, four blackbirds, severalchaffinches and green finches, one pair of goldfinches, half-a-dozenlinnets and three or four yellow-hammers; a sprinkling of hedge-sparrows, robins and wrens all along the street; and finally, oneskylark from a field close by would rise and sing at a considerableheight directly above the road. Gazing up at the lark and puttingmyself in his place, the village beneath with its one long streetappeared as a vari-coloured band lying across the pale earth. Therewere dark and bright spots, lines and streaks, of yew and holly, red orwhite cottage walls and pale yellow thatch; and the plots and gardenswere like large reticulated mottlings. Each had its centre of humanlife with life of bird and beast, and the centres were in touch withone another, connected like a row of children linked together by theirhands; all together forming one organism, instinct with one life, movedby one mind, like a many-coloured serpent lying at rest, extended atfull length upon the ground. 

I imagined the case of a cottager at one end of the village occupied inchopping up a tough piece of wood or stump and accidentally lettingfall his heavy sharp axe on to his foot, inflicting a grievous wound. The tidings of the accident would fly from mouth to mouth to the otherextremity of the village, a mile distant; not only would everyindividual quickly know of it, but have at the same time a vivid mentalimage of his fellow villager at the moment of his misadventure, thesharp glittering axe falling on to his foot, the red blood flowing fromthe wound; and he would at the same time feel the wound in his ownfoot, and the shock to his system. 

In like manner all thoughts and feelings would pass freely from one toanother, although not necessarily communicated by speech; and all wouldbe participants in virtue of that sympathy and solidarity uniting themembers of a small isolated community. No one would be capable of athought or emotion which would seem strange to the others. The temper, the mood, the outlook, of the individual and the village would be thesame. 

I remember that something once occurred in a village where I wasstaying, which was in a way important to the villagers, although itgave them nothing and took nothing from them: it excited them withoutbeing a question of politics, or of "morality, " to use the word in itsnarrow popular sense. I spoke first to a woman of the village about it, and was not a little surprised at the view she took of the matter, forto me this seemed unreasonable; but I soon found that all the villagerstook this same unreasonable view, their indignation, pity and otheremotions excited being all expended as it seemed to me in the wrongdirection. The woman had, in fact, merely spoken the mind of thevillage. 

Owing to this close intimacy and family character of the village whichcontinues from generation to generation, there must be under alldifferences on the surface a close mental likeness hardly to berealised by those who live in populous centres; a union between mindand mind corresponding to that reticulation as it appeared to me, ofplot with plot and with all they contained. It is perhaps equally hardto realise that this one mind of a particular village is individual, wholly its own, unlike that of any other village, near or far. For onevillage differs from another; and the village is in a sense a body, andthis body and the mind that inhabits it, act and react on one another, and there is between them a correspondence and harmony, although it maybe but a rude harmony. 

It is probable that we that are country born and bred are affected inmore ways and more profoundly than we know by our surroundings. Thenature of the soil we live on, the absence or presence of runningwater, of hills, rocks, woods, open spaces; every feature in thelandscape, the vegetative and animal life--everything in fact that wesee, hear, smell and feel, enters not into the body only, but the soul, and helps to shape and colour it. Equally important in its action on usare the conditions created by man himself:--situation, size, form andthe arrangements of the houses in the village; its traditions, customsand social life. 

On that airy _mirador_ which I occupied under (not in) the clouds, after surveying the village beneath me I turned my sight abroad andsaw, near and far, many many other villages; and there was no otherexactly like Burbage nor any two really alike. 

Each had its individual character. To mention only two that werenearest--East Grafton and Easton, or Easton Royal. The first, smallancient rustic-looking place: a large green, park-like shaded by well-grown oak, elm, beech, and ash trees; a small slow stream of waterwinding through it: round this pleasant shaded and watered space thelow-roofed thatched cottages, each cottage in its own garden, its porchand walls overgrown with ivy and creepers. Thus, instead of a straightline like Burbage it formed a circle, and every cottage opened on tothe tree-shaded village green; and this green was like a great commonroom where the villagers meet, where the children play, where loverswhisper their secrets, where the aged and weary take their rest, andall subjects of interest are daily discussed. If a blackcap orchaffinch sung in one of the trees the strain could be heard in everycottage in the circle. All hear and see the same things, and think andfeel the same. 

The neighbouring village was neither line, nor circle, but a cluster ofcottages. Or rather a group of clusters, so placed that a dozen or morehousewives could stand at their respective doors, very nearly facingone another, and confabulate without greatly raising their voices. Outside, all round, the wide open country--grass and tilled land andhedges and hedgerow elms--is spread out before them. And in sight ofall the cottages, rising a little above them, stands the hoary ancientchurch with giant old elm-trees growing near it, their branches ladenwith rooks' nests, the air full of the continuous noise of thewrangling birds, as they fly round and round, and go and come bringingsticks all day, one to add to the high airy city, the other to drop asan offering to the earth-god beneath, in whose deep-buried breast theold trees have their roots. 

But the other villages that cannot be named were in scores andhundreds, scattered all over Wiltshire, for the entire county wasvisible from that altitude, and not Wiltshire only but Somerset, andBerkshire and Hampshire, and all the adjoining counties, and finally, the prospect still widening, all England from rocky Land's End to theCheviots and the wide windy moors sprinkled over with grey stonevillages. Thousands and thousands of villages; but I could only see afew distinctly--not more than about two hundred, the others from theirgreat distance--not in space but time--appearing but vaguely as spotsof colour on the earth. Then, fixing my attention on those that weremost clearly seen, I found myself in thought loitering in them, revisiting cottages and conversing with old people and children I knew;and recalling old and remembered scenes and talks, I smiled and by-and-by burst out laughing. 

It was then, when I laughed, that visions, dreams, memories, were putto flight, for my wise sister was studying my face, and now, puttingher hand on mine, she said, "Listen!" And I listened, sadly, since Icould guess what was coming. 

"I know, " she said, "just what is at the back of your mind, and allthese innumerable villages you are amusing yourself by revisiting, isbut a beginning, a preliminary canter. For not only is it the idea ofthe village and the mental colour in which it dyes its children's mindwhich fades never, however far they may go, though it may be to die atlast in remote lands and seas--"

Here I interrupted, "O yes! Do you remember a poet's lines to thelittle bourne in his childhood's home? A poet in that land where poetryis a rare plant--I mean Scotland. I mean the lines:

 How men that niver have kenned aboot it Can lieve their after lives withoot it I canna tell, for day and nicht It comes unca'd for to my sicht. "

"Yes, " she replied, smiling sadly, and then, mocking my bad Scotch, "and do ye ken that ither one, a native too of that country where, asyou say, poetry is a rare plant; that great wanderer over many landsand seas, seeker after summer everlasting, who died thousands of milesfrom home in a tropical island, and was borne to his grave on amountain top by the dark-skinned barbarous islanders, weeping andlamenting their dead Tusitala, and the lines he wrote--do you remember?

 Be it granted to me to behold you again in dying, Hills of my home! and to hear again the call-- Hear about the graves of the martyrs, the pee-wees crying, And hear no more at all!"

"Oh, I was foolish to quote those lines on a Scotch burn to you, knowing how you would take such a thing up! For you are the very soulof sadness--a sadness that is like a cruelty--and for all your love, mysister, you would have killed me with your sadness had I not refused tolisten so many many times!"

"No! No! No! Listen now to what I had to say without interrupting meagain: All this about the villages, viewed from up there where the larksings, is but a preliminary--a little play to deceive yourself and me. For, all the time you are thinking of other things, serious and someexceedingly sad--of those who live not in villages but in dreadfulcities, who are like motherless men who have never known a mother'slove and have never had a home on earth. And you are like one who hascome upon a cornfield, ripe for the harvest with you alone to reap it. And viewing it you pluck an ear of corn, and rub the grains out in thepalm of your hand, and toss them up, laughing and playing with themlike a child, pretending you are thinking of nothing, yet all the timethinking--thinking of the task before you. And presently you will taketo the reaping and reap until the sun goes down, to begin again atsunrise to toil and sweat again until evening. Then, lifting your bentbody with pain and difficulty, you will look to see how little you havedone, and that the field has widened and now stretches away before youto the far horizon. And in despair you will cast the sickle away andabandon the task. "

"What then, O wise sister, would you have me do?"

"Leave it now, and save yourself this fresh disaster and suffering. "

"So be it! I cannot but remember that there have been many disasters--more than can be counted on the fingers of my two hands--which I wouldhave saved myself if I had listened when I turned a deaf ear to you. But tell me, do you mind just a little more innocent play on my part--just a little picture of, say, one of the villages viewed a while agofrom under the cloud--or perhaps two?"

And Psyche, my sister, having won _her_ point and pacified me, andconquered my scruples and gloom, and seeing me now submissive, smiled agracious consent. 

XIII

HER OWN VILLAGE

One afternoon when cycling among the limestone hills of Derbyshire Icame to an unlovely dreary-looking little village named Chilmorton. Itwas an exceptionally hot June day and I was consumed with thirst: neverhad I wanted tea so badly. Small gritstone-built houses and cottages ofa somewhat sordid aspect stood on either side of the street, but therewas no shop of any kind and not a living creature could I see. It waslike a village of the dead or sleeping. At the top of the street I cameto the church standing in the middle of its church yard with thepublic-house for nearest neighbour. Here there was life. Going in Ifound it the most squalid and evil-smelling village pub I had everentered. Half a dozen grimy-looking labourers were drinking at the bar, and the landlord was like them in appearance, with his dirty shirt-front open to give his patrons a view of his hairy sweating chest. Iasked him to get me tea. "Tea!" he shouted, staring at me as if I hadinsulted him; "There's no tea here!" A little frightened at hisaggressive manner I then meekly asked for soda-water, which he gave me, and it was warm and tasted like a decoction of mouldy straw. Aftertaking a sip and paying for it I went to look at the church, which Iwas astonished to find open. 

It was a relief to be in that cool, twilight, not unbeautiful interiorafter my day in the burning sun. 

After resting and taking a look round I became interested in watchingand listening to the talk of two other visitors who had come in beforeme. One was a slim, rather lean brown-skinned woman, still young butwith the incipient crow's-feet, the lines on the forehead, the dusty-looking dark hair, and other signs of time and toil which almostinvariably appear in the country labourer's wife before she attains tomiddle age. She was dressed in a black gown, presumably her bestalthough it was getting a little rusty. Her companion was a fat, red-cheeked young girl in a towny costume, a straw hat decorated withbright flowers and ribbons, and a string of big coloured beads abouther neck. 

In a few minutes they went out, and when going by me I had a good lookat the woman's face, for it was turned towards me with an eagerquestioning look in her dark eyes and a very friendly smile on herlips. What was the attraction I suddenly found in that sunburnt face?--what did it say to me or remind me of?--what did it suggest?

I followed them out to where they were standing talking among thegravestones, and sitting down on a tomb near them spoke to the woman. She responded readily enough, apparently pleased to have some one totalk to, and pretty soon began to tell me the history of their lives. She told me that Chilmorton was her native place, but that she had beenabsent from it many many years. She knew just how many years becauseher child was only six months old when she left and was now fourteenthough she looked more. She was such a big girl! Then her man took themto his native place in Staffordshire, where they had lived ever since. But their girl didn't live with them now. An aunt, a sister of herhusband, had taken her to the town where she lived, and was having hertaught at a private school. As soon as she left school her aunt hopedto get her a place in a draper's shop. For a long time past she hadwanted to show her daughter her native place, but had never been ableto manage it because it was so far to come and they didn't have muchmoney to spend; but now at last she had brought her and was showing hereverything. 

Glancing at the girl who stood listening but with no sign of interestin her face, I remarked that her daughter would perhaps hardly thinkthe journey had been worth taking. 

"Why do you say that?" she quickly demanded. 

"Oh well, " I replied, "because Chilmorton can't have much to interest agirl living in a town. " Then I foolishly went on to say what I thoughtof Chilmorton. The musty taste of that warm soda-water was still in mymouth and made me use some pretty strong words. 

At that she flared up and desired me to know that in spite of what Ithought it Chilmorton was the sweetest, dearest village in England;that she was born there and hoped to be buried in its churchyard whereher parents were lying, and her grandparents and many others of herfamily. She was thirty-six years old now, she said, and would perhapslive to be an old woman, but it would make her miserable for all therest of her life if she thought she would have to lie in the earth at adistance from Chilmorton. 

During this speech I began to think of the soft reply it would now benecessary for me to make, when, having finished speaking, she calledsharply to her daughter, "Come, we've others to see yet, " and, followedby the girl, walked briskly away without so much as a good-bye, or evena glance!

Oh you poor foolish woman, thought I; why take it to heart like that!and I was sorry and laughed a little as I went back down the street. Itwas beginning to wake up now! A man in his shirt sleeves and without ahat, a big angry man, was furiously hunting a rebellious pig all rounda small field adjoining a cottage, trying to corner it; he swore andshouted, and out of the cottage came a frowsy-looking girl in a raggedgown with her hair hanging all over her face, to help him with the pig. A little further on I caught sight of yet another human being, a tallgaunt old woman in cap and shawl, who came out of a cottage and movedfeebly towards a pile of faggots a few yards from the door. Just as shegot to the pile I passed, and she slowly turned and gazed at me out ofher dim old eyes. Her wrinkled face was the colour of ashes and waslike the face of a corpse, still bearing on it the marks of sufferingendured for many miserable years. And these three were the onlyinhabitants I saw on my way down the street. 

At the end of the village the street broadened to a clean white roadwith high ancient hedgerow elms on either side, their upper branchesmeeting and forming a green canopy over it. As soon as I got to thetrees I stopped and dismounted to enjoy the delightful sensation theshade produced: there out of its power I could best appreciate the sunshining in splendour on the wide green hilly earth and in the greentranslucent foliage above my head. In the upper branches a blackbirdwas trolling out his music in his usual careless leisurely manner; whenI stopped under it the singing was suspended for half a minute or so, then resumed, but in a lower key, which made it seem softer, sweeter, inexpressibly beautiful. 

There are beautiful moments in our converse with nature when all theavenues by which nature comes to our souls seem one, when hearing andseeing and smelling and feeling are one sense, when the sweet soundthat falls from a bird, is but the blue of heaven, the green of earth, and the golden sunshine made audible. 

Such a moment was mine, as I stood under the elms listening to theblackbird. And looking back up the village street I thought of thewoman in the churchyard, her sun-parched eager face, her questioningeyes and friendly smile: what was the secret of its attraction?--whatdid that face say to me or remind me of?--what did it suggest?

Now it was plain enough. She was still a child at heart, in spite ofthose marks of time and toil on her countenance, still full of wonderand delight at this wonderful world of Chilmorton set amidst itslimestone hills, under the wide blue sky--this poor squalid littlevillage where I couldn't get a cup of tea!

It was the child surviving in her which had attracted and puzzled me;it does not often shine through the dulling veil of years so brightly. And as she now appeared to me as a child in heart I could picture heras a child in years, in her little cotton frock and thin bare legs, asunburnt little girl of eight, with the wide-eyed, eager, half-shy, half-trustful look, asking you, as the child ever asks, what youthink?--what you feel? It was a wonderful world, and the world was thevillage, its streets of gritstone houses, the people living in them, the comedies and tragedies of their lives and deaths, and burials inthe churchyard with grass and flowers to grow over them by-and-by. Andthe church;--I think its interior must have seemed vaster, morebeautiful and sublime to her wondering little soul than the greatestcathedral can be to us. I think that our admiration for the loveliestblooms--the orchids and roses and chrysanthemums at our great annualshows--is a poor languid feeling compared to what she experienced atthe sight of any common flower of the field. Best of all perhaps werethe elms at the village end, those mighty rough-barked trees that hadtheir tops "so close against the sky. " And I think that when ablackbird chanced to sing in the upper branches it was as if someangelic being had dropped down out of the sky into that greentranslucent cloud of leaves, and seeing the child's eager face lookingup had sung a little song of his own celestial country to please her. 

XIV

APPLE BLOSSOMS AND A LOST VILLAGE

The apple has not come to its perfection this season until the middleof May; even here, in this west country, the very home of the spirit ofthe apple tree! Now it is, or seems, all the more beautiful because ofits lateness, and of an April of snow and sleet and east winds, thebitter feeling of which is hardly yet out of our blood. If I couldrecover the images of all the flowering apple trees I have ever lookeddelightedly at, adding those pictured by poets and painters, includingthat one beneath which Fiammetta is standing, forever, with that freshglad face almost too beautiful for earth, looking out as from pink andwhite clouds of the multitudinous blossoms--if I could see all that, Icould not find a match for one of the trees of to-day. It is likenothing in earth, unless we say that, indescribable in its loveliness, it is like all other sights in nature which wake in us a sense of thesupernatural. 

Undoubtedly the apple trees seem more beautiful to us than all otherblossoming trees, in all lands we have visited, just because it is socommon, so universal--I mean in this west country--so familiar a sightto everyone from infancy, on which account it has more associations ofa tender and beautiful kind than the others. For however beautiful itmay be intrinsically, the greatest share of the charm is due to thememories that have come to be part of and one with it--the forgottenmemories they may be called. For they mostly refer to a far period inour lives, to our early years, to days and events that were happy andsad. The events themselves have faded from the mind, but theyregistered an emotion, cumulative in its effect, which endures andrevives from time to time and is that indefinable feeling, that tendermelancholy and "divine despair, " and those idle tears of which the poetsays, "I know not what they mean, " which gather to the eyes at thesight of happy autumn fields and of all lovely natural sights familiarfrom of old. 

To-day, however, looking at the apple blooms, I find the mostbeautifying associations and memories not in a far-off past, but invisionary apple trees seen no longer ago than last autumn!

And this is how it comes about. In this red and green country of DevonI am apt to meet with adventures quite unlike those experienced inother counties, only they are mostly adventures of the spirit. 

Lying awake at six o'clock last October, in Exeter, and seeing it was agrey misty morning, my inclination was to sleep again. I only dozed andwas in the twilight condition when the mind is occupied with idleimages and is now in the waking world, now in dreamland. A thought ofthe rivers in the red and green country floated through my brain--ofthe Clyst among others; then of the villages on the Clyst; ofBroadclyst, Clyst St. Mary, Clyst St. Lawrence, finally of Clyst Hyden;and although dozing I half laughed to remember how I went searching forthat same village last May and how I wouldn't ask my way of anyone, just because it was Clyst Hyden, because the name of that little hiddenrustic village had been written in the hearts of some who had passedaway long ago, far far from home:--how then could I fail to find it?--it would draw my feet like a magnet!

I remembered how I searched among deep lanes, beyond rows and rows ofancient hedgerow elms, and how I found its little church and thatchedcottages at last, covered with ivy and roses and creepers, all in awhite and pink cloud of apple blossoms. Searching for it had been greatfun and finding it a delightful experience; why not have the pleasureonce more now that it was May again and the apple orchards in blossom?No sooner had I asked myself the question than I was on my bicycleamong those same deep lanes, with the unkept hedges and the greathedgerow elms shutting out a view of the country, searching once morefor the village of Clyst Hyden. And as on the former occasion, yearsago it seemed, I would not enquire my way of anyone. I had found itthen for myself and was determined to do so again, although I had setout with the vaguest idea as to the right direction. 

But hours went by and I could not find it, and now it was growing late. Through a gap in the hedge I saw the great red globe of the sun quitenear the horizon, and immediately after seeing it I was in a narrowroad with a green border, which stretched away straight before mefurther than I could see. Then the thatched cottages of a village cameinto sight; all were on one side of the road, and the setting sunflamed through the trees had kindled road and trees and cottages to ashining golden flame. 

"This is it!" I cried. "This is my little lost village found again, andit is well I found it so late in the day, for now it looks less likeeven the loveliest old village in Devon than one in fairyland, or inBeulah. "

When I came near it that sunset splendour did not pass off and it wasindeed like no earthly village; then people came out from the houses togaze at me, and they too were like people glorified with the sunsetlight and their faces shone as they advanced hurriedly to meet me, pointing with their hands and talking and laughing excitedly as if myarrival among them had been an event of great importance. In a momentthey surrounded and crowded round me, and sitting still among themlooking from radiant face to face I at length found my speech andexclaimed, "O how beautiful!"

Then a girl pressed forward from among the others, and putting up herhand she placed it on my temple, the fingers resting on my forehead;and gazing with a strange earnestness in my eyes she said: "Beautiful?--only that! Do you see nothing more?"

I answered, looking back into her eyes: "Yes--I think there issomething more but I don't know what it is. Does it come from you--youreyes--your voice, all this that is passing in my mind?"

"What is passing in your mind?" she asked. 

"I don't know. Thoughts--perhaps memories: hundreds, thousands--theycome and go like lightning so that I can't arrest them--not even one!"

She laughed, and the laugh was like her eyes and her voice and thetouch of her hand on my temples. 

Was it sad or glad? I don't know, but it was the most beautiful sound Ihad ever heard, yet it seemed familiar and stirred me in the strangestway. 

"Let me think, " I said. 

"Yes, think!" they all together cried laughingly; and then instantlywhen I cast my eyes down there was a perfect stillness as if they wereall holding their breath and watching me. 

That sudden strange stillness startled me: I lifted my eyes and theywere gone--the radiant beautiful people who had surrounded andinterrogated me, and with them their shining golden village, had allvanished. There was no village, no deep green lanes and pink and whiteclouds of apple blossoms, and it was not May, it was late October and Iwas lying in bed in Exeter seeing through the window the red and greyroofs and chimneys and pale misty white sky. 

XV

THE VANISHING CURTSEY

'Tis impossible not to regret the dying out of the ancient, quaintly-pretty custom of curtseying in rural England; yet we cannot but see theinevitableness of it, when we consider the earthward drop of the body--the bird-like gesture pretty to see in the cottage child, not sospontaneous nor pretty in the grown girl, and not pretty nor quaint, but rather grotesque (as we think now) in the middle-aged or elderlyperson--and that there is no longer a corresponding self-abasement andworshipping attitude in the village mind. It is a sign or symbol thathas lost, or is losing, its significance. 

I have been rambling among a group of pretty villages on and near theSomerset Avon, some in that county, others in Wiltshire; and thoughthese small rustic centres, hidden among the wooded hills, had anappearance of antiquity and of having continued unchanged for very manyyears, the little ones were as modern in their speech and behaviour astown children. Of all those I met and, in many instances, spoke to, inthe village street and in the neighbouring woods and lanes, not onelittle girl curtseyed to me. The only curtsey I had dropped to me inthis district was from an old woman in the small hill-hidden village ofEnglishcombe. It was on a frosty afternoon in February, and she stoodnear her cottage gate with nothing on her head, looking at the sametime very old and very young. Her eyes were as blue and bright as achild's, and her cheeks were rosy-red; but the skin was puckered withinnumerable wrinkles as in the very old. Surprised at her curtsey Istopped to speak to her, and finally went into her cottage and had teaand made the acquaintance of her husband, a gaunt old man with a facegrey as ashes and dim colourless eyes, whom Time had made almost animbecile, and who sat all day groaning by the fire. Yet this worn-outold working man was her junior by several years. Her age was eighty-four. She was very good company, certainly the brightest and liveliestof the dozen or twenty octogenarians I am acquainted with. I heard thestory of her life, --that long life in the village where she was bornand had spent sixty-five years of married life, and where she would liein the churchyard with her mate. Her Christian name, she mentioned, wasPriscilla, and it struck me that she must have been a very pretty andcharming Priscilla about the thirties of the last century. 

