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diff --git a/old/thpnr10h.htm b/old/thpnr10h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4d90f3b --- /dev/null +++ b/old/thpnr10h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7013 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> +<TITLE>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Open Air, by Richard Jefferies</TITLE> +<META HTTP-EQUIV="content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> +</HEAD> +<BODY> +<H1>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Open Air, by Richard Jefferies</H1> + +<PRE> +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Open Air + +Author: Richard Jefferies + +Release Date: November, 2004 [EBook #6981] +[This file was first posted on February 19, 2003] +[Most recently updated: May 24, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: iso-8859-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE OPEN AIR *** + + + + +Malcolm Farmer, Juliet Sutherland, Tom Allen, Charles Franks and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + + +</PRE> +<h1 align="center">THE OPEN AIR</h1> +<h2 align="center">RICHARD JEFFERIES</h2> + +<br> +<br> + +<p>NOTE</p> +<p>For permission to collect these papers my thanks are due to the +Editors of the following publications: <br> +<i>The Standard</i>, <i>English Illustrated Magazine</i>, +<i>Longman's Magazine</i>, <i>St. James's Gazette</i>, +<i>Chambers's Journal</i>, <i>Manchester Guardian</i>, <i>Good Words</i>, +and <i>Pall Mall Gazette</i>.<br> + R.J.</p> +<h3>CONTENTS</h3> +<p><a href="#1">SAINT GUIDO</a></p> +<p><a href="#2">GOLDEN-BROWN</a></p> +<p><a href="#3">WILD FLOWERS</a></p> +<p><a href="#4">SUNNY BRIGHTON</a></p> +<p><a href="#5">THE PINE WOOD</a></p> +<p><a href="#6">NATURE ON THE ROOF</a></p> +<p><a href="#7">ONE OF THE NEW VOTERS</a></p> +<p><a href="#8">THE MODERN THAMES</a></p> +<p><a href="#9">THE SINGLE-BARREL GUN</a></p> +<p><a href="#10">THE HAUNT OF THE HARE</a></p> +<p><a href="#11">THE BATHING SEASON</a></p> +<p><a href="#12">UNDER THE ACORNS</a></p> +<p><a href="#13">DOWNS</a></p> +<p><a href="#14">FOREST</a></p> +<p><a href="#15">BEAUTY IN THE COUNTRY</a></p> +<p><a href="#16">OUT OF DOORS IN FEBRUARY</a></p> +<p><a href="#17">HAUNTS OF THE LAPWING</a></p> +<p><a href="#18">OUTSIDE LONDON</a></p> +<p><a href="#19">ON THE LONDON ROAD</a></p> +<p><a href="#20">RED ROOFS OF LONDON</a></p> +<p><a href="#21">A WET NIGHT IN LONDON</a></p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="1">SAINT GUIDO</a></h3> +<p>St. Guido ran out at the garden gate into a sandy lane, and down +the lane till he came to a grassy bank. He caught hold of the +bunches of grass and so pulled himself up. There was a footpath on +the top which went straight in between fir-trees, and as he ran +along they stood on each side of him like green walls. They were +very near together, and even at the top the space between them was +so narrow that the sky seemed to come down, and the clouds to be +sailing but just over them, as if they would catch and tear in the +fir-trees. The path was so little used that it had grown green, and +as he ran he knocked dead branches out of his way. Just as he was +getting tired of running he reached the end of the path, and came +out into a wheat-field. The wheat did not grow very closely, and +the spaces were filled with azure corn-flowers. St. Guido thought +he was safe away now, so he stopped to look.</p> +<p>Those thoughts and feelings which are not sharply defined but +have a haze of distance and beauty about them are always the +dearest. His name was not really Guido, but those who loved him had +called him so in order to try and express their hearts about him. +For they thought if a great painter could be a little boy, then he +would be something like this one. They were not very learned in the +history of painters: they had heard of Raphael, but Raphael was too +elevated, too much of the sky, and of Titian, but Titian was fond +of feminine loveliness, and in the end somebody said Guido was a +dreamy name, as if it belonged to one who was full of faith. Those +golden curls shaking about his head as he ran and filling the air +with radiance round his brow, looked like a Nimbus or circlet of +glory. So they called him St. Guido, and a very, very wild saint he +was.</p> +<p>St. Guido stopped in the cornfield, and looked all round. There +were the fir-trees behind him—a thick wall of +green—hedges on the right and the left, and the wheat sloped +down towards an ash-copse in the hollow. No one was in the field, +only the fir-trees, the green hedges, the yellow wheat, and the sun +overhead, Guido kept quite still, because he expected that in a +minute the magic would begin, and something would speak to him. His +cheeks which had been flushed with running grew less hot, but I +cannot tell you the exact colour they were, for his skin was so +white and clear, it would not tan under the sun, yet being always +out of doors it had taken the faintest tint of golden brown mixed +with rosiness. His blue eyes which had been wide open, as they +always were when full of mischief, became softer, and his long +eyelashes drooped over them. But as the magic did not begin, Guido +walked on slowly into the wheat, which rose nearly to his head, +though it was not yet so tall as it would be before the reapers +came. He did not break any of the stalks, or bend them down and +step on them; he passed between them, and they yielded on either +side. The wheat-ears were pale gold, having only just left off +their green, and they surrounded him on all sides as if he were +bathing.