To return to the little ones; it was too near Bath for such a custom tosurvive among them, and it is the same pretty well everywhere; you mustgo to a distance of ten or twenty miles from any large town, or a bigstation, to meet with curtseying children. Even in villages at adistance from towns and railroads, in purely agricultural districts, the custom is dying out, if, for some reason, strangers are often seenin the place. Such a village is Selborne, and an amusing experience Imet with there some time ago serves to show that the old rusticsimplicity of its inhabitants is now undergoing a change. 

I was walking in the village street with a lady friend when we noticedfour little girls coming towards us with arms linked. As they came nearthey suddenly stopped and curtseyed all together in an exaggeratedmanner, dropping till their knees touched the ground, then springing totheir feet they walked rapidly away. From the bold, free, easy way inwhich the thing was done it was plain to see that they had beenpractising the art in something of a histrionic spirit for the benefitof the pilgrims and strangers frequently seen in the village, and fortheir own amusement. As the little Selbornians walked off they glancedback at us over their shoulders, exhibiting four roguish smiles ontheir four faces. The incident greatly amused us, but I am not surethat the Reverend Gilbert White would have regarded it in the samehumorous light. 

Occasionally one even finds a village where strangers are not oftenseen, which has yet outlived the curtsey. Such a place, I take it, isAlvediston, the small downland village on the upper waters of theEbble, in southern Wiltshire. One day last summer I was loitering nearthe churchyard, when a little girl, aged about eight, came from anadjoining copse with some wild flowers in her hand. She was singing asshe walked and looked admiringly at the flowers she carried; but shecould see me watching her out of the corners of her eyes. 

"Good morning, " said I. "It is nice to be out gathering flowers on sucha day, but why are you not in school?"

"Why am I not in school?" in a tone of surprise. "Because the holidaysare not over. On Monday we open. "

"How delighted you will be. "

"Oh no, I don't _think_ I shall be delighted, " she returned. ThenI asked her for a flower, and apparently much amused she presented mewith a water forget-me-not, then she sauntered on to a small cottageclose by. Arrived there, she turned round and faced me, her hand on thegate, and after gazing steadily for some moments exclaimed, "Delightedat going back to school--who ever heard such a thing?" and, burstinginto a peal of musical child-laughter, she went into the cottage. 

One would look for curtseys in the Flower Walk in Kensington Gardens assoon as in the hamlet of this remarkably self-possessed little maid. Her manner was exceptional; but, if we must lose the curtsey, and therural little ones cease to mimic that pretty drooping motion of thenightingale, the kitty wren, and wheatear, cannot our village pastorsand masters teach them some less startling and offensive form ofsalutation than the loud "Hullo!" with which they are accustomed togreet the stranger within their gates?

I shall finish with another story which might be entitled "The Democratagainst Curtseying. " The scene was a rustic village, a good many milesfrom any railroad station, in the south of England. Here I made theacquaintance and was much in the society of a man who was not a nativeof the place, but had lived several years in it. Although only aworking man, he had, by sheer force of character, made himself a powerin the village. A total abstainer and non-smoker, a Dissenter inreligion and lay-preacher where Dissent had never found a footholduntil his coming, and an extreme Radical in politics, he was naturallysomething of a thorn in the side of the vicar and of the neighbouringgentry. 

But in spite of his extreme views and opposition to old cherished ideasand conventions, he was so liberal-minded, so genial in temper, sohuman, that he was very much liked even by those who were his enemieson principle; and they were occasionally glad to have his help and towork with him in any matter that concerned the welfare of the very poorin the village. 

After the first bitterness between him and the important inhabitantshad been outlived and a _modus vivendi_ established, the vicarventured one day to remonstrate with the good but mistaken man on thesubject of curtseying, which had always been strictly observed in thevillage. The complaint was that the parishioner's wife did not curtseyto the vicaress, but on the contrary, when she met or passed her on theroad she maintained an exceedingly stiff, erect attitude, which was notright, and far from pleasant to the other. 

"Is it then your desire, " said my democratic friend, "that my wifeshall curtsey to your wife when they meet or pass each other in thevillage?"

"Certainly, that is my wish, " said the vicar. 

"Very well, " said the other; "my wife is guided by me in such matters, and I am very happy to say that she is an obedient wife, and I shalltell her that she is to curtsey to your wife in future. "

"Thank you, " said the vicar, "I am glad that you have taken it in aproper spirit. "

"But I have not yet finished, " said the other. "I was going to add thatthis command to my wife to curtsey to your wife will be made by me onthe understanding that you will give a similar command to your wife, and that when they meet and my wife curtseys to your wife, your wifeshall at the same time curtsey to my wife. "

The vicar was naturally put out and sharply told his rebelliousparishioner that he was setting himself against the spirit of theteaching of the Master whom they both acknowledged, and who commandedus to give to everyone his due, with more to the same effect. But hefailed to convince, and there was no curtseying. 

It was sometimes pleasant and amusing to see these two--the good oldclergyman, weak and simple-minded, and his strong antagonist, theaggressive working man with his large frame and genial countenance andgreat white flowing beard--a Walt Whitman in appearance--workingtogether for some good object in the village. It was even more amusing, but touching as well, to witness an unexpected meeting between the twowives, perhaps at the door of some poor cottage, to which both had goneon the same beautiful errand of love and compassion to some strickensoul, and exchanging only a short "Good-day, " the democrat's wifestiffening her knee-joints so as to look straighter and taller thanusual. 

XVI

LITTLE GIRLS I HAVE MET

Perhaps some reader who does not know a little girl her psychology, after that account of the Alvediston maidie who presented me with aflower with an arch expression on her face just bordering on a mockingsmile, will say, "What a sophisticated child to be sure!" He would bequite wrong unless we can say that the female child is bornsophisticated, which sounds rather like a contradiction in terms. Thatappearance of sophistication, common in little girls even in a remoterustic village hidden away among the Wiltshire downs, is implicit in, and a quality of the child's mind--the _female_ child, it will beunderstood--and is the first sign of the flirting instinct which showsitself as early as the maternal one. This, we know, appears as soon asa child is able to stand on its feet, perhaps even before it quits thecradle. It seeks to gratify itself by mothering something, even aninanimate something, so that it is as common to put a doll in a baby-child's hands as it is to put a polished cylindrical bit of ivory--Iforget the name of it--in its mouth. The child grows up nursing thisimage of itself, whether with or without a wax face, blue eyes and tow-coloured hair, and if or when the unreality of the doll begins to spoilits pleasure, it will start mothering something with life in it--akitten for preference, and if no kitten, or puppy or other suchcreature easy to be handled or cuddled, is at hand, it will take kindlyto any mild-mannered old gentleman of its circle. 

It is just these first instinctive impulses of the girl-child, combinedwith her imitativeness and wonderful precocity, which make her sofascinating. But do they think? They do, but this first early thinkingdoes not make them self-conscious as does their later thinking, to thespoiling of their charm. The thinking indeed begins remarkably early. Iremember one child, a little five-year-old and one of my favourites, climbing to my knee one day and exhibiting a strangely grave face. "Doris, what makes you look so serious?" I asked. And after a fewmoments of silence, during which she appeared to be thinking hard, shestartled me by asking me what was the use of living, and otherquestions which it almost frightened me to hear from those childishinnocent lips. Yet I have seen this child grow up to womanhood--a quitecommonplace conventional woman, who when she has a child of her own offive would be unspeakably shocked to hear from it the very things sheherself spoke at that tender age. And if I were to repeat to her nowthe words she spoke (the very thought of Byron in his know-that-whatever-thou-hast-been-'Twere-something-better-not-to-be poem) shewould not believe it. 

It is, however, rare for the child mind in its first essays atreflection to take so far a flight. It begins as a rule like thefledgling by climbing with difficulty out of the nest and on to thenearest branches. 

It is interesting to observe these first movements. Quite recently Imet with a child of about the same age as the one just described, whoexhibited herself to me in the very act of trying to climb out of thenest--trying to grasp something with her claws, so to speak, and pullherself up. She was and is a very beautiful child, full of life and funand laughter, and came out to me when I was sitting on the lawn to askme for a story. 

"Very well, " I said. "But you must wait for half an hour until Iremember all about it before I begin. It is a long story about thingsthat happened a long time ago. "

She waited as patiently as she could for about three minutes, and thensaid: "What do you mean by a long time ago?"

I explained, but could see that I had not made her understand, and atlast put it in days, then weeks, then seasons, then years, until sheappeared to grasp the meaning of a year, and then finished by saying along time ago in this case meant a hundred years. 

Again she was at a loss, but still trying to understand she asked me:"What is a hundred years?"

"Why, it's a hundred years, " I replied. "Can you count to a hundred?"

"I'll try, " she said, and began to count and got to nineteen, thenstopped. I prompted her, and she went on to twenty-nine, and so on, hesitating after each nine, until she reached fifty. "That's enough, " Isaid, "it's too hard to go the whole way; but now don't you begin tounderstand what a hundred years means?"

She looked at me and then away, and her beautiful blue intelligent eyestold me plainly that she did not, and that she felt baffled andworried. 

After an interval she pointed to the hedge. "Look at the leaves, " shesaid. "I could go and count a hundred leaves, couldn't I? Well, wouldthat be a hundred years?"

And no further could we get, since I could not make out just what thequestion meant. At first it looked as if she thought of the leaves asan illustration--or a symbol; and then that she had failed to grasp theidea of time, or that it had slipped from her, and she had fallen back, as it were, to the notion that a hundred meant a hundred objects, whichyou could see and feel. There appeared to be no way out of the puzzle-dom into which we had both got, so that it came as a relief to both ofus when she heard her mother calling--calling her back into a world shecould understand. 

I believe that when we penetrate to the real mind of girl children wefind a strong likeness in them even when they appear to differ aswidely from one another as adults do. The difference in the little onesis less in disposition and character than in unlikeness due tounconscious imitation. They take their mental colour from theirsurroundings. The red men of America are the gravest people on theglobe, and their children are like them when with them; but thisunnatural gravity is on the surface and is a mask which drops or fadesoff when they assemble together out of sight and hearing of theirelders. In like manner our little ones have masks to fit the characterof the homes they are bred in. 

Here I recall a little girl I once met when I was walking somewhere onthe borders of Dorset and Hampshire. It was at the close of an autumnday, and I was on a broad road in a level stretch of country with thelow buildings of a farmhouse a quarter of a mile ahead of me, and noother building in sight. A lonely land with but one living creature insight--a very small girl, slowly coming towards me, walking in themiddle of the wet road; for it had been raining a greater part of theday. It was amazing to see that wee solitary being on the lonely road, with the wide green and brown earth spreading away to the horizon oneither side under the wide pale sky. She was a sturdy little thing ofabout five years old, in heavy clothes and cloth cap, and long knittedmuffler wrapped round her neck and crossed on her chest, then tied orbound round her waist, thick boots and thick leggings! And she had around serious face, and big blue eyes with as much wonder in them atseeing me as I suppose mine expressed at seeing her. When we were stilla little distance apart she drew away to the opposite side of the road, thinking perhaps that so big a man would require the whole of itstwenty-five yards width for himself. But no, that was not the reason ofher action, for on gaining the other side she stopped and turned so asto face me when I should be abreast of her, and then at the propermoment she bent her little knees and dropped me an elaborate curtsey;then, rising again to her natural height, she continued regarding mewith those wide-open astonished eyes! Nothing in little girls sodeliciously quaint and old-worldish had ever come in my way before; andthough it was late in the day and the road long, I could not do lessthan cross over to speak to her. She belonged to a cottage I had leftsome distance behind, and had been to the farm with a message and wason her way back, she told me, speaking with slow deliberation andprofound respect, as to a being of a higher order than man. Then shetook my little gift and after making a second careful curtsey proceededslowly and gravely on her way. 

Undoubtedly all this unsmiling, deeply respectful manner was a mask, orwe may go so far as to call it second nature, and was the result ofliving in a cottage in an agricultural district with adults or oldpeople:--probably her grandmother was the poor little darling's model, and any big important-looking man she met was the lord of the manor!

What an amazing difference outwardly between the rustic and the citychild of a society woman, accustomed to be addressed and joked with andcaressed by scores of persons every day--her own people, friends, visitors, strangers! Such a child I met last summer at a west-end shopor emporium where women congregate in a colossal tea-room under a glassdome, with glass doors opening upon an acre of flat roof. 

There, one afternoon, after drinking my tea I walked away to a gooddistance on the roof and sat down to smoke a cigarette, and presentlysaw a charming-looking child come dancing out from among the tea-drinkers. Round and round she whirled, heedless of the presence of allthose people, happy and free and wild as a lamb running a race withitself on some green flowery down under the wide sky. And by-and-by shecame near and was pirouetting round my chair, when I spoke to her, andcongratulated her on having had a nice holiday at the seaside. One knewit from her bare brown legs. Oh yes, she said, it was a nice holiday atBognor, and she had enjoyed it very much. 

"Particularly the paddling, " I remarked. 

No, there was no paddling--her mother wouldn't let her paddle. 

"What a cruel mother!" I said, and she laughed merrily, and we talked alittle longer, and then seeing her about to go, I said, "you must bejust seven years old. "

"No, only five, " she replied. 

"Then, " said I, "you must be a wonderfully clever child. "

"Oh yes, I know I'm clever, " she returned quite naturally, and away shewent, spinning over the wide space, and was presently lost in thecrowd. 

A few minutes later a pleasant-looking but dignified lady came out fromamong the tea-drinkers and bore down directly on me. "I hear, " shesaid, "you've been talking to my little girl, and I want you to know Iwas very sorry I couldn't let her paddle. She was just recovering fromwhooping-cough when I took her to the seaside, and I was afraid to lether go in the water. "

I commended her for her prudence, and apologised for having called hercruel, and after a few remarks about her charming child, she went herway. 

And now I have no sooner done with this little girl than another comethup as a flower in my memory and I find I'm compelled to break off. There are too many for me. It is true that the child's beautiful lifeis a brief one, like that of the angel-insect, and may be told in aparagraph; yet if I were to write only as many of them as there are"Lives" in Plutarch it would still take an entire book--an octavo of atleast three hundred pages. But though I can't write the book I shallnot leave the subject just yet, and so will make a pause here, tocontinue the subject in the next sketch, then the next to follow, andprobably the next after that. 

XVII

MILLICENT AND ANOTHER

They were two quite small maidies, aged respectively four and six yearswith some odd months in each case. They are older now and have probablyforgotten the stranger to whom they gave their fresh little hearts, whopresently left their country never to return; for all this happened along time ago--I think about three years. In a way they were rivals, yet had never seen one another, perhaps never will, since they inhabittwo villages more than a dozen miles apart in a wild, desolate, hillydistrict of West Cornwall. 

Let me first speak of Millicent, the elder. I knew Millicent well, having at various times spent several weeks with her in her parents'house, and she, an only child, was naturally regarded as the mostimportant person in it. In Cornwall it is always so. Tall for heryears, straight and slim, with no red colour on her cheeks; she hadbrown hair and large serious grey eyes; those eyes and her general airof gravity, and her forehead, which was too broad for perfect beauty, made me a little shy of her and we were not too intimate. And, indeed, that feeling on my part, which made me a little careful and ceremoniousin our intercourse, seemed to be only what she expected of me. One dayin a forgetful or expansive moment I happened to call her "Millie, "which caused her to look to me in surprise. "Don't you like me to callyou Millie--for short?" I questioned apologetically. "No, " she returnedgravely; "it is not my name--my name is Millicent. " And so it had to beto the end of the chapter. 

Then there was her speech--I wondered how she got it! For it was unlikethat of the people she lived among of her own class. No word-clippingand slurring, no "naughty English" as old Nordin called it, and sing-song intonation with her! She spoke with an almost startlingdistinctness, giving every syllable its proper value, and her wordswere as if they had been read out of a nicely written book. 

Nevertheless, we got on fairly well together, meeting on most days attea-time in the kitchen, when we would have nice sober little talks andlook at her lessons and books and pictures, sometimes unbending so faras to draw pigs on her slate with our eyes shut, and laughing at theresult just like ordinary persons. 

It was during my last visit, after an absence of some months from thatpart of the country, that one evening on coming in I was told by hermother that Millicent had gone for the milk, and that I would have towait for my tea till she came back. Now the farm that supplied the milkwas away at the other end of the village, quite half a mile, and I wentto meet her, but did not see her until I had walked the whole distance, when just as I arrived at the gate she came out of the farm-houseburdened with a basket of things in one hand and a can of milk in theother. She graciously allowed me to relieve her of both, and takingbasket and can with one hand I gave her the other, and so, hand inhand, very friendly, we set off down the long, bleak, windy road justwhen it was growing dark. 

"I'm afraid you are rather thinly clad for this bleak Decemberevening, " I remarked. "Your little hand feels cold as ice. "

She smiled sweetly and said she was not feeling cold, after which therewas a long interval of silence. From time to time we met a villager, afisherman in his ponderous sea-boots, or a farm-labourer homewardplodding his weary way. But though heavy-footed after his day's labourhe is never so stolid as an English ploughman is apt to be; invariablywhen giving us a good-night in passing the man would smile and look atMillicent very directly with a meaning twinkle in his Cornish eye. Hemight have been congratulating her on having a male companion to payher all these nice little attentions, and perhaps signalling the hopethat something would come of it. 

Grave little Millicent, I was pleased to observe, took no notice ofthis Cornubian foolishness. At length when we had walked half thedistance home, in perfect silence, she said impressively: "Mr. Hudson, I have something I want to tell you very much. "

I begged her to speak, pressing her cold little hand. 

She proceeded: "I shall never forget that morning when you went awaythe last time. You said you were going to Truro; but I'm not sure--perhaps it was to London. I only know that it was very far away, andyou were going for a very long time. It was early in the morning, and Iwas in bed. You know how late I always am. I heard you calling to me tocome down and say good-bye; so I jumped up and came down in mynightdress and saw you standing waiting for me at the foot of thestairs. Then, when I got down, you took me up in your arms and kissedme. I shall never forget it!"

"Why?" I said, rather lamely, just because it was necessary to saysomething. And after a little pause, she returned, "Because I shallnever forget it. "

Then, as I said nothing, she resumed: "That day after school I sawUncle Charlie and told him, and he said: 'What! you allowed that trampto kiss you! then I don't want to take you on my knee any more--you'velowered yourself too much. "

"Did he dare to say that?" I returned. 

"Yes, that's what Uncle Charlie said, but it makes no difference. Itold him you were not a tramp, Mr. Hudson, and he said you could callyourself Mister-what-you-liked but you were a tramp all the same, nothing but a common tramp, and that I ought to be ashamed of myself. 'You've disgraced the family, ' that's what he said, but I don't care--Ishall never forget it, the morning you went away and took me up in yourarms and kissed me. "

Here was a revelation! It saddened me, and I made no reply although Ithink she expected one. And so after a minute or two of uncomfortablesilence she repeated that she would never forget it. For all the time Iwas thinking of another and sweeter one who was also a person ofimportance in her own home and village over a dozen miles away. 

In thoughtful silence we finished our talk; then there were lights andtea and general conversation; and if Millicent had intended returningto the subject she found no opportunity then or afterwards. 

It was better so, seeing that the other character possessed my wholeheart. _She_ was not intellectual; no one would have said of her, for example, that she would one day blossom into a second Emily Bronte;that to future generations her wild moorland village would be theHaworth of the West. She was perhaps something better--a child of earthand sun, exquisite, with her flossy hair a shining chestnut gold, hereyes like the bugloss, her whole face like a flower or rather like aripe peach in bloom and colour; we are apt to associate these deliciouslittle beings with flavours as well as fragrances. But I am not goingto be so foolish as to attempt to describe her. 

Our first meeting was at the village spring, where the women came withpails and pitchers for water; she came, and sitting on the stone rim ofthe basin into which the water gushed, regarded me smilingly, withquestioning eyes. I started a conversation, but though smiling she wasshy. Luckily I had my luncheon, which consisted of fruit, in mysatchel, and telling her about it she grew interested and confessed tome that of all good things fruit was what she loved best. I then openedmy stores, and selecting the brightest yellow and richest purplefruits, told her that they were for her--on one condition--that shewould love me and give me a kiss. And she consented and came to me. Othat kiss! And what more can I find to say of it? Why nothing, unlessone of the poets, Crawshaw for preference, can tell me. "My song, " Imight say with that mystic, after an angel had kissed him in themorning, Tasted of that breakfast all day long. 

From that time we got on swimmingly, and were much in company, forsoon, just to be near her, I went to stay at her village. I then madethe discovery that Mab, for that is what they called her, although sounlike, so much softer and sweeter than Millicent, was yet like her inbeing a child of character and of an indomitable will. She never cried, never argued, or listened to arguments, never demonstrated after thefashion of wilful children generally, by throwing herself downscreaming and kicking; she simply very gently insisted on having herown way and living her own life. In the end she always got it, and thebeautiful thing was that she never wanted to be naughty or do anythingreally wrong! She took a quite wonderful interest in the life of thelittle community, and would always be where others were, especiallywhen any gathering took place. Thus, long before I knew her at the ageof four, she made the discovery that the village children, or most ofthem, passed much of their time in school, and to school sheaccordingly resolved to go. Her parents opposed, and talked seriouslyto her and used force to restrain her, but she overcame them in theend, and to the school they had to take her, where she was refusedadmission on account of her tender years. But she had resolved to go, and go she would; she laid siege to the schoolmistress, to the vicar, who told me how day after day she would come to the door of thevicarage, and the parlour-maid would come rushing into his study toannounce, "Miss Mab to speak to you Sir, " and how he would talkseriously to her, and then tell her to run home to her mother and be agood child. But it was all in vain, and in the end, because of herimportunity or sweetness, he had to admit her. 

When I went, during school hours, to give a talk to the children, thereI found Mab, one of the forty, sitting with her book, which told hernothing, in her little hands. She listened to the talk with anappearance of interest, although understanding nothing, her buglosseyes on me, encouraging me with a very sweet smile, whenever I lookedher way. 

It was the same about attending church. Her parents went to one serviceon Sundays; she insisted on going to all three, and would sit and standand kneel, book in hand, as if taking a part in it all, but always whenyou looked at her, her eyes would meet yours and the sweet smile wouldcome to her lips. 

I had been told by her mother that Mab would not have dolls and toys, and this fact, recalled at an opportune moment, revealed to me hersecret mind--her baby philosophy. We, the inhabitants of the village, grown-ups and children as well as the domestic animals, were herplaymates and playthings, so that she was independent of sham blue-eyedbabies made of sawdust and cotton and inanimate fluffy Teddy-bears; shewas in possession of the real thing! The cottages, streets, the churchand school, the fields and rocks and hills and sea and sky were allcontained in her nursery or playground; and we, her fellow-beings, wereall occupied from morn to night in an endless complicated game, whichvaried from day to day according to the weather and time of year, andhad many beautiful surprises. She didn't understand it all, but wasdetermined to be in it and get all the fun she could out of it. Thismental attitude came out strikingly one day when we had a funeral--always a feast to the villagers; that is to say, an emotional feast;and on this occasion the circumstances made the ceremony a peculiarlyimpressive one. 

A young man, well known and generally liked, son of a small farmer, died with tragic suddenness, and the little stone farm-house beingsituated away on the borders of the parish, the funeral procession hada considerable distance to walk to the village. To the church I went toview its approach; built on a rock, the church stands high in thecentre of the village, and from the broad stone steps in front one gota fine view of the inland country and of the procession like an immenseblack serpent winding along over green fields and stiles, nowdisappearing in some hollow ground or behind grey masses of rock, thenemerging on the sight, and the voices of the singers bursting out loudand clear in that still atmosphere. 