</p> +<p>A butterfly painted a velvety red with white spots came floating +along the surface of the corn, and played round his cap, which was +a little higher, and was so tinted by the sun that the butterfly +was inclined to settle on it. Guido put up his hand to catch the +butterfly, forgetting his secret in his desire to touch it. The +butterfly was too quick—with a snap of his wings disdainfully +mocking the idea of catching him, away he went. Guido nearly +stepped on a humble-bee—buzz-zz!—the bee was so alarmed +he actually crept up Guido's knickers to the knee, and even then +knocked himself against a wheat-ear when he started to fly. Guido +kept quite still while the humble-bee was on his knee, knowing that +he should not be stung if he did not move. He knew, too, that +humble-bees have stings though people often say they have not, and +the reason people think they do not possess them is because +humble-bees are so good-natured and never sting unless they are +very much provoked.</p> +<p>Next he picked a corn buttercup; the flowers were much smaller +than the great buttercups which grew in the meadows, and these were +not golden but coloured like brass. His foot caught in a creeper, +and he nearly tumbled—it was a bine of bindweed which went +twisting round and round two stalks of wheat in a spiral, binding +them together as if some one had wound string about them. There was +one ear of wheat which had black specks on it, and another which +had so much black that the grains seemed changed and gone leaving +nothing but blackness. He touched it and it stained his hands like +a dark powder, and then he saw that it was not perfectly black as +charcoal is, it was a little red. Something was burning up the corn +there just as if fire had been set to the ears. Guido went on and +found another place where there was hardly any wheat at all, and +those stalks that grew were so short they only came above his knee. +The wheat-ears were thin and small, and looked as if there was +nothing but chaff. But this place being open was full of flowers, +such lovely azure cornflowers which the people call +bluebottles.</p> +<p>Guido took two; they were curious flowers with knobs surrounded +with little blue flowers like a lady's bonnet. They were a +beautiful blue, not like any other blue, not like the violets in +the garden, or the sky over the trees, or the geranium in the +grass, or the bird's-eyes by the path. He loved them and held them +tight in his hand, and went on, leaving the red pimpernel wide open +to the dry air behind him, but the May-weed was everywhere. The +May-weed had white flowers like a moon-daisy, but not so large, and +leaves like moss. He could not walk without stepping on these mossy +tufts, though he did not want to hurt them. So he stooped and +stroked the moss-like leaves and said, "I do not want to hurt you, +but you grow so thick I cannot help it." In a minute afterwards as +he was walking he heard a quick rush, and saw the wheat-ears sway +this way and that as if a puff of wind had struck them.</p> +<p>Guido stood still and his eyes opened very wide, he had +forgotten to cut a stick to fight with: he watched the wheat-ears +sway, and could see them move for some distance, and he did not +know what it was. Perhaps it was a wild boar or a yellow lion, or +some creature no one had ever seen; he would not go back, but he +wished he had cut a nice stick. Just then a swallow swooped down +and came flying over the wheat so close that Guido almost felt the +flutter of his wings, and as he passed he whispered to Guido that +it was only a hare. "Then why did he run away?" said Guido; "I +should not have hurt him." But the swallow had gone up high into +the sky again, and did not hear him. All the time Guido was +descending the slope, for little feet always go down the hill as +water does, and when he looked back he found that he had left the +fir-trees so far behind he was in the middle of the field. If any +one had looked they could hardly have seen him, and if he had taken +his cap off they could not have done so because the yellow curls +would be so much the same colour as the yellow corn. He stooped to +see how nicely he could hide himself, then he knelt, and in a +minute sat down, so that the wheat rose up high above him.