When I arrived on the steps Mab was already there; the whole villagewould be at that spot presently, but she was first. On that morning nosooner had she heard that the funeral was going to take place than shegave herself a holiday from school and made her docile mother dress herin her daintiest clothes. She welcomed me with a glad face and put herwee hand in mine; then the villagers--all those not in the procession--began to arrive, and very soon we were in the middle of a throng; then, as the six coffin-bearers came slowly toiling up the many steps, andthe singing all at once grew loud and swept as a big wave of sound overus, the people were shaken with emotion, and all the faces, even of theoldest men, were wet with tears--all except ours, Mab's and mine. 

Our tearless condition--our ability to keep dry when it was raining, soto say--resulted from quite different causes. Mine just then were theeyes of a naturalist curiously observing the demeanour of the beingsaround me. To Mab the whole spectacle was an act, an interlude, orscene in that wonderful endless play which was a perpetual delight towitness and in which she too was taking a part. And to see all herfriends, her grown-up playmates, enjoying themselves in this unusualway, marching in a procession to the church, dressed in black, singinghymns with tears in their eyes--why, this was even better than schoolor Sunday service, romps in the playground or a children's tea. Everytime I looked down at my little mate she lifted a rosy face to minewith her sweetest smile and bugloss eyes aglow with ineffablehappiness. And now that we are far apart my loveliest memory of her isas she appeared then. I would not spoil that lovely image by going backto look at her again. Three years! It was said of Lewis Carroll that heceased to care anything about his little Alices when they had come tothe age of ten. Seven is my limit: they are perfect then: but in Mab'scase the peculiar exquisite charm could hardly have lasted beyond theage of six. 

XVIII

FRECKLES

My meeting with Freckles only served to confirm me in the belief, almost amounting to a conviction, that the female of our speciesreaches its full mental development at an extraordinarily early agecompared to that of the male. In the male the receptive and elastic orprogressive period varies greatly; but judging from the number of casesone meets with of men who have continued gaining in intellectual powerto the end of their lives, in spite of physical decay, it is reasonableto conclude that the stationary individuals are only so because of thecondition of their lives having been inimical. In fact, stagnationstrikes us as an unnatural condition of mind. The man who dies at fiftyor sixty or seventy, after progressing all his life, doubtless would, if he had lived a lustrum or a decade longer, have attained to a stillgreater height. "How disgusting it is, " cried Ruskin, when he hadreached his threescore years and ten, "to find that just when one'sgetting interested in life one has got to die!" Many can say as much;all could say it, had not the mental machinery been disorganised bysome accident, or become rusted from neglect and carelessness. He whois no more in mind at sixty than at thirty is but a half-grown man: hisis a case of arrested development. 

It is hardly necessary to remark here that the mere accumulation ofknowledge is not the same thing as power of mind and its increase: theman who astonishes you with the amount of knowledge stored in his brainmay be no greater in mind at seventy than at twenty. 

Comparing the sexes again, we might say that the female mind reachesperfection in childhood, long before the physical change from ageneralised to a specialised form; whereas the male retains ageneralised form to the end of life and never ceases to advancementally. The reason is obvious. There is no need for continuedprogression in women, and Nature, like the grand old economist she is, or can be when she likes, matures the mind quickly in one case andslowly in the other; so slowly that he, the young male, goes crawlingon all fours as it were, a long distance after his little flyingsister--slowly because he has very far to go and must keep on for avery, very long time. 

I met Freckles in one of those small ancient out-of-the-world markettowns of the West of England--Somerset to be precise--which are justlike large old villages, where the turnpike road is for half a mile orso a High Street, wide at one point, where the market is held. For ashort distance there are shops on either side, succeeded by quietdignified houses set back among trees, then by thatched cottages, afterwhich succeed fields and woods. 

I had lunched at the large old inn at noon on a hot summer's day; whenI sat down a black cloud was coming up, and by-and-by there wasthunder, and when I went to the door it was raining heavily. I leantagainst the frame of the door, sheltered from the wet by a small tiledportico over my head, to wait for the storm to pass before getting onmy bicycle. Then the innkeeper's child, aged five, came out and placedherself against the door-frame on the other side. We regarded oneanother with a good deal of curiosity, for she was a queer-lookinglittle thing. Her head, big for her size and years, was as perfectlyround as a Dutch cheese, and her face so thickly freckled that it wasall freckles; she had confluent freckles, and as the spots and blotcheswere of different shades, one could see that they overlapped like thescales of a fish. Her head was bound tightly round with a piece ofwhite calico, and no hair appeared under it. 

Just to open the conversation, I remarked that she was a little girlrich in freckles. 

"Yes, I know, " she returned, "there's no one in the town with such afreckled face. "

"And that isn't all, " I went on. "Why is your head in a night-cap or awhite cloth as if you wanted to hide your hair? or haven't you gotany?"

"I can tell you about that, " she returned, not in the least resentingmy personal remarks. "It is because I've had ringworms. My head isshaved and I'm not allowed to go to school. "

"Well, " I said, "all these unpleasant experiences--ringworm, shavedhead, freckles, and expulsion from school as an undesirable person--donot appear to have depressed you much. You appear quite happy. "

She laughed good-humouredly, then looked up out of her blue eyes as ifasking what more I had to say. 

Just then a small girl about thirteen years old passed us--a child witha thin anxious face burnt by the sun to a dark brown, and deep-set, dark blue, penetrating eyes. It was a face to startle one; and as shewent by she stared intently at the little freckled girl. 

Then I, to keep the talk going, said I could guess the sort of lifethat child led. 

"What sort of life does she lead?" asked Freckles. 

She was, I said, a child from some small farm in the neighbourhood, andhad a very hard life, and was obliged to do a great deal more workindoors and out than was quite good for her at her tender age. "But Iwonder why she stared at you?" I concluded. 

"Did she stare at me!--Why did she stare?"

"I suppose it was because she saw you, a mite of a child, with anightcap on her head, standing here at the door of the inn talking to astranger just like some old woman. "

She laughed again, and said it was funny for a child of five to becalled an old woman. Then, with a sudden change to gravity, she assuredme that I had been quite right in what I had said about that littlegirl. She lived with her parents on a small farm, where no maid waskept, and the little girl did as much work or more than any maid. Shehad to take the cows to pasture and bring them back; she worked in thefields and helped in the cooking and washing, and came every day to thetown with a basket of butter, and eggs, which she had to deliver at anumber of houses. Sometimes she came twice in a day, usually in a pony-cart, but when the pony was wanted by her father she had to come onfoot with the basket, and the farm was three miles out. On Sunday shedidn't come, but had a good deal to do at home. 

"Ah, poor little slave! No wonder she gazed at you as she did;--she wasthinking how sweet your life must be with people to love and care foryou and no hard work to do. "

"And was that what made her stare at me, and not because I had anightcap on and was like an old woman talking to a stranger?" Thiswithout a smile. 

"No doubt. But you seem to know a great deal about her. Now I wonder ifyou can tell me something about this beautiful young lady with anumbrella coming towards us? I should much like to know who she is--andI should like to call on her. "

"Yes, I can tell you all about her. She is Miss Eva Langton, and livesat the White House. You follow the street till you get out of the townwhere there is a pond at this end of the common, and just a little theother side of the pond there are big trees, and behind the trees awhite gate. That's the gate of the White House, only you can't see itbecause the trees are in the way. Are you going to call on her?"

I explained that I did not know her, and though I wished I did becauseshe was so pretty, it would not perhaps be quite right to go to herhouse to see her. 

"I'm sorry you're not going to call, she's such a nice young lady. Everybody likes her. " And then, after a few moments, she looked up witha smile, and said, "Is there anything else I can tell you about thepeople of the town? There's a man going by in the rain with a lot ofplanks on his head--would you like to know who he is and all abouthim?"

"Oh yes, certainly, " I replied. "But of course I don't care so muchabout him as I do about that little brown girl from the farm, and thenice Miss Langton from the White House. But it's really very pleasantto listen to you whatever you talk about. I really think you one of themost charming little girls I have ever met, and I wonder what you willbe like in another five years. I think I must come and see for myself. "

"Oh, will you come back in five years? Just to see me! My hair will begrown then and I won't have a nightcap on, and I'll try to wash off thefreckles before you come. "

"No, don't, " I said. "I had forgotten all about them--I think they arevery nice. "

She laughed, then looking up a little archly, said: "You are saying allthat just for fun, are you not?"

"Oh no, nothing of the sort. Just look at me, and say if you do notbelieve what I tell you. "

"Yes, I do, " she answered frankly enough, looking full in my eyes witha great seriousness in her own. 

That sudden seriousness and steady gaze; that simple, frankdeclaration! Would five years leave her in that stage? I fancy not, forat ten she would be self-conscious, and the loss would be greater thanthe gain. No, I would not come back in five years to see what she waslike. 

That was the end of our talk. She looked towards the wet street and herface changed, and with a glad cry she darted out. The rain was over, and a big man in a grey tweed coat was coming across the road to ourside. She met him half-way, and bending down he picked her up and sether on his shoulder and marched with her into the house. 

There were others, it seemed, who were able to appreciate her brightmind and could forget all about her freckles and her nightcap. 

XIX

ON CROMER BEACH

It is true that when little girls become self-conscious they lose theircharm, or the best part of it; they are at their best as a rule fromfive to seven, after which begins a slow, almost imperceptible decline(or evolution, if you like) until the change is complete. The charm indecline was not good enough for Lewis Carroll; the successive littlefavourites, we learn, were always dropped at about ten. That was thelimit. Perhaps he perceived, with a rare kind of spiritual sagacityresembling that of certain animals with regard to approaching weather-changes, that something had come into their heart, or would shortlycome, which would make them no longer precious to him. But that whichhad made them precious was not far to seek: he would find it elsewhere, and could afford to dismiss his Alice for the time being from his heartand life, and even from his memory, without a qualm. 

To my seven-years' rule there are, however, many exceptions--littlegirls who keep the child's charm in spite of the changes which yearsand a newly developing sense can bring to them. I have met with somerare instances of the child being as much to us at ten as at five. 

One instance which I have in my mind just now is of a little girl ofnine, or perhaps nearly ten, and it seemed to me in this case that thisnew sense, the very quality which is the spoiler of the child-charm, may sometimes have the effect of enhancing it or revealing it in a newand more beautiful aspect. 

I met her at Cromer, where she was one of a small group of fivevisitors; three ladies, one old, the others middle-aged, and a middle-aged gentleman. He and one of the two younger ladies were perhaps herparents, and the elderly lady her grandmother. What and who thesepeople were I never heard, nor did I enquire; but the child attractedme, and in a funny way we became acquainted, and though we neverexchanged more than a dozen words, I felt that we were quite intimateand very dear friends. 

The little group of grown-ups and the child were always together on thefront, where I was accustomed to see them sitting or slowly walking upand down, always deep in conversation and very serious, alwaysregarding the more or less gaudily attired females on the parade withan expression of repulsion. They were old-fashioned in dress andappearance, invariably in black--black silk and black broadcloth. Iconcluded that they were serious people, that they had inherited andfaithfully kept a religion, or religious temper, which has long beenoutlived by the world in general--a puritanism or Evangelicalism datingback to the far days of Wilberforce and Hannah More and the ancientSacred order of Claphamites. 

And the child was serious with them and kept pace with them with slowstaid steps. But she was beautiful, and under the mask and mantle whichhad been imposed on her had a shining child's soul. Her large eyes wereblue, the rare blue of a perfect summer's day. There was no need to askher where she had got that colour; undoubtedly in heaven "as she camethrough. " The features were perfect, and she pale, or so it had seemedto me at first, but when viewing her more closely I saw that colour wasan important element in her loveliness--a colour so delicate that Ifell to comparing her flower-like face with this or that particularflower. I had thought of her as a snowdrop at first, then a windflower, the March anemone, with its touch of crimson, then various white, ivory, and cream-coloured blossoms with a faintly-seen pink blush tothem. 

Her dress, except the stocking, was not black; it was grey or dove-colour, and over it a cream or pale-fawn-coloured cloak with hood, which with its lace border seemed just the right setting for thedelicate puritan face. She walked in silence while they talked andtalked, ever in grave subdued tones. Indeed it would not have beenseemly for her to open her lips in such company. I called herPriscilla, but she was also like Milton's pensive nun, devout and pure, only her looks were not commercing with the skies; they were generallycast down, although it is probable that they did occasionally ventureto glance at the groups of merry pink-legged children romping with thewaves below. 

I had seen her three or four or more times on the front before webecame acquainted; and she too had noticed me, just raising her blueeyes to mine when we passed one another, with a shy sweet look ofrecognition in them--a questioning look; so that we were not exactlystrangers. Then, one morning, I sat on the front when the black-clothedgroup came by, deep in serious talk as usual, the silent child withthem, and after a turn or two they sat down beside me. The tide was atits full and children were coming down to their old joyous pastime ofpaddling. They were a merry company. After watching them I glanced atmy little neighbour and caught her eyes, and she knew what the questionin my mind was--Why are not you with them? And she was pleased andtroubled at the same time, and her face was all at once in a glow ofbeautiful colour; it was the colour of the almond blossom;--her sisterflower on this occasion. 

A day or two later we were more fortunate. I went before breakfast tothe beach and was surprised to find her there watching the tide comingin; in a moment of extreme indulgence her mother, or her people, hadallowed her to run down to look at the sea for a minute by herself. Shewas standing on the shingle, watching the green waves break frothily ather feet, her pale face transfigured with a gladness which seemedalmost unearthly. Even then in that emotional moment the face kept itstender flower-like character; I could only compare it to the sweet-peablossom, ivory white or delicate pink; that Psyche-like flower withwings upraised to fly, and expression of infantile innocence and fairy-like joy in life. 

I walked down to her and we then exchanged our few and only words. Howbeautiful the sea was, and how delightful to watch the waves coming in!I remarked. She smiled and replied that it was very, very beautiful. Then a bigger wave came and compelled us to step hurriedly back to saveour feet from a wetting, and we laughed together. Just at that spotthere was a small rock on which I stepped and asked her to give me herhand, so that we could stand together and let the next wave rush bywithout wetting us. "Oh, do you think I may?" she said, almostfrightened at such an adventure. Then, after a moment's hesitation, sheput her hand in mine, and we stood on the little fragment of rock, andshe watched the water rush up and surround us and break on the beachwith a fearful joy. And after that wonderful experience she had toleave me; she had only been allowed out by herself for five minutes, she said, and so, after a grateful smile, she hurried back. 

Our next encounter was on the parade, where she appeared as usual withher people, and nothing beyond one swift glance of recognition andgreeting could pass between us. But it was a quite wonderful glance shegave me, it said so much:--that we had a great secret between us andwere friends and comrades for ever. It would take half a page to tellall that was conveyed in that glance. "I'm so glad to see you, " itsaid, "I was beginning to fear you had gone away. And now howunfortunate that you see me with my people and we cannot speak! Theywouldn't understand. How could they, since they don't belong to ourworld and know what we know? If I were to explain that we are differentfrom them, that we want to play together on the beach and watch thewaves and paddle and build castles, they would say, 'Oh yes, that's allvery well, but--' I shouldn't know what they meant by that, should you?I do hope we'll meet again some day and stand once more hand in hand onthe beach--don't you?"

And with that she passed on and was gone, and I saw her no more. Perhaps that glance which said so much had been observed, and she hadbeen hurriedly removed to some place of safety at a great distance. Butthough I never saw her again, never again stood hand in hand with heron the beach and never shall, I have her picture to keep in all itsflowery freshness and beauty, the most delicate and lovely perhaps ofall the pictures I possess of the little girls I have met. 

XX

DIMPLES

It is not pleasant when you have had your say, made your point to yourown satisfaction, and gone cheerfully on to some fresh subject, to beassailed with the suspicion that your interlocutor is saying mentally:All very well--very pretty talk, no doubt, but you haven't convincedme, and I even doubt that you have succeeded in convincing yourself!

For example, a reader of the foregoing notes may say: "If you reallyfind all this beauty and charm and fascination you tell us in somelittle girls, you must love them. You can't admire and take delight inthem as you can in a piece of furniture, or tapestry, or a picture orstatue or a stone of great brilliancy and purity of colour, or in anybeautiful inanimate object, without that emotion coming in to makeitself part of and one with your admiration. You can't, simply becausea child is a human being, and we do not want to lose sight of the beingwe love. So long as the love lasts, the eye would follow its stepsbecause--we are what we are, and a mere image in the mind doesn'tsatisfy the heart. Love is never satisfied, and asks not for less andless each day but for more--always for more. Then, too, love iscredulous; it believes and imagines all things and, like all emotions, it pushes reason and experience aside and sticks to the belief thatthese beautiful qualities cannot die and leave nothing behind: they arenot on the surface only; they have their sweet permanent roots in thevery heart and centre of being. "

That, I suppose, is the best argument on the other side, and if youlook straight at it for six seconds, you will see it dissolve like alump of sugar in a tumbler of water and disappear under your very eyes. For the fact remains that when I listen to the receding footsteps of mylittle charmer, the sigh that escapes me expresses something of reliefas well as regret. The signs of change have perhaps not yet appeared, and I wish not to see them. Good-bye, little one, we part in good time, and may we never meet again! Undoubtedly one loses something, but itcannot balance the gain. The loss in any case was bound to come, andhad I waited for it no gain would have been possible. As it is, I amlike that man in _The Pilgrim's Progress_, by some accounted mad, who the more he cast away the more he had. And the way of it is this;by losing my little charmers before they cease from charming, I makethem mine for always, in a sense. They are made mine because my mind(other minds, too) is made that way. That which I see with delight Icontinue to see when it is no more there, and will go on seeing to theend: at all events I fail to detect any sign of decay or fading inthese mind pictures. There are people with money who collect gems--diamonds, rubies and other precious stones--who value their treasuresas their best possessions, and take them out from time to time toexamine and gloat over them. These things are trash to me compared withthe shining, fadeless images in my mind, which are my treasures andbest possessions. But the bright and beauteous images of the littlegirl charmers would not have been mine if instead of letting theoriginals disappear from my ken I had kept them too long in it. Allbecause our minds, our memories are made like that. If we see a thingonce, or several times, we see it ever after as we first saw it; if wego on seeing it every day or every week for years and years, we do notregister a countless series of new distinct impressions, recording allits changes: the new impressions fall upon and obliterate the others, and it is like a series of photographs, not arranged side by side forfuture inspection, but in a pile, the top one alone remaining visible. Looking at this insipid face you would not believe, if told, that onceupon a time it was beautiful to you and had a great charm. The earlyimpressions are lost, the charm forgotten. 

This reminds me of the incident I set out to narrate when I wrote"Dimples" at the head of this note. I was standing at a busy corner ina Kensington thoroughfare waiting for a bus, when a group of threeladies appeared and came to a stand a yard or two from me and waited, too, for the traffic to pass before attempting to cross to the otherside. One was elderly and feeble and was holding the arm of another ofthe trio, who was young and pretty. Her age was perhaps twenty; she wasof medium height, slim, with a nice figure and nicely dressed. She wasa blonde, with light blue-grey eyes and fluffy hair of pale gold: therewas little colour in her face, but the features were perfect and themouth with its delicate curves quite beautiful. 

But after regarding her attentively for a minute or so, looking outimpatiently for my bus at the same time, I said mentally: "Yes, you arecertainly very pretty, perhaps beautiful, but I don't like you and Idon't want you. There's nothing in you to correspond to that niceoutside. You are an exception to the rule that the beautiful is thegood. Not that you are bad--actively, deliberately bad--you haven't thestrength to be that or anything else; you have only a little shallowmind and a little coldish heart. "

Now I can imagine one of my lady readers crying out: "How dared you saysuch monstrous things of any person after just a glance at her face?"

Listen to me, madam, and you will agree that I was not to blame forsaying these monstrous things. All my life I've had the instinct orhabit of seeing the things I see; that is to say, seeing them not ascloud or mist-shapes for ever floating past, nor as people in endlessprocession "seen rather than distinguished, " but distinctly, separately, as individuals each with a character and soul of its veryown; and while seeing it in that way some little unnamed faculty insome obscure corner of my brain hastily scribbles a label to stick onto the object or person before it passes out of sight. It can't beprevented; it goes on automatically; it isn't _me_, and I can nomore interfere or attempt in any way to restrain or regulate its actionthan I can take my legs to task for running up a flight of stepswithout the mind's supervision. 

But I haven't finished with the young lady yet. I had no sooner saidwhat I have said and was just about to turn my eyes away and forget allabout her, when, in response to some remarks of her aged companion, shelaughed, and in laughing so great a change came into her face that itwas as if she had been transformed into another being. It was like asudden breath of wind and a sunbeam falling on the still cold surfaceof a woodland pool. The eyes, icily cold a moment before, had warmsunlight in them, and the half-parted lips with a flash of white teethbetween them had gotten a new beauty; and most remarkable of all was adimple which appeared and in its swift motions seemed to have a life ofits own, flitting about the corner of the mouth, then further away tothe middle of the cheek and back again. A dimple that had a story totell. For dimples, too, like a delicate, mobile mouth, and even likeeyes, have a character of their own. And no sooner had I seen thatsudden change in the expression, and especially the dimple, than I knewthe face; it was a face I was familiar with and was like no other facein the world, yet I could not say who she was nor where and when I hadknown her! Then, when the smile faded and the dimple vanished, she wasa stranger again--the pretty young person with the shallow brain that Idid not like!

Naturally my mind worried itself with this puzzle of a being with twodistinct expressions, one strange to me, the other familiar, and itwent on worrying me all that day until I could stand it no longer, andto get rid of the matter, I set up the theory (which didn't quiteconvince me) that the momentary expression I had seen was like anexpression in some one I had known in the far past. But afterdismissing the subject in that way, the subconscious mind was still nodoubt working at it, for two days later it all at once flashed into mymind that my mysterious young lady was no other than the little LillianI had known so well eight years before! She was ten years old when Ifirst knew her, and I was quite intimately acquainted with her for alittle over a year, and greatly admired her for her beauty and charm, especially when she smiled and that dimple flew about the corner of hermouth like a twilight moth vaguely fluttering at the rim of a redflower. But alas! her charm was waning: she was surrounded by relationswho adored her, and was intensely self-conscious, so that when after ayear her people moved to a new district, I was not sorry to break theconnection, and to forget all about her. 

Now that I had seen and remembered her again, it was a consolation tothink that she was already in her decline when I first knew and wasattracted by her and on that account had never wholly lost my heart toher. How different my feelings would have been if after pronouncingthat irrevocable judgment, I had recognised one of my vanisheddarlings--one, say, like that child on Cromer Beach, or of dozens ofother fairylike little ones I have known and loved, and whose imagesare enduring and sacred!

XXI

WILD FLOWERS AND LITTLE GIRLS

Thinking of the numerous company of little girls of infinite charm Ihave met, and of their evanishment, I have a vision of myself onhorseback on the illimitable green level pampas, under the wide sunlitcerulean sky in late September or early October, when the wild flowersare at their best before the wilting heats of summer. 

Seeing the flowers so abundant, I dismount and lead my horse by thebridle and walk knee-deep in the lush grass, stooping down at everystep to look closely at the shy, exquisite blooms in their dewy morningfreshness and divine colours. Flowers of an inexpressible unearthlyloveliness and unforgettable; for how forget them when their imagesshine in memory in all their pristine morning brilliance!

That is how I remember and love to remember them, in that first freshaspect, not as they appear later, the petals wilted or dropped, sun-browned, ripening their seed and fruit. 

And so with the little human flowers. I love to remember and think ofthem as flowers, not as ripening or ripened into young ladies, wives, matrons, mothers of sons and daughters. 

As little girls, as human flowers, they shone and passed out of sight. Only of one do I think differently, the most exquisite among them, themost beautiful in body and soul, or so I imagine, perhaps because ofthe manner of her vanishing even while my eyes were still on her. Thatwas Dolly, aged eight, and because her little life finished then she isthe one that never faded, never changed. 

Here are some lines I wrote when grief at her going was still fresh. They were in a monthly magazine at that time years ago, and were set tomusic, although not very successfully, and I wish it could be doneagain. 

 Should'st thou come to me again From the sunshine and the rain, With thy laughter sweet and free, O how should I welcome thee!

 Like a streamlet dark and cold Kindled into fiery gold By a sunbeam swift that cleaves Downward through the curtained leaves;

 So this darkened life of mine Lit with sudden joy would shine, And to greet thee I should start With a great cry in my heart. 

 Back to drop again, the cry On my trembling lips would die: Thou would'st pass to be again With the sunshine and the rain. 

XXII

A LITTLE GIRL LOST

Yet once more, O ye little girls, I come to bid you a last good-bye--avery last one this time. Not to you, living little girls, seeing that Imust always keep a fair number of you on my visiting list, but to afascinating theme I had to write about. For I did really and trulythink I had quite finished with it, and now all at once I find myselfcompelled by a will stronger than my own to make this one furtheraddition. The will of a little girl who is not present and is lost tome--a wordless message from a distance, to tell me that she is not tobe left out of this gallery. And no sooner has her message come than Ifind there are several good reasons why she should be included, thefirst and obvious one being that she will be a valuable acquisition, anornament to the said gallery. And here I will give a second reason, avery important one (to the psychological minded at all events), but notthe most important of all, for that must be left to the last. 

In the foregoing impressions of little girls I have touched on thequestion of the child's age when that "little agitation in the braincalled thought, " begins. There were two remarkable cases given; one, the child who climbed upon my knee to amaze and upset me by herpessimistic remarks about life; the second, my little friend Nesta--that was her name and she is still on my visiting list--who revealedher callow mind striving to grasp an abstract idea--the idea of timeapart from some visible or tangible object. Now these two were agedfive years; but what shall we say of the child, the little girl-childwho steps out of the cradle, so to speak, as a being breathingthoughtful breath?

It makes me think of the cradle as the cocoon or chrysalis in which, asby a miracle (for here natural and supernatural seem one and the same), the caterpillar has undergone his transformation and emerging spreadshis wings and forthwith takes his flight a full-grown butterfly withall its senses and faculties complete. 

Walking on the sea front at Worthing one late afternoon in lateNovember, I sat down at one end of a seat in a shelter, the other endbeing occupied by a lady in black, and between us, drawn close up tothe seat, was a perambulator in which a little girl was seated. Shelooked at me, as little girls always do, with that question--What areyou? in her large grey intelligent eyes. The expression tempted me toaddress her, and I said I hoped she was quite well. 

"O yes, " she returned readily. "I am quite well, thank you. "

"And may I know how old you are?"

"Yes, I am just three years old. "

I should have thought, I said, that as she looked a strong healthychild she would have been able to walk and run about at the age ofthree. 

She replied that she could walk and run as well as any child, and thatshe had her pram just to sit and rest in when tired of walking. 

Then, after apologising for putting so many questions to her, I askedher if she could tell me her name. 

"My name, " she said, "is Rose Mary Catherine Maude Caversham, " or somesuch name. 

"Oh!" exclaimed the lady in black, opening her lips for the first time, and speaking sharply. "You must not say all those names! It is enoughto say your name is Rose. "

The child turned and looked at her, studying her face, and then withheightened colour and with something like indignation in her tone, shereplied: "That _is_ my name! Why should I not tell it when I amasked?"

The lady said nothing, and the child turned her face to me again. 

I said it was a very pretty name and I had been pleased to hear it, andglad she told it to me without leaving anything out. 

Silence still on the part of the lady. 

"I think, " I resumed, "that you are a rather wonderful child;--havethey taught you the ABC?"

"Oh no, they don't teach me things like that--I pick all that up. "

"And one and one make two--do you pick that up as well?"

"Yes, I pick that up as well. "

"Then, " said I, recollecting Humpty Dumpty's question in arithmetic toAlice, "how much is one-an'-one-an'-one-an'-one-an'-one-an'-one?"--speaking it as it should be spoken, very rapidly. 

She looked at me quite earnestly for a moment, then said, "And can_you_ tell me how much is two-an'-two-an'-two-an'-two-an'-two-an'-two?"--and several more two's all in a rapid strain. 

"No, " I said, "you have turned the tables on me very cleverly. But tellme, do they teach you nothing?"

"Oh yes, they teach me something!" Then dropping her head a little onone side and lifting her little hands she began practising scales onthe bar of her pram. Then, looking at me with a half-smile on her lips, she said: "That's what they teach me. "

After a little further conversation she told me she was from London, and was down with her people for their holiday. 

I said it seemed strange to me she should be having a holiday so latein the season. "Look, " I said, "at that cold grey sea and the greatstretch of sand with only one group of two or three children left on itwith their little buckets and spades. "

"Yes, " she said, in a meditative way; "it is very late. " Then, after apause, she turned towards me with an expression in her face which saidplainly enough: I am now going to give you a little confidentialinformation. Her words were: "The fact is we are just waiting for thebaby. "

"Oh!" screamed the lady in black. "Why have you said such a thing! Youmust not say such things!"

And again the child turned her head and looked earnestly, inquiringlyat the lady, trying, as one could see from her face, to understand whyshe was not to say such a thing. But now she was not sure of her groundas on the other occasion of being rebuked. There was a mystery hereabout the expected baby which she could not fathom. Why was it wrongfor her to mention that simple fact? That question was on her face whenshe looked at her attendant, the lady in black, and as no answer wasforthcoming, either from the lady, or out of her own head, she turnedto me again, the dissatisfied expression still in her eyes; then itpassed away and she smiled. It was a beautiful smile, all the morebecause it came only at rare intervals and quickly vanished, because, as it seemed to me, she was all the time thinking too closely aboutwhat was being said to smile easily or often. And the rarity of hersmile made her sense of humour all the more apparent. She was not likeMarjorie Fleming, that immortal little girl, who was wont to be angrywhen offensively condescending grown-ups addressed her as a babe inintellect. For Marjorie had no real sense of humour; all the humour ofher literary composition, verse and prose, was of the unconsciousvariety. This child was only amused at being taken for a baby. 

Then came the parting. I said I had spent a most delightful hour withher, and she, smiling once more put out her tiny hand, and said in thesweetest voice: "Perhaps we shall meet again. " Those last five words!If she had been some great lady, an invalid in a bath-chair, who hadconversed for half an hour with a perfect stranger and had wished toexpress the pleasure and interest she had had in the colloquy, shecould not have said more, nor less, nor said it more graciously, morebeautifully. 

But we did not meet again, for when I looked for her she was not there:she had gone out of my life, like Priscilla, and like so many beautifulthings that vanish and return not. 

And now I return to what I said at the beginning--that there wereseveral reasons for including this little girl in my series ofimpressions. The most important one has been left until now. I want tomeet her again, but how shall I find her in this immensity of London--these six millions of human souls! Let me beg of any reader who knowsRose Mary Angela Catherine Maude Caversham--a name like that--who hasidentified her from my description--that he will inform me of herwhereabouts. 

XXIII

A SPRAY OF SOUTHERNWOOD

To pass from little girls to little boys is to go into quite another, an inferior, coarser world. No doubt there are wonderful little boys, but as a rule their wonderfulness consists in a precocious intellect:this kind doesn't appeal to me, so that if I were to say anything onthe matter, it would be a prejudiced judgment. Even the ordinarycivilised little boy, the nice little gentleman who is as much at homein the drawing-room as at his desk in the school-room or with a bat inthe playing-field--even that harmless little person seems somehowunnatural, or denaturalised to my primitive taste. A result, I willhave it, of improper treatment. He has been under the tap, toothoroughly scrubbed, boiled, strained and served up with melted butterand a sprig of parsley for ornament in a gilt-edged dish. I prefer himraw, and would rather have the street-Arab, if in town, and theunkempt, rough and tough cottage boy in the country. But take themcivilised or natural, those who love and observe little children nomore expect to find that peculiar exquisite charm of the girl-childwhich I have endeavoured to describe in the boy, than they would expectthe music of the wood-lark and the airy fairy grace and beauty of thegrey wagtail in Philip Sparrow. And yet, incredible as it seems, thatvery quality of the miraculous little girl is sometimes found in theboy and, with it, strange to say, the boy's proper mind and spirit. Thechild lover will meet with one of that kind once in ten years, or notso often--not oftener than a collector of butterflies will meet with aCamberwell Beauty. The miraculous little girl, we know, is not moreuncommon than the Painted Lady, or White Admiral. And I will here givea picture of such a boy--the child associated in my mind with a sprayof southernwood. 

And after this impression, I shall try to give one or two of ordinarylittle boys. These live in memory like the little girls I have writtenabout, not, it will be seen, because of their boy nature, seeing thatthe boy has nothing miraculous, nothing to capture the mind andregister an enduring impression in it, as in the case of the girl; butowing solely to some unusual circumstance in their lives--somethingadventitious. 

It was hot and fatiguing on the Wiltshire Downs, and when I had toiledto the highest point of a big hill where a row of noble Scotch firsstood at the roadside, I was glad to get off my bicycle and rest in theshade. Fifty or sixty yards from the spot where I sat on the bank on asoft carpet of dry grass and pine-needles, there was a small, old, thatched cottage, the only human habitation in sight except the littlevillage at the foot of the hill, just visible among the trees a mileahead. An old woman in the cottage had doubtless seen me going by, forshe now came out into the road, and, shading her eyes with her hand, peered curiously at me. A bent and lean old woman in a dingy blackdress, her face brown and wrinkled, her hair white. With her, watchingme too, was a little mite of a boy; and after they had stood there awhile he left her and went into the cottage garden, but presently cameout into the road again and walked slowly towards me. It was strange tosee that child in such a place! He had on a scarlet shirt or blouse, wide lace collar, and black knickerbockers and stockings; but it washis face rather than his clothes that caused me to wonder. Rarely had Iseen a more beautiful child, such a delicate rose-coloured skin, andfine features, eyes of such pure intense blue, and such shining goldenhair. How came this angelic little being in that poor remote cottagewith that bent and wrinkled old woman for a guardian?

He walked past me very slowly, a sprig of southernwood in his hand;then after going by he stopped and turned, and approaching me in a shymanner and without saying a word offered me the little pale greenfeathery spray. I took it and thanked him, and we entered intoconversation, when I discovered that his little mind was as bright andbeautiful as his little person. He loved the flowers, both garden andwild, but above everything he loved the birds; he watched them to findtheir nests; there was nothing he liked better than to look at thelittle spotted eggs in the nest. He could show me a nest if I wanted tosee one, only the little bird was sitting on her eggs. He was six yearsold, and that cottage was his home--he knew no other; and the old bentwoman standing there in the road was his mother. They didn't keep apig, but they kept a yellow cat, only he was lost now; he had goneaway, and they didn't know where to find him. He went to school now--hewalked all the way there by himself and all the way back every day. Itwas very hard at first, because the other boys laughed at and plaguedhim. Then they hit him, but he hit them back as hard as he could. Afterthat they hurt him, but they couldn't make him cry. He never cried, andalways hit them back, and now they were beginning to leave him alone. His father was named Mr. Job, and he worked at the farm, but hecouldn't do so much work now because he was such an old man. Sometimeswhen he came home in the evening he sat in his chair and groaned as ifit hurt him. And he had two sisters; one was Susan; she was married andhad three big girls; and Jane was married too, but had no children. They lived a great way off. So did his brother. His name was Jim, andhe was a great fat man and sometimes came from London, where he lived, to see them. He didn't know much about Jim; he was very silent, but notwith mother. Those two would shut themselves up together and talk andtalk, but no one knew what they were talking about. He would write tomother too; but she would always hide the letters and say to father:"It's only from Jim; he says he's very well--that's all. " But they werevery long letters, so he must have said more than that. 

Thus he prattled, while I, to pay him for the southernwood, drewfigures of the birds he knew best on the leaves I tore from my note-book and gave them to him. He thanked me very prettily and put them inhis pocket. 

"And what is your name?" I asked. 

He drew himself up before me and in a clear voice, pronouncing thewords in a slow measured manner, as if repeating a lesson, he answered:"Edmund Jasper Donisthorpe Stanley Overington. "

The name so astonished me that I remained silent for quite two minutesduring which I repeated it to myself many times to fix it in my memory. 

"But why, " said I at length, "do you call yourself Overington when yourfather's name is Job?"

"Oh, that is because I have two fathers--Mr. Job, my very old father, and Mr. Overington, who lives away from here. He comes to see mesometimes, and he is my father too; but I have only one mother--thereshe is out again looking at us. "

I questioned him no further, and no further did I seek those mysteriesto disclose, and so we parted; but I never see a plant or sprig ofsouthernwood, nor inhale its cedarwood smell, which one does not knowwhether to like or dislike, without recalling the memory of thatmiraculous cottage child with a queer history and numerous names. 

XXIV

IN PORTCHESTER CHURCHYARD

To the historically and archaeologically minded the castle and walls atPortchester are of great importance. Romans, Britons, Saxons, Normans--they all made use of this well-defended place for long centuries, andit still stands, much of it well preserved, to be explored and admiredby many thousands of visitors every year. What most interested me wasthe sight of two small boys playing in the churchyard. The villagechurch, as at Silchester, is inside the old Roman walls, in a corner, the village itself being some distance away. After strolling round thechurchyard I sat down on a stone under the walls and began watching thetwo boys--little fellows of the cottage class from the village who hadcome, each with a pair of scissors, to trim the turf on two adjoiningmounds. The bigger of the two, who was about ten years old, was verydiligent and did his work neatly, trimming the grass evenly and givingthe mound a nice smooth appearance. The other boy was not so muchabsorbed in his work; he kept looking up and making jeering remarks andfaces at the other, and at intervals his busy companion put down hisshears and went for him with tremendous spirit. Then a chase among andover the graves would begin; finally, they would close, struggle, tumble over a mound and pommel one another with all their might. Thestruggle over, they would get up, shake off the dust and straws, and goback to their work. After a few minutes the youngest boy recovered fromhis punishment, and, getting tired of the monotony, would begin teasingagain, and a fresh flight and battle would ensue. 

By-and-by, after witnessing several of these fights, I went down andsat on a mound next to theirs and entered into conversation with them. 

"Whose grave are you trimming?" I asked the elder boy. 

It was his sister's, he said, and when I asked him how long she hadbeen dead, he answered, "Twenty years. " She had died more than tenyears before he was born. He said there had been eight of them born, and he was the youngest of the lot; his eldest brother was married andhad children five or six years old. Only one of the eight had died--this sister, when she was a little girl. Her name was Mary, and one dayevery week his mother sent him to trim the mound. He did not rememberwhen it began--he must have been very small. He had to trim the grass, and in summer to water it so as to keep it always smooth and fresh andgreen. 

Before he had finished his story the other little fellow, who was notinterested in it and was getting tired again, began in a low voice tomock at his companion, repeating his words after him. Then my littlefellow, with a very serious, resolute air, put the scissors down, andin a moment they were both up and away, doubling this way and that, bounding over the mounds, like two young dogs at play, until, rollingover together, they fought again in the grass. There I left them andstrolled away, thinking of the mother busy and cheerful in her cottageover there in the village, but always with that image of the littlegirl, dead these twenty years, in her heart. 

XXV

HOMELESS

One cold morning at Penzance I got into an omnibus at the station totravel to the small town of St. Just, six or seven miles away. Justbefore we started, a party of eight or ten queer-looking people camehurriedly up and climbed to the top seats. They were men and women, with two or three children, the women carelessly dressed, the menchalky-faced and long-haired, in ulsters of light colours and largepatterns. When we had travelled two or three miles one of the outsidepassengers climbed down and came in to escape from the cold, and edgedinto a place opposite mine. He was a little boy of about seven or eightyears old, and he had a small, quaint face with a tired expression onit, and wore a soiled scarlet Turkish fez on his head, and a bigpepper-and-salt overcoat heavily trimmed with old, ragged imitationastrachan. He was keenly alive to the sensation his entrance createdamong us when the loud buzz of conversation ceased very suddenly andall eyes were fixed on him; but he bore it very bravely, sitting backin his seat, rubbing his cold hands together, then burying them deep inhis pockets and fixing his eyes on the roof. Soon the talk recommenced, and the little fellow, wishing to feel more free, took his hands outand tried to unbutton his coat. The top button--a big horn button--resisted the efforts he made with his stiff little fingers, so I undidit for him and threw the coat open, disclosing a blue jersey stripedwith red, green velvet knickerbockers, and black stockings, all soiledlike the old scarlet flower-pot shaped cap. In his get-up he remindedme of a famous music-master and composer of my acquaintance, whosesense of harmony is very perfect with regard to sounds, but exceedinglycrude as to colours. Imagine a big, long-haired man arrayed in abottle-green coat, scarlet waistcoat, pink necktie, blue trousers, white hat, purple gloves and yellow boots! If it were not for the factthat he wears his clothes a very long time and never has them brushedor the grease spots taken out, the effect would be almost painful. Buthe selects his colours, whereas the poor little boy probably had nochoice in the matter. 

By-and-by the humorous gentlemen who sat on either side of him began toplay him little tricks, one snatching off his scarlet cap and the otherblowing on his neck. He laughed a little, just to show that he didn'tobject to a bit of fun at his expense, but when the annoyance wascontinued he put on a serious face, and folding up his cap thrust itinto his overcoat pocket. He was not going to be made a butt of!

"Where is your home?" I asked him. 

"I haven't got a home, " he returned. 

"What, no home? Where was your home when you had one?"

"I never had a home, " he said. "I've always been travelling; butsometimes we stay a month in a place. " Then, after an interval, headded: "I belong to a dramatic company. "

"And do you ever go on the stage to act?" I asked. 

"Yes, " he returned, with a weary little sigh. 

Then our journey came to an end, and we saw the doors and windows ofthe St. Just Working Men's Institute aflame with yellow placardsannouncing a series of sensational plays to be performed there. 

The queer-looking people came down and straggled off to the Institute, paying no attention to the small boy. "Let me advise you, " I said, standing over him on the pavement, "to treat yourself to a stifftumbler of grog after your cold ride, " and at the same time I put myhand in my pocket. 

He didn't smile, but at once held out his open hand. I put some pencein it, and clutching them he murmured "Thank you, " and went after theothers. 

XXVI

THE STORY OF A SKULL

A quarter of a century ago there were still to be seen in the outersuburbs of London many good old roomy houses, standing in their ownample and occasionally park-like grounds, which have now ceased toexist. They were old manor-houses, mostly of the Georgian period, someearlier, and some, too, were fine large farmhouses which a century ormore ago had been turned into private residences of city merchants andother persons of means. Any middle-aged Londoner can recall a house orperhaps several houses of this description, and in one of those thatwere best known to me I met with the skull, the story of which I wishto tell. 

It was a very old-looking, long, low red-brick building, with averandah in front, and being well within the grounds, sheltered by oldoak, elm, ash and beech trees, could hardly be seen from the road. Thelawns and gardens were large, and behind them were two good-sized grassfields. Within the domain one had the feeling that he was far away inthe country in one of its haunts of ancient peace, and yet all roundit, outside of its old hedges and rows of elms, the ground had beenbuilt over, mostly with good-sized brick houses standing in their owngardens. It was a favourite suburb with well-to-do persons in the city, rents were high and the builders had long been coveting and trying toget possession of all this land which was "doing no good, " in adistrict where haunts of ancients peace were distinctly out of placeand not wanted. But the owner (aged ninety-eight) refused to sell. 

Not only the builders, but his own sons and sons' sons had representedto him that the rent he was getting for this property was nothing butan old song compared to what it would bring in, if he would let it on along building lease. There was room there for thirty or forty goodhouses with big gardens. And his answer invariably was: "It shan't betouched! I was born in that house, and though I'm too old ever to goand see it again, it must not be pulled down--not a brick of it, not atree cut, while I'm alive. When I'm gone you can do what you like, because then I shan't know what you are doing. "

My friends and relations, who were in occupation of the house, andloved it, hoped that he would go on living many, many years: but alas!the visit of the feared dark angel was to them and not to the oldowner, who was perhaps "too old to die"; the dear lady of the house andits head was taken away and the family broken up, and from that day tothis I have never ventured to revisit that sweet spot, nor sought toknow what has been done to it. 

At that time it used to be my week-end home, and on one of my earlyvisits I noticed the skull of an animal nailed to the wall about a yardabove the stable door. It was too high to be properly seen withoutgetting a ladder, and when the gardener told me that it was a bulldog'sskull, I thought no more about it. 

One day, several months later, I took a long look at it and got theidea that it was not a bulldog's skull--that it was more like the skullof a human being of a very low type. I then asked my hostess to let mehave it, and she said, "Yes, certainly, take it if you want it. " Thenshe added, "But what in the world do you want that horrid old skullfor?" I said I wanted to find out what it was, and then she told methat it was a bulldog's skull--the gardener had told her. I repliedthat I did not think so, that it looked to me more like the skull of acave-man who had inhabited those parts half a million years ago, perhaps. This speech troubled her very much, for she was a religiouswoman, and it pained her to hear unorthodox statements about the age ofman on the earth. She said that I could not have the skull, that it wasdreadful to her to hear me say it might be a human skull; that shewould order the gardener to take it down and bury it somewhere in thegrounds at a distance from the house. Until that was done she would notgo near the stables--it would be like a nightmare to see that dreadfulhead on the wall. I said I would remove it immediately; it was mine, asshe had given it to me, and it was not a man's skull at all--I was onlyjoking, so that she need not have any qualms about it. 

That pacified her, and I took down the old skull, which looked moredreadful than ever when I climbed up to it, for though the dome of itwas bleached white, the huge eye cavities and mouth were black andfilled with old black mould and dead moss. Doubtless it had been verymany years in that place, as the long nails used in fastening it therewere eaten up with rust. 

When I got back to London the box with the skull in it was put away inmy book-room, and rested there forgotten for two or three years. Thenone day I was talking on natural history subjects to my publisher, andhe told me that his son, just returned from Oxford, had developed akeen interest in osteology and was making a collection of mammalianskulls from the whale and elephant and hippopotamus to the harvest-mouse and lesser shrew. This reminded me of the long-forgotten skull, and I told him I had something to send him for his boy's collection, but before sending it I would find out what it was. Accordingly I sentthe skull to Mr. Frank E. Beddard, the prosector of the ZoologicalSociety, asking him to tell me what it was. His reply was that it wasthe skull of an adult gorilla--a fine large specimen. 

It was then sent on to the young collector of skulls--who will, alas!collect no more, having now given his life to his country. It saddenedme a little to part with it, certainly not because it was a prettyobject to possess, but only because that bleached dome beneath whichbrains were once housed, and those huge black cavities which were oncethe windows of a strange soul, and that mouth that once had a fleshytongue that youled and clicked in an unknown language could not tell meits own life-and-death history from the time of its birth in theAfrican forest to its final translation to a wall over a stable door inan old house near London. 

There are now several writers on animals who are not exactlynaturalists, nor yet mere fictionists, but who, to a considerableknowledge of animal psychology and extraordinary sympathy with allwildness, unite an imaginative insight which reveals to them much ofthe inner, the mind life of brutes. No doubt the greatest of these isCharles Roberts, the Canadian, and I only wish it had been he who haddiscovered the old gorilla skull above the stable door, and that theincident had fired the creative brain which gave us _Red Fox_ andmany another wonderful biography. 