</p> +<p>Another humble-bee went over along the tips of the +wheat—burr-rr—as he passed; then a scarlet fly, and +next a bright yellow wasp who was telling a friend flying behind +him that he knew where there was such a capital piece of wood to +bite up into tiny pieces and make into paper for the nest in the +thatch, but his friend wanted to go to the house because there was +a pear quite ripe there on the wall. Next came a moth, and after +the moth a golden fly, and three gnats, and a mouse ran along the +dry ground with a curious sniffling rustle close to Guido. A shrill +cry came down out of the air, and looking up he saw two swifts +turning circles, and as they passed each other they +shrieked—their voices were so shrill they shrieked. They were +only saying that in a month their little swifts in the slates would +be able to fly. While he sat so quiet on the ground and hidden by +the wheat, he heard a cuckoo such a long way off it sounded like a +watch when it is covered up. "Cuckoo" did not come full and +distinct—it was such a tiny little "cuckoo" caught in the +hollow of Guido's ear. The cuckoo must have been a mile away.</p> +<p>Suddenly he thought something went over, and yet he did not see +it—perhaps it was the shadow—and he looked up and saw a +large bird not very far up, not farther than he could fling, or +shoot his arrows, and the bird was fluttering his wings, but did +not move away farther, as if he had been tied in the air. Guido +knew it was a hawk, and the hawk was staying there to see if there +was a mouse or a little bird in the wheat. After a minute the hawk +stopped fluttering and lifted his wings together as a butterfly +does when he shuts his, and down the hawk came, straight into the +corn. "Go away!" shouted Guido jumping up, and flinging his cap, +and the hawk, dreadfully frightened and terribly cross, checked +himself and rose again with an angry rush. So the mouse escaped, +but Guido could not find his cap for some time. Then he went on, +and still the ground sloping sent him down the hill till he came +close to the copse.</p> +<p>Some sparrows came out from the copse, and he stopped and saw +one of them perch on a stalk of wheat, with one foot above the +other sideways, so that he could pick at the ear and get the corn. +Guido watched the sparrow clear the ear, then he moved, and the +sparrows flew back to the copse, where they chattered at him for +disturbing them. There was a ditch between the corn and the copse, +and a streamlet; he picked up a stone and threw it in, and the +splash frightened a rabbit, who slipped over the bank and into a +hole. The boughs of an oak reached out across to the corn, and made +so pleasant a shade that Guido, who was very hot from walking in +the sun, sat down on the bank of the streamlet with his feet +dangling over it, and watched the floating grass sway slowly as the +water ran. Gently he leaned back till his back rested on the +sloping ground—he raised one knee, and left the other foot +over the verge where the tip of the tallest rushes touched it. +Before he had been there a minute he remembered the secret which a +fern had taught him.</p> +<p>First, if he wanted to know anything, or to hear a story, or +what the grass was saying, or the oak-leaves singing, he must be +careful not to interfere as he had done just now with the butterfly +by trying to catch him. Fortunately, that butterfly was a nice +butterfly, and very kindhearted, but sometimes, if you interfered +with one thing, it would tell another thing, and they would all +know in a moment, and stop talking, and never say a word. Once, +while they were all talking pleasantly, Guido caught a fly in his +hand, he felt his hand tickle as the fly stepped on it, and he shut +up his little fist so quickly he caught the fly in the hollow +between the palm and his fingers. The fly went buzz, and rushed to +get out, but Guido laughed, so the fly buzzed again, and just told +the grass, and the grass told the bushes, and everything knew in a +moment, and Guido never heard another word all that day. Yet +sometimes now they all knew something about him, they would go on +talking. You see, they all rather petted and spoiled him. Next, if +Guido did not hear them conversing, the fern said he must touch a +little piece of grass and put it against his cheek, or a leaf, and +kiss it, and say, "Leaf, leaf, tell them I am here."</p> +<p>Now, while he was lying down, and the tip of the rushes touched +his foot, he remembered this, so he moved the rush with his foot +and said, "Rush, rush, tell them I am here." Immediately there came +a little wind, and the wheat swung to and fro, the oak-leaves +rustled, the rushes bowed, and the shadows slipped forwards and +back again. Then it was still, and the nearest wheat-ear to Guido +nodded his head, and said in a very low tone, "Guido, dear, just +this minute I do not feel very happy, although the sunshine is so +warm, because I have been thinking, for we have been in one or +other of these fields of your papa's a thousand years this very +year. Every year we have been sown, and weeded, and reaped, and +garnered. Every year the sun has ripened us and the rain made us +grow; every year for a thousand years."</p> +<p>"What did you see all that time?" said Guido.</p> +<p>"The swallows came," said the Wheat, "and flew over us, and sang +a little sweet song, and then they went up into the chimneys and +built their nests."