Now here is an odd coincidence. After writing the skull story it cameinto my head to relate it to a lady I was dining with, and I also toldher of my intention of putting it in this book of Little Things. Shesaid it was funny that she too had a story of a skull which she hadthought of telling in her volume of Little Things; but no, she wouldnot venture to do so, although it was a better story than mine. 

She was good enough to let me hear it, and as it is not to appearelsewhere I can't resist the temptation of bringing it in here. 

On her return to Europe after travelling and residing for some years inthe Far East, she established herself in Paris and proceeded todecorate her apartment with some of the wonderful rich and rare objectsshe had collected in outlandish parts. Gorgeous fabrics, embroideries, pottery, metal and woodwork, and along with these products of anancient civilisation, others of rude or primitive tribes, quaintheadgear and plumes, strings and ropes of beads, worn as garmentsby people who run wild in woods, with arrows, spears and otherweapons. These last were arranged in the form of a wheel over theentrance, with the bleached and polished skull of an orang-utan in thecentre. It was a very perfect skull, with all the formidable teethintact and highly effective. 

She lived happily for some months in her apartment and was very popularin Parisian society and visited by many distinguished people, who allgreatly admired her Eastern decorations, especially the skull, beforewhich they would stand expressing their delight with ferventexclamations. 

One day when on a visit at a friend's house, her host brought up agentleman who wished to be introduced to her. He made himself extremelyagreeable, but was a little too effusive with his complimentaryspeeches, telling her how delighted he was to meet her, and how much hehad been wishing for that honour. 

After hearing this two or three times she turned on him and asked himin the directest way why he had wished to see her so very much; then, anticipating that the answer would be that it was because of what hehad heard of her charm, her linguistic, musical and various otheraccomplishments, and so on, she made ready to administer a nice littlesnub, when he made this very unexpected reply:

"O madame, how can you ask? You must know we all admire you because youare the only person in all Paris who has the courage and originality todecorate her _salon_ with a human skull. "

XXVII

A STORY OF A WALNUT

He was a small old man, curious to look at, and every day when I cameout of my cottage and passed his garden he was there, his crutchesunder his arms, leaning on the gate, silently regarding me as I wentby. Not boldly; his round dark eyes were like those of some shy animalpeering inquisitively but shyly at the passer-by. His was a tumble-downold thatched cottage, leaky and miserable to live in, with about three-quarters of an acre of mixed garden and orchard surrounding it. Thetrees were of several kinds--cherry, apple, pear, plum, and one bigwalnut; and there were also shade trees, some shrubs and currant andgooseberry bushes, mixed with vegetables, herbs, and garden flowers. The man himself was in harmony with his disorderly but picturesquesurroundings, his clothes dirty and almost in rags; an old jersey inplace of a shirt, and over it two and sometimes three waistcoats ofdifferent shapes and sizes, all of one indeterminate earthy colour; andover these an ancient coat too big for the wearer. The thin hair, wornon the shoulders, was dust-colour mixed with grey, and to crown allthere was a rusty rimless hat, shaped like an inverted flowerpot. Frombeneath this strange hat the small strange face, with the round, furtive, troubled eyes, watched me as I passed. 

The people I lodged with told me his history. He had lived there manyyears, and everybody knew him, but nobody liked him, --a cunning, foxy, grabbing old rascal; unsocial, suspicious, unutterably mean. Never inall the years of his life in the village had he given a sixpence or apenny to anyone; nor a cabbage, nor an apple, nor had he ever lent ahelping hand to a neighbour nor shown any neighbourly feeling. 

He had lived for himself alone; and was alone in the world, in hismiserable cottage, and no person had any pity for him in his lonelinessand suffering now when he was almost disabled by rheumatism. 

He was not a native of the village; he had come to it a young man, andsome kindly-disposed person had allowed him to build a small hut as ashelter at the side of his hedge. Now the village was at one end of astraggling common, and many irregular strips and patches of common-landexisted scattered about among the cottages and orchards. It was at ahedge-side on the border of one of these isolated patches that theyoung stranger, known as an inoffensive, diligent, and exceedinglyquiet young man, set up his hovel. To protect it from the cattle hemade a small ditch before it. This ditch he made very deep, and theearth thrown out he built into a kind of rampart, and by its outer edgehe put a row of young holly plants, which a good-natured woodman madehim a present of. He was advised to plant the holly behind the ditch, but he thought his plan the best, and to protect the young plants hemade a little fence of odd sticks and bits of old wire and hoop iron. But the sheep would get in, so he made a new ditch; and then somethingelse, until in the course of years the three-quarters of an acre hadbeen appropriated. That was the whole history, and the pilfering hadgone no further only because someone in authority had discovered andput a stop to it. Still, one could see that (in spite of the powers) astrip a few inches in breadth was being added annually to the estate. 

I was so much interested in all this that from time to time I began topause beside his gate to converse with him. By degrees the timid, suspicious expression wore away, and his eyes looked only wistful, andhe spoke of his aches and pains as if it did him good to tell them toanother. 

I then left the village, but visited it from time to time, usually atintervals of some months, always to find him by his gate, on his ownproperty, which he won for himself in the middle of the village, andfrom which he watched his neighbours moving about their cottages, goingand coming, and was not of them. Then a whole year went by, and when Ifound him at the old gate in the old attitude, with the old wistfullook in the eyes, he seemed glad to see me, and we talked of manythings. We talked, that is, of the weather, with reference to thecrops, and his rheumatism. What else in the world was there to talk of?He read no paper and heard no news and was of no politics; and if itcan be said that he had a philosophy of life it was a low-down one, about on a level with that of a solitary old dog-badger who lives in anearth he has excavated for himself with infinite pains in a strongstubborn soil--his home and refuge in a hostile world. 

Finally, casting about in my mind for some new subject of conversation--for I was reluctant to leave him soon after so long an absence--itoccurred to me that we had not said anything about his one walnut tree. Of all the other trees and the fruit he had gathered from them he hadalready spoken. "By-the-way, " I said, "did your walnut tree yield wellthis year?"

"Yes, very well, " he returned; then he checked himself and said, "Pretty well, but I did not get much for them. " And after a littlehesitation he added, "That reminds me of something I had forgotten. Something I have been keeping for you--a little present. "

He began to feel in the capacious pockets of his big outside waistcoat, but found nothing. "I must give it up, " he said; "I must have mislaidit. "

He seemed a little relieved, and at the same time a littledisappointed; and by-and-by, on my remarking that he had not felt inall his pockets, began searching again, and in the end produced thelost something--a walnut! Holding it up a moment, he presented it to mewith a little forward jerk of the hand and a little inclination of thehead; and that little gesture, so unexpected in him, served to showthat he had thought a good deal about giving the walnut away, and hadlooked on it as rather an important present. It was, perhaps, the onlyone he had ever made in his life. While giving it to me he said verynicely, "Pray make use of it. "

The use I have made of it is to put it carefully away among othertreasured objects, picked up at odd times in out-of-the-way places. Itmay be that some minute mysterious insect or infinitesimal mite--thereis almost certain to be a special walnut mite--has found an entranceinto this prized nut and fed on its oily meat, reducing it within to arust-coloured powder. The grub or mite, or whatever it is, may do so atits pleasure, and flourish and grow fat, and rear a numerous family, and get them out if it can; but all these corroding processes andchanges going on inside the shell do not in the least diminish my nut'sintrinsic value. 

XXVII

A STORY OF A JACKDAW

At one end of the Wiltshire village where I was staying there was agroup of half-a-dozen cottages surrounded by gardens and shade trees, and every time I passed this spot on my way to and from the downs onthat side, I was hailed by a loud challenging cry--a sort of "Hullo, who goes there!" Unmistakably the voice of a jackdaw, a pet bird nodoubt, friendly and impudent as one always expects Jackie to be. And asI always like to learn the history of every pet daw I come across, Iwent down to the cottage the cry usually came from to make enquiries. The door was opened to me by a tall, colourless, depressed-lookingwoman, who said in reply to my question that she didn't own no jackdaw. There was such a bird there, but it was her husband's and she didn'tknow nothing about it. I couldn't see it because it had flown awaysomewhere and wouldn't be back for a long time. I could ask her husbandabout it; he was the village sweep, and also had a carpenter's shop. 

I did not venture to cross-question her; but the history of the dawcame to me soon enough--on the evening of the same day in fact. I wasstaying at the inn and had already become aware that the bar-parlourwas the customary meeting-place of a majority of the men in that smallisolated centre of humanity. There was no club nor institute orreading-room, nor squire or other predominant person to regulate thingsdifferently. The landlord, wise in his generation, provided newspapersliberally as well as beer, and had his reward. The people who gatheredthere of an evening included two or three farmers, a couple ofprofessional gentlemen--not the vicar; a man of property, the postman, the carrier, the butcher, the baker and other tradesmen, the farm andother labourers, and last, but not least, the village sweep. A curiousdemocratic assembly to be met with in a rural village in a purelyagricultural district, extremely conservative in politics. 

I had already made the acquaintance of some of the people, high andlow, and on that evening, hearing much hilarious talk in the parlour, Iwent in to join the company, and found fifteen or twenty personspresent. The conversation, when I found a seat, had subsided into aquiet tone, but presently the door opened and a short, robust-lookingman with a round, florid, smiling face looked in upon us. 

"Hullo, Jimmy, what makes you so late?" said someone in the room. "We're waiting to hear the finish of all that trouble about your birdat home. Stolen any more of your wife's jewellery? Come in, and let'shear all about it. "

"Oh, give him time, " said another. "Can't you see his brain's busyinventing something new to tell us!"

"Inventing, you say!" exclaimed Jimmy, with affected anger. "There's noneed to do that! That there bird does tricks nobody would think of. "

Here the person sitting next to me, speaking low, informed me that thiswas Jimmy Jacob, the sweep, that he owned a pet jackdaw, known to everyone in the village, and supposed to be the cleverest bird that everwas. He added that Jimmy could be very amusing about his bird. 

"I'd already begun to feel curious about that bird of yours, " I said, addressing the sweep. "I'd like very much to hear his history. Did youtake him from the nest?"

"Yes, Jim, " said the man next to me. "Tell us how you came by the bird;it's sure to be a good story. "

Jimmy, having found a seat and had a mug of beer put before him, beganby remarking that he knew someone had been interesting himself in thatbird of his. "When I went home to tea this afternoon, " he continued, "my missus, she says to me: 'There's that bird of yours again, ' shesays. "

"'What bird, ' says I. 'If you mean Jac, ' says I, 'what's he done now?--out with it. '

"'We'll talk about what he's done bimeby, ' says she. 'What I mean is, agentleman called to ask about that bird. '

"'Oh, did he?' says I. 'Yes, ' she says. 'I told him I didn't knownothing about it. He could go and ask you. You'd be sure to tell him alot. '

"'And what did the gentleman say to that?' says I. 

"'He arsked me who you was, an' I said you was the sweep an' you had acarpenter's shop near the pub, and was supposed to do carpentering. '

"_Supposed_ to do carpentering! That's how she said it. 

"'And what did the gentleman say to that?' says I. 

"'He said he thought he seen you at the inn, and I said that's justwhere he would see you. '

"'Anything more between you and the gentleman?' says I, and she said:'No, nothing more except that he said he'd look you up and arst if youwas a funny little fat man, sort of round, with a little red face. ' AndI said, 'Yes, that's him. '"

Here I thought it time to break in. "It's true, " I said, "I called atyour cottage and saw your wife, but there's no truth in the accountyou've given of the conversation I had with her. "

There was a general laugh. "Oh, very well, " said Jimmy. "After thatI've nothing more to say about the bird or anything else. "

I replied that I was sorry, but we need not begin our acquaintance byquarrelling--that it would be better to have a drink together. 

Jimmy smiled consent, and I called for another pint for Jimmy and asoda for myself; then added I was so sorry he had taken it that way asI should have liked to hear how he got his bird. 

He answered that if I put it that way he wouldn't mind telling me. Andeverybody was pleased, and composed ourselves once more to listen. 

"How I got that there bird was like this, " he began. "It were abouthalf after four in the morning, summer before last, an' I was justhaving what I may call my beauty sleep, when all of a sudding therecame a most thundering rat-a-tat-tat at the door. 

"'Good Lord, ' says my missus, 'whatever is that?'

"'Sounds like a knock at the door, ' says I. 'Just slip on your thingamyan' go see. '

"'No, ' she says, 'you must go, it might be a man. '

"'No, ' I says, 'it ain't nothing of such consekince as that. It's onlyan old woman come to borrow some castor oil. '

"So she went and bimeby comes back and says: 'It's a man that's calledto see you an' it's very important. '

"'Tell him I'm in bed, ' says I, 'and can't get up till six o'clock. '

"Well, after a lot of grumbling, she went again, then came back andsays the man won't go away till he seen me, as it's very important. 'Something about a bird, ' she says. 

"'A bird!' I says, 'what d'you mean by a bird?'

"'A rook!' she says. 

"'A rook!' says I. 'Is he a madman, or what?'

"'He's a man at the door, ' she says, 'an' he won't go away till he seesyou, so you'd better git up and see him. '

"'All right, old woman, ' I says, 'I'll git up as you say I must, andI'll smash him. Get me something to put on, ' I says. 

"'No, ' she says, 'don't smash him'; and she give me something to put on, weskit and trousers, so I put on the weskit and got one foot in aslipper, and went out to him with the trousers in my hand. And there hewas at the door, sure enough, a tramp!

"'Now, my man, ' says I, very severe-like, 'what's this somethingimportant you've got me out of bed at four of the morning for? Is itthe end of the world, or what?'

"He looked at me quite calm and said it was something important but notthat--not the end of the world. 'I'm sorry to disturb you, ' he says, 'but women don't understand things properly, ' he says, 'an' I alwaysthink it best to speak to a man. '

"'That's all very well, ' I says, 'but how long do you intend to keep mehere with nothing but this on?'

"'I'm just coming to it, ' he says, not a bit put out. 'It's like this, 'he says. 'I'm from the north--Newcastle way--an' on my way toDorchester, looking for work, ' he says. 

"'Yes, I see you are!' says I, looking him up and down, fierce-like. 

"'Last evening, ' he says, 'I come to a wood about a mile from this 'erevillage, and I says to myself, "I'll stay here and go on in themorning. " So I began looking about and found some fern and cut anarmful and made a bed under a oak-tree. I slep' there till about threethis morning. When I opened my eyes, what should I see but a birdsitting on the ground close to me? I no sooner see it than I says tomyself, "That bird is as good as a breakfast, " I says. So I just putout my hand and copped it. And here it is!' And out he pulled a birdfrom under his coat. 

"'That's a young jackdaw, ' I says. 

"'You may call it a jackdaw if you like, ' says he; 'but what I want youto understand is that it ain't no ornary bird. It's a bird, ' he says, 'that'll do you hansom and you'll be proud to have, and I've calledhere to make you a present of it. All I want is a bit of bread, a pinchof tea, and some sugar to make my breakfast in an hour's time when Igit to some cottage by the road where they got a fire lighted, ' hesays. 

"When he said that, I burst out laughing, a foolish thing to do, markyou, for when you laugh, you're done for; but I couldn't help it forthe life of me. I'd seen many tramps but never such a cool one as this. 

"I no sooner laughed than he put the bird in my hands, and I had totake it. 'Good Lord!' says I. Then I called to the missus to fetch methe loaf and a knife, and when I got it I cut him off half the loaf. 'Don't give him that, ' she says: I'll cut him a piece. ' But all I sayswas, 'Go and git me the tea. '

"'There's a very little for breakfast, ' she says. But I made her fetchthe caddy, and he put out his hand and I half filled it with tea. 'Isn't that enough?' says I; 'well, then, have some more, ' I says; andhe had some more. Then I made her fetch the bacon and began cutting himrashers. 'One's enough, ' says the old woman. 'No, ' says I, 'let himhave a good breakfast. The bird's worth it, ' says I and went on cuttinghim bacon. 'Anything more?' I arst him. 

"'If you've a copper or two to spare, ' he says, 'it'll be a help to meon my way to Dorchester. ' "'Certainly, ' says I, and I began to feel inmy trouser pockets and found a florin. 'Here, ' I says, 'it's all Ihave, but you're more than welcome to it. '

"Then my missus she giv' a sort of snort, and walked off. 

"'And now, ' says I, 'per'aps you won't mind letting me go back to gitsome clothes on. '

"In one minute, ' he says, and went on calmly stowing the things away, and when he finished, he looks at me quite serious, and says, 'I'mobliged to you, ' he says, 'and I hope you haven't ketched cold standingwith your feet on them bricks and nothing much on you, ' he says. 'But Iwant most particular to arst you not to forget to remember about thatbird I giv' you, ' he says. 'You call it a jackdaw, and I've noparticular objection to that, only don't go and run away with the ideathat it's just an or'nary jackdaw. It's a different sort, and you'llcome to know its value bime-by, and that it ain't the kind of bird youcan buy with a bit of bread and a pinch of tea, ' he says. 'And there'ssomething else you've got to think of--that wife of yours. I've beensort of married myself and can feel for you, ' he says. 'The time willcome when that there bird's pretty little ways will amuse her, and lastof all it'll make her smile, and you'll get the benefit of that, ' hesays. 'And you'll remember the bird was giv' to you by a man namedJones--that's my name, Jones--walking from Newcastle to Dorchester, looking for work. A poor man, you'll say, down on his luck, but not oneof the common sort, not a greedy, selfish man, but a man that's alwaystrying to do something to make others happy, ' he says. 

"And after that, he said, 'Good-bye, ' without a smile, and walked off. 

"And there at the door I stood, I don't know how long, looking afterhim going down the road. Then I laughed; I don't know that I everlaughed so much in my life, and at last I had to sit down on the bricksto go on laughing more comfortably, until the missus came and arst me, sarcastic-like, if I'd got the high-strikes, and if she'd better get abucket of water to throw over me. 

"I says, 'No, I don't want no water. Just let me have my laugh out andthen it'll be all right. ' Well, I don't see nothing to laugh at, ' shesays. 'And I s'pose you thought you giv' him a penny. Well, it wasn't apenny, it was a florin, ' she says. 

"'And little enough, too, ' I says. 'What that man said to me, to saynothing of the bird, was worth a sovereign. But you are a woman, andcan't understand that, ' I says. 'No, ' she says, 'I can't, and lucky foryou, or we'd 'a' been in the workhouse before now, ' she says. 

"And that's how I got the bird. "

XXIX

A WONDERFUL STORY OF A MACKEREL

The angler is a mighty spinner of yarns, but no sooner does he setabout the telling than I, knowing him of old, and accounting him not anuncommon but an unconscionable liar, begin (as Bacon hath it) "to droopand languish. " Nor does the languishing end with the story if I amcompelled to sit it out, for in that state I continue for some hoursafter. But oh! the difference when someone who is not an angler relatesa fishing adventure! A plain truthful man who never dined at ananglers' club, nor knows that he who catches, or tries to catch a fish, must tell you something to astonish and fill you with envy andadmiration. To a person of this description I am all attention, andhowever prosaic and even dull the narrative may be, it fills me withdelight, and sends me happy to bed and (still chuckling) to arefreshing sleep. 

Accordingly, when one of the "commercials" in the coffee-room of thePlymouth Hotel began to tell a wonderful story of a mackerel he oncecaught a very long time back, I immediately put down my pen so as tolisten with all my ears. For he was about the last person one wouldhave thought of associating with fish-catching--an exceedingly towny-looking person indeed, one who from his conversation appeared to knownothing outside of his business. He was past middle age--oldish-lookingfor a traveller--his iron-grey hair brushed well up to hide thebaldness on top, disclosing a pair of large ears which stood out likehandles; a hatchet face with parchment skin, antique side whiskers, andgold-rimmed glasses on his large beaky nose. He wore the whitest linenand blackest, glossiest broadcloth, a big black cravat, diamond stud inhis shirt-front in the old fashion, and a heavy gold chain with a spadeguinea attached. His get-up and general appearance, though ancient, orat all events mid-Victorian, proclaimed him a person of considerableimportance in his vocation. 

He had, he told us at starting, a very good customer at Bristol, perhaps the best he ever had, at any rate the one who had stuck longestto him, since what he was telling us happened about the year 1870. Hewent to Bristol expressly to see this man, expecting to get a goodorder from him, but when he arrived and saw the wife, and asked for herhusband, she replied that he was away on his holiday with the twolittle boys. It was a great disappointment, for, of course, he couldn'tget an order from her. Confound the woman! she was always against him;what she would have liked was to have half a dozen travellers danglingabout her, so as to pit one against another and distribute the ordersamong them just as flirty females distribute their smiles, instead ofputting trust in one. 

Where had her husband gone for his holiday? he asked; she said Weymouthand then was sorry she had let it out. But she refused to give theaddress. "No, no, " she said; "he's gone to enjoy himself, and mustn'tbe reminded of business till he gets back. "

However, he resolved to follow him to Weymouth on the chance of findinghim there, and accordingly took the next train to that place. And, headded, it was lucky for him that he did so, for he very soon found himwith his boys on the front, and, in spite of what she said, it was notwith this man as it was with so many others who refuse to do businesswhen away from the shop. On the contrary, at Weymouth he secured thebest order this man had given him up to that time; and it was becausehe was away from his wife, who had always contrived to be present attheir business meetings, and was very interfering, and made her husbandtoo cautious in buying. 

It was early in the day when this business was finished. "And now, "said the man from Bristol, who was in a sort of gay holiday mood, "whatare you going to do with yourself for the rest of the day?"

He answered that he was going to take the next train back to London. Hehad finished with Weymouth--there was no other customer there. 

Here he digressed to tell us that he was a beginner at that time at thesalary of a pound a week and fifteen shillings a day for travellingexpenses. He thought this a great thing at first; when he heard what hewas to get he walked about on air all day long, repeating to himself, "Fifteen shillings a day for expenses!" It was incredible; he had beenpoor, earning about five shillings a week, and now he had suddenly comeinto this splendid fortune. It wouldn't be much for him now! He beganby spending recklessly; and in a short time discovered that the fifteenshillings didn't go far; now he had come to his senses and had topractise a rigid economy. Accordingly, he thought he would save thecost of a night's lodging and go back to town. But the Bristol man wasanxious to keep him and said he had hired a man and boat to go fishingwith the boys, --why couldn't he just engage a bedroom for the night andspend the afternoon with them?

After some demur he consented, and took his bag to a modest TemperanceHotel, where he secured a room, and then, protesting he had nevercaught a fish or seen one caught in his life, he got into the boat, andwas taken into the bay where he was to have his first and onlyexperience of fishing. Perhaps it was no great thing, but it gave himsomething to remember all his life. After a while his line began totremble and move about in an extraordinary way with sudden little tugswhich were quite startling, and on pulling it in he found he had amackerel on his hook. He managed to get it into the boat all right andwas delighted at his good luck, and still more at the sight of thefish, shining like silver and showing the most beautiful colours. Hehad never seen anything so beautiful in his life! Later, the same thinghappened again with the line and a second mackerel was caught, andaltogether he caught three. His friend also caught a few, and after amost pleasant and exciting afternoon they returned to the town wellpleased with their sport. His friend wanted him to take a share of thecatch, and after a little persuasion he consented to take one, and heselected the one he had caught first, just because it was the firstfish he had ever caught in his life, and it had looked more beautifulthan any other, so would probably taste better. 

Going back to the hotel he called the maid and told her he had broughtin a mackerel which he had caught for his tea, and ordered her to haveit prepared. He had it boiled and enjoyed it very much, but on thefollowing morning when the bill was brought to him he found that he hadbeen charged two shillings for fish. 

"Why, what does this item mean?" he exclaimed. "I've had no fish inthis hotel except a mackerel which I caught myself and brought back formy tea, and now I'm asked to pay two shillings for it? Just take thebill back to your mistress and tell her the fish was mine--I caught itmyself in the Bay yesterday afternoon. "

The girl took it up, and by-and-by returned and said her mistress hadconsented to take threepence off the bill as he had provided the fishhimself. 

"No, " he said, indignantly, "I'll have nothing off the bill, I'll paythe full amount, " and pay it he did in his anger, then went off to saygoodbye to his friend, to whom he related the case. 

His friend, being in the same hilarious humour as on the previous day, burst out laughing and made a good deal of fun over the matter. 

That, he said, was the whole story of how he went fishing and caught amackerel, and what came of it. But it was not quite all, for he went onto tell us that he still visited Bristol regularly to receive big andever bigger orders from that same old customer of his, whose businesshad gone on increasing ever since; and invariably after finishing theirbusiness his friend remarks in a casual sort of way: "By the way, oldman, do you remember that mackerel you caught at Weymouth which you hadfor tea, and were charged two shillings for?" "Then he laughs just asheartily as if it had only happened yesterday, and I leave him in agood humour, and say to myself: 'Now, I'll hear no more about thatblessed mackerel till I go round to Bristol again in three months'time. '"

"How long ago did you say it was since you caught the mackerel?" Iinquired. 

"About forty years. "

"Then, " I said, "it was a very lucky fish for you--worth more perhapsthan if a big diamond had been found in its belly. The man had got hisjoke--the one joke of his life perhaps--and was determined to stick toit, and that kept him faithful to you in spite of his wife's wish todistribute their orders among a lot of travellers. "

He replied that I was perhaps right and that it had turned out a luckyfish for him. But his old customer, though his business was big, wasnot so important to him now when he had big customers in most of thelarge towns in England, and he thought it rather ridiculous to keep upthat joke so many years. 

XXX

STRANGERS YET

The man who composed that familiar delightful rhyme about blue eyes andblack, and how you are to beware of the hidden knife in the one caseand of a different sort of danger which may threaten you in the other, must have lived a good long time ago, or else be a very old man. Oh, soold, thousands of years, thousands of years, if all were told. And he, when he exhibited such impartiality, must have had other-coloured eyeshimself. Most probably the sheep and goat eye, one which no person inhis senses--except an anthropologist--can classify as either dark orlight. It is that marmalade yellow, excessively rare in this country, but not very uncommon in persons of Spanish race. For who at this day, this age, after the mixing together of the hostile races has been goingon these twenty centuries or longer, can believe that any inherited orinstinctive animosity can still survive? If we do find such a feelinghere and there, would it not be more reasonable to regard it as anindividual antipathy, or as a prejudice, imbibed early in life fromparents or others, which endures in spite of reason, long after itsorigin had been forgotten?

Nevertheless, one does meet with cases from time to time which do throwa slight shadow of doubt on the mind, and of several I have met I willhere relate one. 

At an hotel on the South Coast I met a Miss Browne, which is not hername, and I rather hope this sketch will not be read by anyone nearlyrelated to her, as they might identify her from the description. Amiddle-aged lady with a brown skin, black hair and dark eyes, an ovalface, fairly good-looking, her manner lively and attractive, hermovements quick without being abrupt or jerky. She was highlyintelligent and a good talker, with more to say than most women, andbetter able than most to express herself. We were at the same smalltable and got on well together, as I am a good listener and she knew--being a woman, how should she not?--that she interested me. One day atour table the conversation happened to be about the races of men andthe persistence of racial characteristics, physical and mental, inpersons of mixed descent. The subject interested her. "What would youcall me?" she asked. 

"An Iberian, " I returned. 

She laughed and said: "This makes the third time I have been called anIberian, so perhaps it is true, and I'm curious to know what an Iberianis, and why I'm called an Iberian. Is it because I have something of aSpanish look?"

I answered that the Iberians were the ancient Britons, a dark-eyed, brown-skinned people who inhabited this country and all Southern Europebefore the invasion of the blue-eyed races; that doubtless there hadbeen an Iberian mixture in her ancestors, perhaps many centuries ago, and that these peculiar characters had come out strongly in her; shehad the peculiar kind of blood in her veins and the peculiar sort ofsoul which goes with the blood. 

"But what a mystery it is!" she exclaimed. "I am the only small one ina family of tall sisters. My parents were both tall and light, and theothers took after them. I was small and dark, and they were tallblondes with blue eyes and pale gold hair. And in disposition I wasunlike them as in physique. How do you account for it?"

It was a long question, I said, and I had told her all I could aboutit. I couldn't go further into it; I was too ignorant. I had justtouched on the subject in one of my books. It was in other books, withreference to a supposed antagonism which still survives in blue-eyedand dark-eyed people. 

She asked me to give her the titles of the books I spoke of. "Youimagine, I daresay, " she said, "that it is mere idle curiosity on mypart. It isn't so. The subject has a deep and painful interest for me. "

That was all, and I had forgotten all about the conversation until sometime afterwards, when I had a letter from her recalling it. I quote onepassage without the alteration of a syllable:

"Oh, why did I not know before, when I was young, in the days when mybeautiful blue-eyed but cruel and remorseless mother and sisters mademy life an inexplicable grief and torment! It might have lifted theblack shadows from my youth by explaining the reason of theirpersecutions--it might have taken the edge from my sufferings byshowing that I was not personally to blame, also that nothing couldever obviate it, that I but wasted my life and broke my heart in forever vain efforts to appease an hereditary enemy and oppressor. "

Cases of this kind cannot, however, appear conclusive. The cases inwhich mother and daughters unite in persecuting a member of the familyare not uncommon. I have known several in my experience in whichrespectable, well-to-do, educated, religious people have displayed aperfectly fiendish animosity against one of the family. In all thesecases it has been mother and daughters combining against one daughter, and so far as one can see into the matter, the cause is usually to betraced to some strangeness or marked peculiarity, physical or mental, in the persecuted one. The peculiarity may be a beauty of disposition, or some virtue or rare mental quality which the others do not possess. 

It would perhaps be worth while to form a society to investigate allthese cases of persecution in families, to discover whether or not theyafford any support to the notion of an inherited antagonism of dark andlight races. The Anthropological, Eugenic and Psychical ResearchSocieties might consider the suggestion. 

XXXI

THE RETURN OF THE CHIFF-CHAFF

(SPRING SADNESS)

On a warm, brilliant morning in late April I paid a visit to a shallowlakelet or pond five or six acres in extent which I had discovered someweeks before hidden in a depression in the land, among luxuriant furze, bramble, and blackthorn bushes. Between the thickets the boggy groundwas everywhere covered with great tussocks of last year's dead andfaded marsh grass--a wet, rough, lonely place where a lover of solitudeneed have no fear of being intruded on by a being of his own species, or even a wandering moorland donkey. On arriving at the pond I wassurprised and delighted to find half the surface covered with a thickgrowth of bog-bean just coming into flower. The quaint three-lobedleaves, shaped like a grebe's foot, were still small, and theflowerstocks, thick as corn in a field, were crowned with pyramids ofbuds, cream and rosy-red like the opening dropwort clusters, and at thelower end of the spikes were the full-blown singular, snow-white, cottony flowers--our strange and beautiful water edelweiss. 

A group of ancient, gnarled and twisted alder bushes, with trunks liketrees, grew just on the margin of the pond, and by-and-by I found acomfortable arm-chair on the lower stout horizontal branchesoverhanging the water, and on that seat I rested for a long time, enjoying the sight of that rare unexpected loveliness. 

The chiff-chaff, the common warbler of this moorland district, was nowabundant, more so than anywhere else in England; two or three wereflitting about among the alder leaves within a few feet of my head, anda dozen at least were singing within hearing, chiff-chaffing near andfar, their notes sounding strangely loud at that still, sequesteredspot. Listening to that insistent sound I was reminded of WardeFowler's words about the sweet season which brings new life and hope tomen, and how a seal and sanction is put on it by that same small bird'sclear resonant voice. I endeavoured to recall the passage, saying tomyself that in order to enter fully into the feeling expressed it issometimes essential to know an author's exact words. Failing in this, Ilistened again to the bird, then let my eyes rest on the expanse of redand cream-coloured spikes before me, then on the masses of flame-yellowfurze beyond, then on something else. I was endeavouring to keep myattention on these extraneous things, to shut my mind resolutelyagainst a thought, intolerably sad, which had surprised me in thatquiet solitary place. Surely, I said, this springtime verdure andbloom, this fragrance of the furze, the infinite blue of heaven, thebell-like double note of this my little feathered neighbour in thealder tree, flitting hither and thither, light and airy himself as awind-fluttered alder leaf--surely this is enough to fill and to satisfyany heart, leaving no room for a grief so vain and barren, whichnothing in nature suggested! That it should find me out here in thiswilderness of all places--the place to which a man might come to divesthimself of himself--that second self which he has unconsciouslyacquired--to be like the trees and animals, outside of the sadatmosphere of human life and its eternal tragedy! A vain effort and avain thought, since that from which I sought to escape came from natureitself, from every visible thing; every leaf and flower and blade waseloquent of it, and the very sunshine, that gave life and brilliance toall things, was turned to darkness by it. 

Overcome and powerless, I continued sitting there with half-closed eyesuntil those sad images of lost friends, which had risen with so strangea suddenness in my mind, appeared something more than mere memories andmentally-seen faces and forms, seen for a moment, then vanishing. Theywere with me, standing by me, almost as in life; and I looked from oneto another, looking longest at the one who was the last to go; who waswith me but yesterday, as it seemed, and stood still in our walk andturned to bid me listen to that same double note, that little springmelody which had returned to us; and who led me, waist-deep in theflowering meadow grasses to look for this same beautiful white flowerwhich I had found here, and called it our "English edelweiss. " Howbeautiful it all was! We thought and felt as one. That bond uniting us, unlike all other bonds, was unbreakable and everlasting. If one hadsaid that life was uncertain it would have seemed a meaningless phrase. Spring's immortality was in us; ever-living earth was better than anyhome in the stars which eye hath not seen nor heart conceived. Naturewas all in all; we worshipped her and her wordless messages in ourhearts were sweeter than honey and the honeycomb. 

To me, alone on that April day, alone on the earth as it seemed for awhile, the sweet was indeed changed to bitter, and the loss of thosewho were one with me in feeling, appeared to my mind as a monstrousbetrayal, a thing unnatural, almost incredible. Could I any longer loveand worship this dreadful power that made us and filled our hearts withgladness--could I say of it, "Though it slay me yet will I trust it?"

By-and-by the tempest subsided, but the clouds returned after the rain, and I sat on in a deep melancholy, my mind in a state of suspense. Thenlittle by little the old influence began to re-assert itself, and itwas as if one was standing there by me, one who was always calm, whosaw all things clearly, who regarded me with compassion and had come toreason with me. "Come now, " it appeared to say, "open your eyes oncemore to the sunshine; let it enter freely and fill your heart, forthere is healing in it and in all nature. It is true the power you haveworshipped and trusted will destroy you, but you are living to-day andthe day of your end will be determined by chance only. Until you arecalled to follow them into that 'world of light, ' or it may be ofdarkness and oblivion, you are immortal. Think then of to-day, humblyputting away the rebellion and despondency corroding your life, and itwill be with you as it has been; you shall know again the peace whichpasses understanding, the old ineffable happiness in the sights andsounds of earth. Common things shall seem rare and beautiful to you. Listen to the chiff-chaff ingeminating the familiar unchanging call andmessage of spring. Do you know that this frail feathered mite with itsshort, feeble wings has come back from an immense distance, crossingtwo continents, crossing mountains, deserts illimitable, and, worst ofall, the salt, grey desert of the sea. North and north-east winds andsnow and sleet assailed it when, weary with its long journey, it drewnear to its bourne, and beat it back, weak and chilled to its littleanxious heart, so that it could hardly keep itself from falling intothe cold, salt waves. Yet no sooner is it here in the ancient home andcradle of its race, than, all perils and pains forgot, it begins totell aloud the overflowing joy of the resurrection, calling earth toput on her living garment, to rejoice once more in the old undyinggladness--that small trumpet will teach you something. Let your reasonserve you as well as its lower faculties have served this brave littletraveller from a distant land. "

Is this then the best consolation my mysterious mentor can offer? Howvain, how false it is!--how little can reason help us! The small birdexists only in the present; there is no past, nor future, nor knowledgeof death. Its every action is the result of a stimulus from outside;its "bravery" is but that of a dead leaf or ball of thistle-downcarried away by the blast. Is there no escape, then, from thisintolerable sadness--from the thought of springs that have been, thebeautiful multitudinous life that has vanished? Our maker and mothermocks at our efforts--at our philosophic refuges, and sweeps them awaywith a wave of emotion. And yet there is deliverance, the old way ofescape which is ours, whether we want it or not. Nature herself in herown good time heals the wound she inflicts--even this most grievous inseeming when she takes away from us the faith and hope of reunion withour lost. They may be in a world of light, waiting our coming--we donot know; but in that place they are unimaginable, their stateinconceivable. They were like us, beings of flesh and blood, or weshould not have loved them. If we cannot grasp their hands theircontinued existence is nothing to us. Grief at their loss is just asgreat for those who have kept their faith as for those who have lostit; and on account of its very poignancy it cannot endure in eithercase. It fades, returning in its old intensity at ever longer intervalsuntil it ceases. The poet of nature was wrong when he said that withouthis faith in the decay of his senses he would be worse than dead, echoing the apostle who said that if we had hope in this world only weshould be of all men the most miserable. So, too, was the later poetwrong when he listened to the waves on Dover beach bringing the eternalnotes of sadness in; when he saw in imagination the ebbing of the greatsea of faith which had made the world so beautiful, in its withdrawaldisclosing the deserts drear and naked shingles of the world. Thatdesolation, as he imagined it, which made him so unutterably sad, wasdue to the erroneous idea that our earthly happiness comes to us fromotherwhere, some region outside our planet, just as one of our modernphilosophers has imagined that the principle of life on earth cameoriginally from the stars. 

The "naked shingles of the world" is but a mood of our transitionalday; the world is just as beautiful as it ever was, and our dead asmuch to us as they have ever been, even when faith was at its highest. They are not wholly, irretrievably lost, even when we cease to rememberthem, when their images come no longer unbidden to our minds. They arepresent in nature: through ourselves, receiving but what we give, theyhave become part and parcel of it and give it an expression. As whenthe rain clouds disperse and the sun shines out once more, heaven andearth are filled with a chastened light, sweet to behold and verywonderful, so because of our lost ones, because of the old grief attheir loss, the visible world is touched with a new light, a tendernessand grace and beauty not its own. 

XXXII

A WASP AT TABLE

Even to a naturalist with a tolerant feeling for all living things, both great and small, it is not always an unmixed pleasure to have awasp at table. I have occasionally felt a considerable degree ofannoyance at the presence of a self-invited guest of that kind. 

Some time ago when walking I sat down at noon on a fallen tree-trunk toeat my luncheon, which consisted of a hunk of cake and some bananas. The wind carried the fragrance of the fruit into the adjacent wood, andvery soon wasps began to arrive, until there were fifteen or twentyabout me. They were so aggressive and greedy, almost following everymorsel I took into my mouth, that I determined to let them have as muchas they wanted--_and something more_! I proceeded to make a mashof the ripest portions of the fruit mixed with whisky from my pocket-flask, and spread it nicely on the bark. At once they fell on it withsplendid appetites, but to my surprise the alcohol produced no effect. I have seen big locusts and other important insects tumbling about andacting generally as if demented after a few sips of rum and sugar, butthese wasps, when they had had their full of banana and whisky, buzzedabout and came and went and quarrelled with one another just as usual, and when I parted from them there was not one of the company who couldbe said to be the worse for liquor. Probably there is no more steady-headed insect than the wasp, unless it be his noble cousin and prince, the hornet, who has a quite humanlike unquenchable thirst for beer andcider. 

But the particular wasp at table I had in my mind remains to be spokenof. I was lunching at the house of a friend, the vicar of a lonelyparish in Hampshire, and besides ourselves there were five ladies, fourof them young, at our round table. The window stood open, and by-and-bya wasp flew in and began to investigate the dishes, the plates, thenthe eaters themselves, impartially buzzing before each face in turn. Onhis last round, before taking his departure, he continued to buzz solong before my face, first in front of one eye then the other, as if tomake sure that they were fellows and had the same expression, that I atlength impatiently remarked that I did not care for his too flatteringattentions. And that was really the only inconsiderate or inhospitableword his visit had called forth. Yet there were, I have said, fiveladies present! They had neither welcomed nor repelled him, and had notregarded him; and although it was impossible to be unconscious of hispresence at table, it was as if he had not been there. But then theseladies were cyclists: one, in addition to the beautiful brown colourwith which the sun had painted her face, showed some dark and purplestains on cheek and forehead--marks of a resent dangerous collisionwith a stone wall at the foot of a steep hill. 

Here I had intended telling about other meetings with other wasps, buthaving touched on a subject concerning which nothing is ever said andvolumes might be written--namely, the Part played by the bicycle in theemancipation of women--I will go on with it. That they are not reallyemancipated doesn't matter, since they move towards that goal, anddoubtless they would have gone on at the same old, almost imperceptiblerate for long years but for the sudden impulse imparted by the wheel. Middle-aged people can recall how all England held up its hands andshouted "No, no!" from shore to shore at the amazing and upsettingspectacle of a female sitting astride on a safety machine, indecentlymoving her legs up and down just like a man. But having tasted thedelights of swift easy motion, imparted not by any extraneous agency, but--oh, sweet surprise!--by her own in-dwelling physical energy, sherefused to get off. By staying on she declared her independence; and wewho were looking on--some of us--rejoiced to see it; for did we notalso see, when these venturesome leaders returned to us from careeringunattended over the country, when easy motion had tempted them longdistances into strange, lonely places, where there was no lover norbrother nor any chivalrous person to guard and rescue them frominnumerable perils--from water and fire, mad bulls and ferocious dogs, and evil-minded tramps and drunken, dissolute men, and from allvenomous, stinging, creeping, nasty, horrid things--did we not see thatthey were no longer the same beings we had previously known, that intheir long flights in heat and cold and rain and wind and dust they hadshaken off some ancient weakness that was theirs, that without loss offemininity they had become more like ourselves in the sense that theywere more self-centred and less irrational?

But women, alas! can seldom follow up a victory. They are, as even thepoet when most anxious to make the best of them mournfully confesses:

 variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made. 

Inconstant in everything, they soon cast aside the toy which had taughtthem so great a lesson and served them so well, carrying them so far inthe direction they wished to go. And no sooner had they cast it asidethan a fresh toy, another piece of mechanism, came on the scene tocaptivate their hearts, and instead of a help, to form a hindrance. Themotor not only carried them back over all the ground they had coveredon the bicycle, but further still, almost back to the times of chairsand fans and smelling-salts and sprained ankles at Lyme Regis. Apainful sight was the fair lady not yet forty and already fat, overclothed and muffled up in heavy fabrics and furs, a Pekineseclasped in her arms, reclining in her magnificent forty-horse-power carwith a man (_Homo sapiens_) in livery to drive her from shop toshop and house to house. One could shut one's eyes until it passed--shut them a hundred or five hundred times a day in every thoroughfarein every town in England; but alas! one couldn't shut out the fact thatthis spectacle had fascinated and made captive the soul of womankind, that it was now their hope, their dream, their beautiful ideal--the oneuniversal ideal that made all women sisters, from the greatest ladiesin the land downwards, and still down, from class to class, even to thesemi-starved ragged little pariah girl scrubbing the front steps of ahouse in Mean Street for a penny. 

The splendid spectacle has now been removed from their sight, but is itout of mind? Are they not waiting and praying for the war to end sothat there may be petrol to buy and men returned from the front to castoff their bloodstained clothes and wash and bleach their blackenedfaces, to put themselves in a pretty livery and drive the ladies andtheir Pekinese once more?

A friend of mine once wrote a charming booklet entitled _WheelMagic_, which was all about his rambles on the machine and itseffect on him. He is not an athlete--on the contrary he is a bookishman who has written books enough to fill a cart, and has had so much todo with books all his life that one might imagine he had by somestrange accident been born in the reading-room of the British Museum;or that originally he had actually been a bookworm, a sort of mite, spontaneously engendered between the pages of a book, and that thesupernatural being who presides over the reading-room had, as a littlepleasantry, transformed him into a man so as to enable him to read thebooks on which he had previously nourished himself. 

I can't follow my friend's wanderings and adventures as, springing outof his world of books, he flits and glides like a vagrant, swift-winged, irresponsible butterfly about the land, sipping the nectar froma thousand flowers and doing his hundred miles in a day and feeling allthe better for it, for this was a man's book, and the wheel and itsmagic was never a necessity in man's life. But it has a magic ofanother kind for woman, and I wish that some woman of genius wouldarise and, inspired perhaps by the ghost of Benjamin Ward Richardson inhis prophetic mood, tell of this magic to her sisters. Tell them, ifthey are above labour in the fields or at the wash-tub, that the wheel, without fatiguing, will give them the deep breath which will purify theblood, invigorate the heart, stiffen the backbone, harden the muscles;that the mind will follow and accommodate itself to these physicalchanges; finally, that the wheel will be of more account to them thanall the platforms in the land, and clubs of all the pioneers andcolleges, all congresses, titles, honours, votes, and all the booksthat have been or ever will be written. 

XXXIII

WASPS AND MEN

I now find that I must go back to the subject of my last paper on thewasp in order to define my precise attitude towards that insect. Then, too, there was another wasp at table, not in itself a remarkablyinteresting incident, but I am anxious to relate it for the followingreason. 

If there is one sweetest thought, one most cherished memory in a man'smind, especially if he be a person of gentle pacific disposition, whosechief desire is to live in peace and amity with all men, it is thethought and recollection of a good fight in which he succeeded indemolishing his adversary. If his fights have been rare adventures andin most cases have gone against him, so much the more will he rejoicein that one victory. 

It chanced that a wasp flew into the breakfast room of a country housein which I was a guest, when we were all--about fourteen in number, mostly ladies, young and middle-aged--seated at the table. The waspwent his rounds in the usual way, dropping into this or that plate ordish, feeling foods with his antennae or tasting with his tongue, butstaying nowhere, and as he moved so did the ladies, starting back withlittle screams and exclamations of disgust and apprehension. For theseladies, it hardly need be said, were not cyclists. Then the son of thehouse, a young gentleman of twenty-two, a footballer and generalathlete, got up, pushed back his chair and said: "Don't worry, I'llsoon settle his hash. "

Then I too rose from my seat, for I had made a vow not to allow a waspto be killed unnecessarily in my presence. 

"Leave it to me, please, " I said, "and I'll put him out in a minute. "

"No, sit down, " he returned. "I have said I'm going to kill it. "

"You shall not, " I returned; and then the two of us, serviettes inhand, went for the wasp, who got frightened and flew all round theroom, we after it. After some chasing he rose high and then made a dashat the window, but instead of making its escape at the lower open part, struck the glass. 

"Now I've got him!" cried my sportsman in great glee; but he had notgot him, for I closed with him, and we swayed about and put forth allour strength, and finally came down with a crash on a couch under thewindow. Then after some struggling I succeeded in getting on top, andwith my right hand on his face and my knee on his body to keep himpressed down, I managed with my left hand to capture the wasp and puthim out. 

Then we got up--he with a scarlet face, furious at being baulked; buthe was a true sportsman, and without one word went back to his seat atthe table. 