</p> +<p>"At my house?" said Guido.</p> +<p>"Oh, no, dear, the house I was then thinking of is gone, like a +leaf withered and lost. But we have not forgotten any of the songs +they sang us, nor have the swallows that you see to-day—one +of them spoke to you just now—forgotten what we said to their +ancestors. Then the blackbirds came out in us and ate the creeping +creatures, so that they should not hurt us, and went up into the +oaks and whistled such beautiful sweet low whistles. Not in those +oaks, dear, where the blackbirds whistle to-day; even the very oaks +have gone, though they were so strong that one of them defied the +lightning, and lived years and years after it struck him. One of +the very oldest of the old oaks in the copse, dear, is his +grandchild. If you go into the copse you will find an oak which has +only one branch; he is so old, he has only that branch left. He +sprang up from an acorn dropped from an oak that grew from an acorn +dropped from the oak the lightning struck. So that is three oak +lives, Guido dear, back to the time I was thinking of just now. And +that oak under whose shadow you are now lying is the fourth of +them, and he is quite young, though he is so big.</p> +<p>"A jay sowed the acorn from which he grew up; the jay was in the +oak with one branch, and some one frightened him, and as he flew he +dropped the acorn which he had in his bill just there, and now you +are lying in the shadow of the tree. So you see, it is a very long +time ago, when the blackbirds came and whistled up in those oaks I +was thinking of, and that was why I was not very happy."</p> +<p>"But you have heard the blackbirds whistling ever since?" said +Guido; "and there was such a big black one up in our cherry tree +this morning, and I shot my arrow at him and very nearly hit him. +Besides, there is a blackbird whistling now—you listen. +There, he's somewhere in the copse. Why can't you listen to him, +and be happy now?"</p> +<p>"I will be happy, dear, as you are here, but still it is a long, +long time, and then I think, after I am dead, and there is more +wheat in my place, the blackbirds will go on whistling for another +thousand years after me. For of course I did not hear them all that +time ago myself, dear, but the wheat which was before me heard them +and told me. They told me, too, and I know it is true, that the +cuckoo came and called all day till the moon shone at night, and +began again in the morning before the dew had sparkled in the +sunrise. The dew dries very soon on wheat, Guido dear, because +wheat is so dry; first the sunrise makes the tips of the wheat ever +so faintly rosy, then it grows yellow, then as the heat increases +it becomes white at noon, and golden in the afternoon, and white +again under the moonlight. Besides which wide shadows come over +from the clouds, and a wind always follows the shadow and waves us, +and every time we sway to and fro that alters our colour. A rough +wind gives us one tint, and heavy rain another, and we look +different on a cloudy day to what we do on a sunny one. All these +colours changed on us when the blackbird was whistling in the oak +the lightning struck, the fourth one backwards from me; and it +makes me sad to think that after four more oaks have gone, the same +colours will come on the wheat that will grow then. It is thinking +about those past colours, and songs, and leaves, and of the colours +and the sunshine, and the songs, and the leaves that will come in +the future that makes to-day so much. It makes to-day a thousand +years long backwards, and a thousand years long forwards, and makes +the sun so warm, and the air so sweet, and the butterflies so +lovely, and the hum of the bees, and everything so delicious. We +cannot have enough of it."</p> +<p>"No, that we cannot," said Guido. "Go on, you talk so nice and +low. I feel sleepy and jolly. Talk away, old Wheat."</p> +<p>"Let me see," said the Wheat. "Once on a time while the men were +knocking us out of the ear on a floor with flails, which are sticks +with little hinges—"</p> +<p>"As if I did not know what a flail was!" said Guido. "I hit old +John with the flail, and Ma gave him a shilling not to be +cross."</p> +<p>"While they were knocking us with the hard sticks," the Wheat +went on, "we heard them talking about a king who was shot with an +arrow like yours in the forest—it slipped from a tree, and +went into him instead of into the deer. And long before that the +men came up the river—the stream in the ditch there runs into +the river—in rowing ships—how you would like one to +play in, Guido! For they were not like the ships now which are +machines, they were rowing ships—men's ships—and came +right up into the land ever so far, all along the river up to the +place where the stream in the ditch runs in; just where your papa +took you in the punt, and you got the waterlilies, the white +ones."</p> +<p>"And wetted my sleeve right up my arm—oh, I know! I can +row you, old Wheat; I can row as well as my papa can."