Undoubtedly it was a disgraceful scene in a room full of ladies, buthe, not I, provoked it and was the ruffian, as I'm sure he will beready to confess if he ever reads this. 

But why all this fuss over a wasp's life, and in such circumstances, ina room full of nervous ladies, in a house where I was a guest? It wasnot that I care more for a wasp than for any other living creature--Idon't love them in the St. Francis way; the wasp is not my littlesister; but I hate to see any living creature unnecessarily, senselessly, done to death. There are other creatures I can see killedwithout a qualm--flies, for instance, especially houseflies and the bigblue-bottle; these are, it was formerly believed, the progeny of Satan, and modern scientists are inclined to endorse that ancient notion. Thewasp is a redoubtable fly-killer, and apart from his merits, he is aperfect and beautiful being, and there is no more sense in killing himthan in destroying big game and a thousand beautiful wild creaturesthat are harmless to man. Yet this habit of killing a wasp is socommon, ingrained as it were, as to be almost universal among us, andis found in the gentlest and humanest person, and even the mostspiritual-minded men come to regard it as a sort of religious duty andexercise, as the incident I am going to relate will show. 

I came to Salisbury one day to find it full of visitors, but Isucceeded in getting a room in one of the small family hotels. I wastold by the landlord that a congress was being held, got up by theSociety for the pursuit or propagation of Holiness, and that delegates, mostly evangelical clergymen and ministers of the gospel of alldenominations, with many lay brothers, had come in from all over thekingdom and were holding meetings every day and all day long at one ofthe large halls. The three bedrooms on the same floor with mine, hesaid, were all occupied by delegates who had travelled from the extremenorth of England. 

In the evening I met these three gentlemen and heard all about theirsociety and congress and its aim and work from them. 

Next morning at about half-past six I was roused from sleep by atremendous commotion in the room adjoining mine: cries and shouts, hurried trampings over the floor, blows on walls and windows and thecrash of overthrown furniture. However, before I could shake my sleepoff and get up to find out the cause, there were shouts of laughter, aproof that no one had been killed or seriously injured, and I went tosleep again. 

At breakfast we met once more, and I was asked if I had been muchdisturbed by the early morning noise and excitement. They proceeded toexplain that a wasp had got into the room of their friend--indicatingthe elderly gentleman who had taken the head of the table; and as hewas an invalid and afraid of being stung, he had shouted to them tocome to his aid. They had tumbled out of bed and rushed in, and beforebeginning operations had made him cover his face and head with thebedclothes, after which they started hunting the wasp. But he was tooclever for them. They threw things at him and struck at him with theirgarments, pillows, slippers, whatever came to hand, and still heescaped, and in rushing round in their excitement everything in theroom except the bedstead was overthrown. At last the wasp, tired out orterrified dropped to the floor, and they were on him like a shot andsmashed him with the slippers they had in their hands. 

"And you call yourselves religious men!" I remarked when they hadfinished their story and looked at me expecting me to say something. 

They stared astonished at me, then exchanged glances and burst outlaughing, and laughed as if they had heard something too excruciatinglyfunny. The elderly clergyman who had been saved from the winged man-eating dragon that had invaded his room managed at last to recover hisgravity, and his friends followed suit; they then all three silentlylooked at me again as if they expected to hear something more. 

Not to disappoint them, I started telling them about the life and workof a famous nobleman, one of England's great pro-consuls, who for manyyears had ruled over various countries in distant regions of the earth, and many barbarous and semi-savage nations, by whom he was regarded, for his wisdom and justice and sympathy with the people he governed, almost as a god. This great man, who was now living in retirement athome, had just founded a Society for the Protection of Wasps, and hadso far admitted two of his friends who were in sympathy with hisobjects to membership. As soon as I heard of the society I had sent inan application to be admitted, too, and felt it would be a proud dayfor me if the founder considered me worthy of being the fourth member. 

Having concluded my remarks, the three religious gentlemen, who hadlistened attentively and seriously to my praises of the great pro-consul, once more exchanged glances and again burst out laughing, andcontinued laughing, rocking in their chairs with laughter, until theycould laugh no more for exhaustion, and the elderly gentleman removedhis spectacles to wipe the tears from his eyes. 

Such extravagant mirth surprised me in that grey-haired man who wasmanifestly in very bad health, yet had travelled over three hundredmiles from his remote Cumberland parish to give the benefit of hisburning thoughts to his fellow-seekers after holiness congregated atSalisbury from all parts of the country. 

The gust of merriment having blown its fill, ending quite naturally in"minute drops from off the eaves, " I gravely wished them good-bye andleft the room. They did not know, they never suspected that theamusement had been on both sides, and that despite their laughter ithad been ten times greater on mine than on theirs. 

I can't in conclusion resist the temptation to tell just one more waspincident, although I fear it will hurt the tender-hearted and religiousreader's susceptibilities more than any of those I have already told. But it will be told briefly, without digression and moralisings. 

We have come to regard Nature as a sort of providence who is mindful ofus and recompenses us according to what our lives are--whether weworship her and observe her ordinances or find our pleasure in breakingthem and mocking her who will not be mocked. But it is sad for thosewho have the feeling of kinship for all living things, both great andsmall, from the whale and the elephant down even to the harvest mouseand beetle and humble earthworm, to know that killing--killing forsport or fun--is not forbidden in her decalogue. If the killing at homeis not sufficient to satisfy a man, he can transport himself to theDark Continent and revel in the slaughter of all the greatest andnoblest forms of life on the globe. There is no crime and no punishmentand no comfort to those who are looking on, except some on exceedinglyrare occasion when we receive a thrill of joy at the lamentable tidingsof the violent death of some noble young gentleman beloved of everybodyand a big-game hunter, who was elephant-shooting, when one of the greatbrutes, stung to madness by his wounds, turned, even when dying, on hispersecutor and trampled him to death. 

In a small, pretty, out-of-the-world village in the West of England Imade the acquaintance of the curate, a boyish young fellow not longfrom Oxford, who was devoted to sport and a great killer. He was notsatisfied with cricket and football in their seasons and golf and lawntennis--he would even descend to croquet when there was nothing else--and boxing and fencing, and angling in the neighbouring streams, but hehad to shoot something every day as well. And it was noticed by thevillagers that the shooting fury was always strongest on him onMondays. They said it was a reaction; that after the restraint ofSunday with its three services, especially the last when he waspermitted to pour out his wild curatical eloquence, the need of doingsomething violent and savage was most powerful; that he had, so to say, to wash out the Sunday taste with blood. 

One August, on one of these Mondays, he was dodging along a hedge-sidewith his gun trying to get a shot at some bird, when he unfortunatelythrust his foot into a populous wasps' nest, and the infuriated waspsissued in a cloud and inflicted many stings on his head and face andneck and hands, and on other parts of his anatomy where they couldthrust their little needles through his clothes. 

This mishap was the talk of the village. "Never mind, " they saidcheerfully--they were all very cheerful over it--"he's a good sports-man, and like all of that kind, hard as nails, and he'll soon be allright, making a joke of it. "

The result "proved the rogues, they lied, " that he was not hard asnails, but from that day onwards was a very poor creature indeed. Thebrass and steel wires in his system had degenerated into just thosepoor little soft grey threads which others have and are subject to manyfantastical ailments. He fell into a nervous condition and started andblanched and was confused when suddenly hailed or spoken to even bysome harmless old woman. He trembled at a shadow, and the very sightand sound of a wasp in the breakfast room when he was trying to eat alittle toast and marmalade filled him, thrilled him, with fantasticterrors never felt before. And in vain to still the beating of hisheart he would sit repeating: "It's only a wasp and nothing more. " Thensome of the parishioners who loved animals, for there are usually oneor two like that in a village, began to say that it was a "judgment" onhim, that old Mother Nature, angry at the persecutions of her featheredchildren by this young cleric who was supposed to be a messenger ofmercy, had revenged herself on him in that way, using her little yellowinsects as her ministers. 

XXXIV

IN CHITTERNE CHURCHYARD

Chitterne is one of those small out-of-the-world villages in the southWiltshire downs which attract one mainly because of their isolation andloneliness and their unchangeableness. Here, however, you discover thatthere has been an important change in comparatively recent years--sometime during the first half of the last century. Chitterne, like mostvillages, possesses one church, a big building with a tall spirestanding in its central part. Before it was built there were twochurches and two Chitternes--two parishes with one village, each withits own proper church. These were situated at opposite ends of the onelong street, and were small ancient buildings, each standing in its ownchurchyard. One of these disused burying-places, with a part of the oldbuilding still standing in it, is a peculiarly attractive spot, all themore so because of long years of neglect and of ivy, bramble, and weedand flower of many kinds that flourish in it, and have long obliteratedthe mounds and grown over the few tombs and headstones that still existin the ground. 

It was an excessively hot August afternoon when I last visitedChitterne, and, wishing to rest for an hour before proceeding on myway, I went to this old churchyard, naturally thinking that I shouldhave it all to myself. But I found two persons there, both old women ofthe peasant class, meanly dressed; yet it was evident they had theirgood clothes on and were neat and clean, each with a basket on her arm, probably containing her luncheon. For they were only visitors andstrangers there, and strangers to one another as they were to me--that, too, I could guess: also that they had come there with some object--perhaps to find some long unvisited grave, for they were walking about, crossing and recrossing each other's track, pausing from time to timeto look round, then pulling the ivy aside from some old tomb andreading or trying to read the worn, moss-grown inscription. I began towatch their movements with growing interest, and could see that they, too, were very much interested in each other, although for a long timethey did not exchange a word. Presently I, too, fell to examining thegravestones, just to get near them, and while pretending to be absorbedin the inscriptions I kept a sharp eye on their movements. They took nonotice of me. I was nothing to them--merely one of another class, aforeigner, so to speak, a person cycling about the country who was justtaking a ten minutes' peep at the place to gratify an idle curiosity. But who was _she_--that other old woman; and what did she wanthunting about there in this old forsaken churchyard? was doubtless whateach of those two was saying to herself. And by-and-by their curiositygot the better of them; then contrived to meet at one stone which theyboth appeared anxious to examine. 

I had anticipated this, and no sooner were they together than I wasdown on my knees busily pulling the ivy aside from a stone three orfour yards from theirs, absorbed in my business. They bade each othergood day and said something about the hot weather, which led one toremark that she had found it very trying as she had left home early towalk to Salisbury to take the train to Codford, and from there she hadwalked again to Chitterne. Oddly enough, the other old woman had alsobeen travelling all day, but from an opposite direction, over Somersetway, just to visit Chitterne. It seemed an astonishing thing to themwhen it came out that they had both been looking forward for years tothis visit, and that it should have been made on the same day, and thatthey should have met there in that same forsaken little graveyard. Itseemed stranger still when they came to tell why they had made thislong-desired visit. They were both natives of the village, and had bothleft it early in life, one aged seven, the other ten; they had leftmuch about the same time, and had never returned until now. And theywere now here with the same object--just to find the graves, unmarkedby a stone, where the mother of one of them, the grandparents of both, and other relatives they still remembered had been buried more thanhalf a century ago. They were surprised and troubled at their failureto identify the very spots where the mounds used to be. "It do all lookso different, " said one, "an' the old stones be mostly gone. " Finally, when they told their names and their fathers' names--farm-labourersboth--they failed to remember each other, and could only suppose thatthey must have forgotten many things about their far-off childhood, although others were still as well remembered as the incidents ofyesterday. 

The old dames had become very friendly and confidential by this time. "I dare say, " I said to myself, "that if I can manage to stay to theend I shall see them embrace and kiss at parting, " and I also thoughtthat their strange meeting in the old village churchyard would be atreasured memory for the rest of their lives. I feared they wouldsuspect me of eavesdropping, and taking out my penknife, I begandiligently scraping the dead black moss from the letters on the stone, after which I made pretence of copying the illegible inscription in mynotebook. They, however, took no notice of me, and began telling eachother what their lives had been since they left Chitterne. Both hadmarried working men and had lost their husbands many years ago; one wassixty-nine, the other in her sixty-sixth year, and both were strong andwell able to work, although they had had hard lives. Then in a tone oftriumph, their faces lighting up with a kind of joy, they informed eachother that they had never had to go to the parish for relief. Each wasanxious to be first in telling how it had come about that she, the poorwidow of a working man, had been so much happier in her old age than somany others. So eager were they to tell it that when one spoke theother would cut in long before she finished, and when they talkedtogether it was not easy to keep the two narratives distinct. One wasthe mother of four daughters, all still unmarried, earning their ownlivings, one in a shop, another a sempstress, two in service in goodhouses, earning good wages. Never had woman been so blessed in herchildren! They would never see their mother go to the House! The otherhad but one, a son, and not many like him; no son ever thought more ofhis mother. He was at sea, but every nine to ten months he was back inBristol, and then on to visit her, and never let a month pass withoutwriting to her and sending money to pay her rent and keep a nicecomfortable home for him. 

They congratulated one another; then the mother of four said she alwaysthanked God for giving her daughters, because they were women and couldfeel for a mother. The other replied that it was true, she had oftenseen it, the way daughters stuck to their mother--_until theymarried_. She was thankful to have a son; a man, she said, is a manand can go out in the world and do things, and if he is a good son hewill never see his mother want. 

The other was nettled at that speech. "Of course a man's a man, " shereturned, "but we all know what men are. They are all right till theypick up with a girl who wants all their wages; then everyone, motherand all, must be given up. " But a daughter was a daughter always; shehad four, she was happy to say. 

This made matters worse. "Daughters always daughters!" came the quickrejoinder. "I never learned that before. What, my son take up with agirl and leave his old mother to starve or go to the workhouse! I neverheard such a foolish thing said in my life!" And, being now quiteangry, she looked round for her basket and shawl so as to get away asquickly as possible from that insulting woman; but the other, guessingher intention, was too quick for her and started at once to the gate, but after going four or five steps turned and delivered her last shot:"Say what you like about your son, and I don't doubt he's been good toyou, and I only hope it'll always be the same; but what I say is, giveme a daughter, and I know, ma'am, that if you had a daughter you'd beeasier in your mind!"

Having spoken, she made for the gate, and the other, stung in somevital part by the last words, stood motionless, white with anger, staring after her, first in silence, but presently she began talkingaudibly to herself. "My son--my son pick up with a girl! My son leavehis mother to go on the parish!"--but I stayed to hear no more; it mademe laugh and--it was too sad. 

XXXV

A HAUNTER OF CHURCHYARDS

I said a little while ago that when staying at a village I am apt tobecome a haunter of its churchyard; but I go not to it in the spirit ofour well-beloved Mr. Pecksniff. He, it will be remembered, wasaccustomed to take an occasional turn among the tombs in the graveyardat Amesbury, or wherever it was, to read and commit to memory the piousand admonitory phrases he found on the stones, to be used later as agarnish to his beautiful, elevating talk. The attraction for me, whichhas little to do with inscriptions, was partly stated in the lastsketch, and I may come to it again by-and-by. 

Nevertheless, I cannot saunter or sit down among these memorialswithout paying some attention to the lettering on them, and always withgreatest interest in those which time and weather and the corrosivelichen have made illegible. The old stones that are no longer visited, on which no fresh-gathered flower is ever laid, which mark the lastresting-places of the men and women who were once the leading membersof the little rustic community, and are now forgotten for ever, whosebones for a century past have been crumbling to dust. And thechildren's children, and remoter descendants of these dead, where arethey? since one refuses to believe that they inhabit this land anylonger. Under what suns, then, by what mountains and what mightyrivers, on what great green or sun-parched plains and in what roaringcities in far-off continents? They have forgotten; they have no memorynor tradition of these buried ones, nor perhaps even know the name ofthis village where they lived and died. Yet we believe that somethingfrom these same dead survives in them--something, too, of the place, the village, the soil, an inherited memory and emotion. At all eventswe know that, wheresoever they may be, that their soul is Englishstill, that they will hearken to their mother's voice when she callsand come to her from the very ends of the earth. 

As to the modern stones with inscriptions made so plain that you canread them at a distance of twenty yards, one cultivates the art of notseeing them, since if you look attentively at them and read the dullformal inscription, the disgust you will experience at their extremeugliness will drive you from the spot, and so cause you to miss somedelicate loveliness lurking there, like a violet "half hidden from theeye. " But I need not go into this subject here, as I have had my sayabout it in a well-known book--Hampshire Days. 

The stones I look at are of the seventeenth, eighteenth and first halfof the nineteenth centuries, for even down to the fifties of lastcentury something of the old tradition lingered on, and not all thestones were shaped and lettered in imitation of an auctioneer'sadvertisement posted on a barn door. 

In reading the old inscriptions, often deciphered with difficulty afterscraping away the moss and lichen, we occasionally discover one thathas the charm of quaintness, or which touches our heart or sense ofhumour in such a way as to tempt us to copy it into a note-book. 

In this way I have copied a fair number, and in glancing over my oldnote-books containing records of my rambles and observations, mostlynatural history, I find these old epitaphs scattered through them. ButI have never copied an inscription with the intention of using it. Andthis for the sufficient reason that epitaphs collected in a book do notinterest me or anyone. They are in the wrong place in a book and cannotproduce the same effect as when one finds and spells them out on aweathered stone or mural tablet out or inside a village church. It isthe atmosphere--the place, the scene, the associations, which give itits only value and sometimes make it beautiful and precious. The stoneitself, its ancient look, half-hidden in many cases by ivy, and clothedover in many-coloured moss and lichen and aerial algae, and thestonecutter's handiwork, his lettering, and the epitaphs he revelledin--all this is lost when you take the inscription away and print it. Take this one, for instance, as a specimen of a fairly goodseventeenth-century epitaph, from Shrewton, a village on SalisburyPlain, not far from Stonehenge:

 HERE IS MY HOPE TILL TRVMP SHALL SOVND AND CHRIST FOR MEE DOTH CALL THEN SHALL I RISE FROM DEATH TO LIFE NOE MORETO DYE AT ALL

 R HERE LIES THE BODY OF ROBET WANESBROVGH THE SD E O ED OF Y NAME W DEPART THIS R E LIFE DEC Y 9TH AODNI 1675

It would not be very interesting to put this in a book:

 Here is my hope till trump shall sound And Christ for me doth call, Then shall I rise from death to life No more to die at all. 

But it was interesting to find it there, to examine the old letteringand think perhaps that if you had been standing at the elbow of the oldlapidary, two and a half centuries ago, you might have given him awrinkle in the economising of space and labour. In any case, to find itthere in the dim, rich interior of that ancient village church, to viewit in a religious or reverent mood, and then by-and-by in the dustybelfry to stumble on other far older memorials of the same family, andfinally, coming out into the sunny churchyard, to come upon the samename once more in an inscription which tells you that he died in 1890, aged 88. And you think it a good record after nine generations, andthat the men who lie under these wide skies on these open chalk downsdo not degenerate. 

I have copied these inscriptions for a purpose of my own, just as oneplucks a leaf or a flower and drops it between the pages of a book heis reading to remind him on some future occasion, when by chance hefinds it again on opening the book at some future time, of the scene, the place, the very mood of the moment. 

Now, after all said, I am going to quote a few of my old gleanings fromgravestones, not because they are good of their kind--my collectionwill look poor and meagre enough compared with those that others havemade--but I have an object in doing it which will appear presently inthe comments. 

Always the best epitaphs to be found in books are those composed byversifiers for their own and the reading public's amusement, and alwaysthe best in the collection are the humorous ones. 

The first collection I ever read was by the Spanish poet, Martinez dela Rosa, and although I was a boy then, I can still remember one:

 Aqui Fray Diego reposa, Jamas hiso otra cosa. 

Which, translated literally, means:

 Here Friar James reposes: He never did anything else. 

This does well enough on the printed page, but would shock the mind ifseen on a gravestone, and perhaps the rarest of all epitaphs are thehumorous ones. But one is pleased to meet with the unconsciouslyhumorous; the little titillation, the smile, is a relief, and does nottake away the sense of the tragedy of life and the mournful end. 

A good specimen of the unconsciously humorous epitaph is on a stone inthe churchyard at Maddington, a small village in the Wiltshire Downs, dated 1843:

 These few lines have been procured To tell the pains which he endured, He was crushed to death by the fall Of an old mould'ring, tottering wall. All ye young people that pass by Remember this and breathe a sigh, Lord, let him hear thy pard'ning voice And make his broken bones rejoice. 

A better one, from the little village of Mylor, near Falmouth, has Ifancy been often copied:

 His foot it slipped and he did fall, Help! help! he cried, and that was all. 

And still a better one I found in the churchyard of St. Margaret's atLynn, to John Holgate, aged 27, who died in 1712:

 He hath gained his port and is at ease, And hath escapt ye danger of ye seas, His glass is run his life is gone, Which to my thought never did no man no wronge. 

That last line is remarkable, for although its ten slow words haveapparently fallen by chance into that form and express nothing but alittle negative praise of their subject, they say something more byimplication. They conceal a mournful protest against the cruelty andinjustice of his lot, and remind us of the old Italian folk-song, "OBarnaby, why did you die?" With plenty of wine in the house and saladin the garden, how wrong, how unreasonable of you to die! But evenwhile blaming you in so many words, we know, O Barnaby, that thedecision came not from you, and was an outrage, but dare not say solest he himself should be listening, and in his anger at one wordshould take us away too before our time. It is unconsciously humorous, yet with the sense of tears in it. 

But there is no sense of tears in the unconscious humour of the solemnor pompous epitaph composed by the village ignoramus. 

A century ago the village idiot was almost always a member of thelittle rustic community, and was even useful to it in two distinctways. He was "God's Fool, " and compassion and sweet beneficentinstinct, or soul growths, flourished the more for his presence; andsecondly, he was a perpetual source of amusement, a sort of free cinemaprovided by Nature for the children's entertainment. I am not sure thathis removal has not been a loss to the little rural centres of life. 

Side by side with the village idiot there was the pompous person whocould not only read a book, but could put whole sentences together andeven make rhymes, and who on these grounds took an important part inthe life of the community. He was not only adviser and letter-writer tohis neighbours, but often composed inscriptions for their gravestoneswhen they were dead. But in the best specimen of this kind which I havecome upon, I feel pretty sure, from internal evidence, that the buriedman had composed his own epitaph, and probably designed the form of thestone and its ornamentation. I found this stone in the churchyard ofMinturne Magna, in Dorset. The stone was five feet high and four and ahalf broad--a large canvas, so to speak. On the upper half a Tree ofKnowledge was depicted, with leaves and apples, the serpent wound aboutthe trunk, with Adam and Eve standing on either side. Eve is extendingher arm, with an apple in her open hand, to Adam, and he, foolish man, is putting out a hand to take it. Then follows the extraordinaryinscription:

 Here lyeth the Body Of Richard Elambert, Late of Holnust, who died June 6, in the year 1805, in the 100 year of his age. Neighbours make no stay, Return unto the Lord, Nor put it off from day to day, For Death's a debt ye all must pay. Ye knoweth not how soon, It may be the next moment, Night, morning or noon. I set this as a caution To my neighbours in rime, God give grace that you May all repent in time. For what God has decreed, We surely must obey, For when please God to send His death's dart into us so keen, O then we must go hence And be no more here seen. 

 ALSO

 Handy lyeth here Dianna Elambert, Which was my only daughter dear, Who died Jan. 10, 1776, In the 18th year of her age. 

Poor Diana deserved a less casual word!

Enough of that kind. The next to follow is the quite plain, sensible, narrative inscription, with no pretension to fine diction, albeit inrhyme. Oddly enough the most perfect example I have found is in thechurchyard at Kew, which seems too near to London:

 Here lyith the bodies of Robert and Ann Plaistow, late of Tyre, Edghill, in Warwickshire, Dyed August 23, 1728. At Tyre they were born and bred And in the same good lives they led, Until they come to married state, Which was to them most fortunate. Near sixty years of mortal life They were a happy man and wife, And being so by Nature tyed When one fell sick the other dyed, And both together laid in dust To await the rising of the just. They had six children born and bred, And five before them being dead, Their only then surviving son Hath caused this stone for to be done. 

After this little masterpiece I will quote no other in this class. 

After copying some scores of inscriptions, we find that there hasalways been a convention or fashion in such things, and that it hasbeen constantly but gradually changing during the last three centuries. Very few of the seventeenth century, which are the best, are nowdecipherable, out of doors at all events. In an old graveyard you willperhaps find two or three among two or three hundred stones, yet youbelieve that two to three hundred years ago the small space was asthickly peopled with stones as now. The two or three or more that havenot perished are of the very hardest kind of stone, and the old lettersoften show that they were cut with great difficulty. We also find thatapart from the convention of the age or time, there were localconventions or fashions. In some parts of the South of England you findnumbers of enormous stones five feet high and nearly as broad. Thismode has long vanished. But you find a resemblance in the inscriptionsas well. Thus, wherever the Methodists obtained a firm hold on thecommunity, you find the spirit of ugliness appearing in the villagechurchyard from the middle of the eighteenth century onwards, when theold ornate and beautiful stones with figures of winged cherubs bearingtorches, scattering flowers or blowing trumpets, were the usualdecorations, giving place to the plain or ugly stone with its squareugly lettering and the dull monotonous form of the inscription. "To thememory of Mr. Buggins of this parish, who died on February 27th, 1801, aged 67. " And then, to save trouble and expense, a verse from a hymn, or the simple statement that he is asleep in Jesus, or is awaiting theresurrection. 

I am inclined to blame Methodism for these horrors simply because itis, as we know, the cult of ugliness, but there may have been anothercause for the change; it was perhaps to some extent a reaction againstthe stilted, the pompous and silly epitaph which one finds most commonin the first half of the eighteenth century. 

Here is a perfect specimen which I found at St. Just, in Cornwall, to aMartin Williams, 1771:

 Life's but a snare, a Labyrinth of Woe Which wretched Man is doomed to struggle through. To-day he's great, to-morrow he's undone, And thus with Hope and Fear he blunders on, Till some disease, or else perhaps old Age Calls us poor Mortals trembling from the Stage. 

An amusing variant of one of the commoner forms of that time appears atLelant, a Cornish village near St. Ives:

 What now you are so once was me, What now I am that you will be, Therefore prepare to follow me. 

No less remarkable in grammar as in the identical or perfect rhyme inthe first and third lines. The author or adapter could have escapedthis by making the two first the expression of the person buriedbeneath, and the third the comment from the outsider, as follows:

 Therefore prepare to follow _she_, It was a woman, I must say. 

This form of epitaph is quite common, and I need not give here moreexamples from my notes, but the better convention coming down from thepreceding age goes on becoming more and more modified all through theeighteenth, and even to the middle of the nineteenth century. 

The following from St. Erth, a Cornish village, is a most suitableinscription on the grave of an old woman who was a nurse in the samefamily from 1750 to 1814:

 Time rolls her ceaseless course; the race of yore That danced our infancy on their knee And told our wondering children Legends lore Of strange adventures haped by Land and Sea, How are they blotted from the things that be!

There are many beautiful stones and appropriate inscriptions during allthat long period, in spite of the advent of Mr. Buggins and hisugliness, and the charm and pathos is often in a phrase, a single line, as in this from St. Keverne, 1710, a widow's epitaph on her husband:

 Rest here awhile, thou dearest part of me. 

But let us now get back another century at a jump, to the Jacobean andCaroline period. And for these one must look as a rule in interiors, seeing that, where exposed to the weather, the lettering, if not thewhole stone, has perished. Perhaps the best specimen of the graveinscription, lofty but not pompous, of that age which I have met withis on a tablet in Ripon Cathedral to Hugh de Ripley, a locallyimportant man who died in 1637:

 Others seek titles to their tombs Thy deeds to thy name prove new wombes And scutcheons to deck their Herse Which thou need'st not like teares and vers. If I should praise thy thriving witt Or thy weighed judgment serving it Thy even and thy like straight ends Thy pitie to God and to friends The last would still the greatest be And yet all jointly less than thee. Thou studiedst conscience more than fame Still to thy gathered selfe the same. Thy gold was not thy saint nor welth Purchased by rapine worse than stealth Nor did'st thou brooding on it sit Not doing good till death with it. This many may blush at when they see What thy deeds were what theirs should be. Thou'st gone before and I wait now T'expect my when and wait my how Which if my Jesus grant like thine Who wets my grave's no friend of mine. 

Rather too long for my chapter, but I quote it for the sake of the lastfour lines, characteristic of that period, the age of conceits, of thelove of fantasticalness, of Donne, Crashaw, Vaughan. 

A jump from Ripon of 600 odd miles to the little village of Ludgvan, near Penzance, brings us to a tablet of nearly the same date, 1635, andan inscription conceived in the same style and spirit. It isinteresting, on account of the name of Catherine Davy, an ancestress ofthe famous Sir Humphry, whose marble statue stands before the PenzanceMarket House facing Market Jew Street. 

 Death shall not make her memory to rott Her virtues were too great to be forgott. Heaven hath her soul where it must still remain The world her worth to blazon forth her fame The poor relieved do honour and bless her name. Earth, Heaven, World, Poor, do her immortalize Who dying lives and living never dies. 

Here is another of 1640:

 Here lyeth the body of my Husband deare Whom next to God I did most love and fear. Our loves were single: we never had but one And so I'll be although that thou art gone. 

Which means that she has no intention of marrying again. Why have I setthis inscription down? Solely to tell how I copied it. I saw it on abrass in the obscure interior of a small village church in Dorset, butplaced too high up on the wall to be seen distinctly. By piling sevenhassocks on top of one another I got high up enough to read the dateand inscription, but before securing the name I had to get quickly downfor fear of falling and breaking my neck. The hassocks had added fivefeet to my six. 

The convention of that age appears again in the following inscriptionfrom a tablet in Aldermaston church, in that beautiful little Berkshirevillage, once the home of the Congreves:

 Like borne, like new borne, here like dead they lie, Four virgin sisters decked with pietie Beauty and other graces which commend And made them like blessed in the end. 

Which means they were very much like each other, and were all as purein heart as new-born babes, and that they all died unmarried. 

Where the epitaph-maker of that time occasionally went wrong was in hisefforts to get his fantasticalness in willy-nilly, or in a silly playupon words, as in the following example from the little village ofBoyton on the Wylie river, on a man named Barnes, who died in 1638:

 Stay Passenger and view a stack of corne Reaped and laid up in the Almighty's Barne Or rather Barnes of Choyce and precious grayne Put in his garner there still to remaine. 

But in the very next village--that of Stockton--I came on the best Ihave found of that time. It is, however, a little earlier in time, before fantasticalness came into fashion, and in spirit is of thenobler age. It is to Elizabeth Potecary, who died in 1590. 

 Here she interred lies deprived of breath Whose light of virtue once on Earth did shyne Who life contemned ne feared ghostly death Whom worlde ne worldlye cares could cause repine Resolved to die with hope in Heaven placed Her Christ to see whom living she embraced In paynes most fervent still in zeal most strong In death delighting God to magnifye How long will thou forgett me Lord! this cry In greatest pangs was her sweet harmonye Forgett thee? No! he will not thee forgett In books of Lyfe thy name for aye is set. 

And with Elizabeth Potecary, that dear lady dead these three centuriesand longer, I must bring this particular Little Thing to an end. 

XXXVI

THE DEAD AND THE LIVING

The last was indeed in essence a small thing, but was running to such agreat length it had to be ended before my selected best inscriptionswere used up, also before the true answer to the question: "Why, ifinscriptions do not greatly interest me, do I haunt churchyards?" wasgiven. Let me give it now: it will serve as a suitable conclusion towhat has already been said on the subject in this and in a former book. 

When we have sat too long in a close, hot, brilliantly-lighted, over-crowded room, a sense of unutterable relief is experienced on comingforth into the pure, fresh, cold night and filling our lungs with airuncontaminated with the poisonous gases discharged from other lungs. Ananalogous sense of immense relief, of escape from confinement andjoyful liberation, is experienced mentally when after long weeks ormonths in London I repair to a rustic village. Yet, like the person whohas in his excitement been inhaling poison into his system for longhours, I am not conscious of the restraint at the time. Not consciouslyconscious. The mind was too exclusively occupied with itself--its ownmind affairs. The cage was only recognised as a cage, an unsuitablehabitation, when I was out of it. An example, this, of the eternaldisharmony between the busy mind and nature--or Mother Nature, let ussay; the more the mind is concentrated on its own business the blinderwe are to the signals of disapproval on her kindly countenance, thedeafer to her warning whispers in our ear. 

The sense of relief is chiefly due to the artificiality of theconditions of London or town life, and no doubt varies greatly instrength in town and country-bred persons; in me it is so strong thaton first coming out to where there are woods and fields and hedges, Iam almost moved to tears. 

We have recently heard the story of the little East-end boy on hisholiday in a quiet country spot, who exclaimed: "How full of sound thecountry is! Now in London we can't hear the sound because of thenoises. " And as with sound--the rural sounds that are familiar from ofold and find an echo in us--so with everything: we do not hear nor seenor smell nor feel the earth, which he is, physically and mentally, insuch per-period, the years that run to millions, that it has "enteredthe soul"; an environment with which he is physically and mentally, insuch perfect harmony that it is like an extension of himself into thesurrounding space. Sky and cloud and wind and rain, and rock and soiland water, and flocks and herds and all wild things, with trees andflowers--everywhere grass and everlasting verdure--it is all part ofmen, and is me, as I sometimes feel in a mystic mood, even as areligious man in a like mood feels that he is in a heavenly place andis a native there, one with it. 

Another less obvious cause of my feeling is that the love of our kindcannot exist, or at all events not unmixed with contempt and variousother unpleasant ingredients, in people who live and have their beingamidst thousands and millions of their fellow-creatures herdedtogether. The great thoroughfares in which we walk are peopled with anendless procession, an innumerable multitude; we hardly see and do notlook at or notice them, knowing beforehand that we do not know andnever will know them to our dying day; from long use we have almostceased to regard them as fellow-beings. 

I recall here a tradition of the Incas, which tells that in thebeginning a benevolent god created men on the slopes of the Andes, andthat after a time another god, who was at enmity with the first, spitefully transformed them into insects. Here we have a contraryeffect--it is the insects which have been transformed; the millions ofwood-ants, let us say, inhabiting an old and exceedingly populous nesthave been transformed into men, but in form only; mentally they arestill ants, all silently, everlastingly hurrying by, absorbed in theirant-business. You can almost smell the formic acid. Walking in thestreet, one of the swarming multitude, you are in but not of it. Youare only one with the others in appearance; in mind you are as unlikethem as a man is unlike an ant, and the love and sympathy you feeltowards them is about equal to that which you experience when lookingdown on the swarm in a wood-ants' nest. 

Undoubtedly when I am in the crowd, poisoned by contact with the crowd-mind--the formic acid of the spirits--I am not actually or keenlyconscious of the great gulf between me and the others, but, as in theformer case, the sense of relief is experienced here too in escapingfrom it. The people of the small rustic community have not been de-humanised. I am a stranger, and they do not meet me with blank facesand pass on in ant-like silence. So great is the revulsion that I lookon them as of my kin, and am so delighted to be with them again afteran absence of centuries, that I want to embrace and kiss them all. I amone of them, a villager with the village mind, and no wish for anyother. 

This mind or heart includes the dead as well as the living, and thechurch and churchyard is the central spot and half-way house orcamping-ground between this and the other world, where dead and livingmeet and hold communion--a fact that is unknown to or ignored bypersons of the "better class, " the parish priest or vicar sometimesincluded. 

And as I have for the nonce taken on the village mind, I am as muchinterested in my incorporeal, invisible neighbours as in those I seeand am accustomed to meet and converse with every day. They are here inthe churchyard, and I am pleased to be with them. Even when I sit, as Isometimes do of an evening, on a flat tomb with a group of laughingchildren round me, some not yet tired of play, climbing up to my sideonly to jump down again, I am not oblivious of their presence. They arethere, and are glad to see the children playing among the tombs wherethey too had their games a century ago. I notice that the village womanpassing through the ground pauses a minute with her eyes resting on acertain spot; even the tired labourer, coming home to his tea, will lethis eyes dwell on some green mound, to see sitting or standing theresomeone who in life was very near and dear to him, with whom he is nowexchanging greetings. But the old worn-out labourer, who happily hasnot gone to end his days in captivity in the bitter Home of the Poor--he, sitting on a tomb to rest and basking in the sunshine, has a wholecrowd of the vanished villagers about him. 

It is useless their telling us that when we die we are instantly judgedand packed straight off to some region where we are destined to spendan eternity. We know better. Nature, our own hearts, have taught usdifferently. Furthermore, we have heard of the resurrection--that thedead will rise again at the last day; and with all our willingness tobelieve what our masters tell us, we know that even a dead man can't bein two places at the same time. Our dead are here where we laid them;sleeping, no doubt, but not so soundly sleeping, we imagine, as not tosee and hear us when we visit and speak to them. And being villagersstill though dead, they like to see us often, whenever we have a fewspare minutes to call round and exchange a few words with them. 

This extremely beautiful--and in its effect beneficial--feeling andbelief, or instinct, or superstition if the superior inhabitants of thewood-ants' nest, who throw their dead away and think no more aboutthem, will have it so--is a sweet and pleasant thing in the villagelife and a consolation to those who are lonely. Let me in conclusiongive an instance. 

The churchyard I like best is situated in the village itself, and is inuse both for the dead and living, and the playground of the littleones, but some time ago I by chance discovered one which was over halfa mile from the village; an ancient beautiful church and churchyardwhich so greatly attracted me that in my rambles in that part I oftenwent a mile or two out of my way just for the pleasure of spending anhour or two in that quiet sacred spot. It was in a wooded district inHampshire, and there were old oak woods all round the church, with noother building in sight and seldom a sound of human life. There was anold road outside the gate, but few used it. The tombs and stones weremany and nearly covered with moss and lichen and half-draped increeping ivy. There, sitting on a tomb, I would watch the smallwoodland birds that made it their haunt, and listen to the delicatelittle warbling or tinkling notes, and admire the two ancientpicturesque yew trees growing there. 

One day, while sitting on a tomb, I saw a woman coming from the villagewith a heavy basket on her head, and on coming to the gate she turnedin, and setting the basket down walked to a spot about thirty yardsfrom where I sat, and at that spot she remained for several minutesstanding motionless, her eyes cast down, her arms hanging at her sides. A cottage woman in a faded cotton gown, of a common Hampshire type, flat-chested, a rather long oval face, almost colourless, and blackdusty hair. She looked thirty-five, but was probably less than thirty, as women of their class age early in this county and get the toil-worn, tired face when still young. 

By-and-by I went over to her and asked her if she was visiting some ofher people at that spot. Yes, she returned; her mother and father wereburied under the two grass mounds at her feet; and then quitecheerfully she went on to tell me all about them--how all their otherchildren had gone away to live at a distance from home, and she wasleft alone with them when they grew old and infirm. They were nativesof the village, and after they were both dead, five years ago, she gota place at a farm about a mile up the road. There she had been eversince, but fortunately she had to come to the village every week, andalways on her way back she spent a quarter or half an hour with herparents. She was sure they looked for that weekly visit from her, asthey had no other relation in the place now, and that they liked tohear all the village news from her. 

All this and more she told me in the most open way. Like Wordsworth's"simple child, " what could she know of death? But being a villagermyself I was better informed than Wordsworth, and didn't enter on aponderous argument to prove to her that when people die they die, andbeing dead, they can't be alive--therefore to pay them a weekly visitand tell them all the news was a mere waste of time and breath. 

XXXVII

A STORY OF THREE POEMS

I wrote in the last sketch but one of the villager with a literary giftwho composes the epitaphs in rhyme of his neighbours when they passaway and are buried in the churchyard. This has served to remind me ofa kindred subject--the poetry or verse (my own included) of those whoare not poets by profession: also of an incident. Undoubtedly there isa vast difference between the village rhymester and the true poet, andthe poetry I am now concerned with may be said to come somewhat betweenthese two extremes. Or to describe it in metaphor, it may be said tocome midway between the crow of the "tame villatic fowl" and the musicof the nightingale in the neighbouring copse or of the skylark singingat heaven's gate. The impartial reader may say at the finish that theincident was not worth relating. Are there any such readers? I doubtit. I take it that we all, even those who appear the most matter-of-fact in their minds and lives, have something of the root, theelements, of poetry in their composition. How should it be otherwise, seeing that we are all creatures of like passions, all in some degreedreamers of dreams; and as we all possess the faculty of memory we mustat times experience emotions recollected in tranquillity. And that, ourmasters have told us, is poetry. 

It is hardly necessary to say that it is nothing of the sort: it is theelements, the essence, the feeling which makes poetry if expressed. Ihave a passion for music, a perpetual desire to express myself inmusic, but as I can't sing and can't perform on any musical instrument, I can't call myself a musician. The poetic feeling that is in us andcannot be expressed remains a secret untold, a warmth in the heart, arapture which cannot be communicated. But it cries to be told, and insome rare instances the desire overcomes the difficulty: in a happymoment the unknown language is captured as by a miracle and the secretcomes out. 

And, as a rule, when it has been expressed it is put in the fire, orlocked up in a desk. By-and-by the hidden poem will be taken out andread with a blush. For how could he, a practical-minded man, with awholesome contempt for the small scribblers and people weak in theirintellectuals generally, have imagined himself a poet and produced thispitiful stuff!

Then, too, there are others who blush, but with pleasure, at thethought that, without being poets, they have written something out oftheir own heads which, to them at all events, reads just like poetry. Some of these little poems find their way into an editor's hands, to belooked at and thrown aside in most cases, but occasionally one wins aplace in some periodical, and my story relates to one of these chosenproducts--or rather to three. 

One summer afternoon, many years ago--but I know the exact date: July1st, 1897--I was drinking tea on the lawn of a house at Kew, when themaid brought the letters out to her mistress, and she, Mrs. E. Hubbard, looking over the pile remarked that she saw the _SelborneMagazine_ had come and she would just glance over it to see if itcontained anything to interest both of us. 

After a minute or two she exclaimed "Why, here is a poem by CharlieLongman! How strange--I never suspected him of being a poet!"

She was speaking of C. J. Longman, the publisher, and it must beexplained that he was an intimate friend and connection of hers throughhis marriage with her niece, the daughter of Sir John Evans theantiquary, and sister of Sir Arthur Evans. 

The poem was _To the Orange-tip Butterfly_. 

 Cardamines! Cardamines! Thine hour is when the thrushes sing, When gently stirs the vernal breeze, When earth and sky proclaim the spring; When all the fields melodious ring With cuckoos' calls, when all the trees Put on their green, then art thou king Of butterflies, Cardamines. 

 What though thine hour be brief, for thee The storms of winter never blow, No autumn gales shall scorn the lea, Thou scarce shalt feel the summer's glow; But soaring high or flitting low, Or racing with the awakening bees For spring's first draughts of honey--so Thy life is passed, Cardamines. 

 Cardamines! Cardamines! E'en among mortal men I wot Brief life while spring-time quickly flees Might seem a not ungrateful lot: For summer's rays are scorching hot And autumn holds but summer's lees, And swift in autumn is forgot The winter comes, Cardamines. 

So well pleased were we with this little lyric that we read it aloudtwo or three times over to each other: for it was a hot summer's daywhen the early, freshness and bloom is over and the foliage takes on adeeper, almost sombre green; and it brought back to us the vivid springfeeling, the delight we had so often experienced on seeing again theorange-tip, that frail delicate flutterer, the loveliest, the mostspiritual, of our butterflies. 

Oddly enough, the very thing which, one supposes, would spoil a lyricabout any natural object--the use of a scientific instead of a popularname, with the doubling and frequent repetition of it--appeared in thisinstance to add a novel distinction and beauty to the verses. 

The end of our talk on the subject was a suggestion I made that itwould be a nice act on her part to follow Longman's lead and write alittle nature poem for the next number of the magazine. This she saidshe would do if I on my part would promise to follow her poem with oneby me, and I said I would. 

Accordingly her poem, which I transcribe, made its appearance in thenext number. 

 MY MOOR

 Purple with heather, and golden with gorse, Stretches the moorland for mile after mile; Over it cloud-shadows float in their course, -- Grave thoughts passing athwart a smile, -- Till the shimmering distance, grey and gold, Drowns all in a glory manifold. 

 O the blue butterflies quivering there, Hovering, flickering, never at rest, Quickened flecks of the upper air Brought down by seeing the earth so blest; And the grasshoppers shrilling their quaint delight At having been born in a world so bright!

 Overhead circles the lapwing slow, Waving his black-tipped curves of wings, Calling so clearly that I, as I go, Call back an answering "Peewit, " that brings The sweep of his circles so low as he flies That I see his green plume, and the doubt in his eyes. 

 Harebell and crowfoot and bracken and ling Gladden my heart as it beats all aglow In a brotherhood true with each living thing, From the crimson-tipped bee, and the chaffer slow, And the small lithe lizard, with jewelled eye, To the lark that has lost herself far in the sky. 

 Ay me, where am I? for here I sit With bricks all round me, bilious and brown; And not a chance this summer to quit The bustle and roar and the cries of town, Nor to cease to breathe this over-breathed air, Heavy with toil and bitter with care. 

 Well, --face it and chase it, this vain regret; Which would I choose, to see my moor With eyes such as many that I have met, Which see and are blind, which all wealth leaves poor, Or to sit, brick-prisoned, but free within, Freeborn by a charter no gold can win?

When my turn came, the poem I wrote, which duly appeared, was, like myfriend's _Moor_, a recollected emotion, a mental experiencerelived. Mine was in the New Forest; when walking there on day, theloveliness of that green leafy world, its silence and its melody andthe divine sunlight, so wrought on me that for a few precious momentsit produced a mystical state, that rare condition of beautifulillusions when the feet are off the ground, when, on some occasions, weappear to be one with nature, unbodied like the poet's bird, floating, diffused in it. There are also other occasions when this transfiguredaspect of nature produces the idea that we are in communion with or inthe presence of unearthly entities. 

 THE VISIONARY

 I

 It must be true, I've somtimes thought, That beings from some realm afar Oft wander in the void immense, Flying from star to star. 

 In silence through this various world, They pass, to mortal eyes unseen, And toiling men in towns know not That one with them has been. 

 But oft, when on the woodland falls A sudden hush, and no bird sings; When leaves, scarce fluttered by the wind, Speak low of sacred things, My heart has told me I should know, In such a lonely place, if one From other worlds came there and stood Between me and the sun. 

 II

 At noon, within the woodland shade I walked and listened to the birds; And feeling glad like them I sang A low song without words. 

 When all at once a radiance white, Not from the sun, all round me came; The dead leaves burned like gold, the grass Like tongues of emerald flame. 

 The murmured song died on my lips; Scarce breathing, motionless I stood; So strange that splendour was! so deep A silence held the wood!

 The blood rushed to and from my heart, Now felt like ice, now fire in me, Till putting forth my hands, I cried, "O let me hear and see!"

 But even as I spake, and gazed Wide-eyed, and bowed my trembling knees, The glory and the silence passed Like lightning from the trees. 

 And pale at first the sunlight seemed When it was gone; the leaves were stirred To whispered sound, and loud rang out The carol of a bird.