</p> +<p>"But since the rowing ships came, the ploughs have turned up +this ground a thousand times," said the Wheat; "and each time the +furrows smelt sweeter, and this year they smelt sweetest of all. +The horses have such glossy coats, and such fine manes, and they +are so strong and beautiful. They drew the ploughs along and made +the ground give up its sweetness and savour, and while they were +doing it, the spiders in the copse spun their silk along from the +ashpoles, and the mist in the morning weighed down their threads. +It was so delicious to come out of the clods as we pushed our green +leaves up and felt the rain, and the wind, and the warm sun. Then a +little bird came in the copse and called, 'Sip-sip, sip, sip, sip,' +such a sweet low song, and the larks ran along the ground in +between us, and there were bluebells in the copse, and anemones; +till by-and-by the sun made us yellow, and the blue flowers that +you have in your hand came out. I cannot tell you how many there +have been of these flowers since the oak was struck by the +lightning, in all the thousand years there must have been +altogether—I cannot tell you how many."</p> +<p>"Why didn't I pick them all?" said Guido.</p> +<p>"Do you know," said the Wheat, "we have thought so much more, +and felt so much more, since your people took us, and ploughed for +us, and sowed us, and reaped us. We are not like the same wheat we +used to be before your people touched us, when we grew wild, and +there were huge great things in the woods and marshes which I will +not tell you about lest you should be frightened. Since we have +felt your hands, and you have touched us, we have felt so much +more. Perhaps that was why I was not very happy till you came, for +I was thinking quite as much about your people as about us, and how +all the flowers of all those thousand years, and all the songs, and +the sunny days were gone, and all the people were gone too, who had +heard the blackbirds whistle in the oak the lightning struck. And +those that are alive now—there will be cuckoos calling, and +the eggs in the thrushes' nests, and blackbirds whistling, and blue +cornflowers, a thousand years after every one of them is gone.</p> +<p>"So that is why it is so sweet this minute, and why I want you, +and your people, dear, to be happy now and to have all these +things, and to agree so as not to be so anxious and careworn, but +to come out with us, or sit by us, and listen to the blackbirds, +and hear the wind rustle us, and be happy. Oh, I wish I could make +them happy, and do away with all their care and anxiety, and give +you all heaps and heaps of flowers! Don't go away, darling, do you +lie still, and I will talk and sing to you, and you can pick some +more flowers when you get up. There is a beautiful shadow there, +and I heard the streamlet say that he would sing a little to you; +he is not very big, he cannot sing very loud. By-and-by, I know, +the sun will make us as dry as dry, and darker, and then the +reapers will come while the spiders are spinning their silk +again—this time it will come floating in the blue air, for +the air seems blue if you look up.</p> +<p>"It is a great joy to your people, dear, when the reaping time +arrives: the harvest is a great joy to you when the thistledown +comes rolling along in the wind. So that I shall be happy even when +the reapers cut me down, because I know it is for you, and your +people, my love. The strong men will come to us gladly, and the +women, and the little children will sit in the shade and gather +great white trumpets of convolvulus, and come to tell their mothers +how they saw the young partridges in the next field. But there is +one thing we do not like, and that is, all the labour and the +misery. Why cannot your people have us without so much labour, and +why are so many of you unhappy? Why cannot they be all happy with +us as you are, dear? For hundreds and hundreds of years now the +wheat every year has been sorrowful for your people, and I think we +get more sorrowful every year about it, because as I was telling +you just now the flowers go, and the swallows go, the old, old oaks +go, and that oak will go, under the shade of which you are lying, +Guido; and if your people do not gather the flowers now, and watch +the swallows, and listen to the blackbirds whistling, as you are +listening now while I talk, then Guido, my love, they will never +pick any flowers, nor hear any birds' songs. They think they will, +they think that when they have toiled, and worked a long time, +almost all their lives, then they will come to the flowers, and the +birds, and be joyful in the sunshine. But no, it will not be so, +for then they will be old themselves, and their ears dull, and +their eyes dim, so that the birds will sound a great distance off, +and the flowers will not seem bright.</p> +<p>"Of course, we know that the greatest part of your people cannot +help themselves, and must labour on like the reapers till their +ears are full of the dust of age. That only makes us more +sorrowful, and anxious that things should be different. I do not +suppose we should think about them had we not been in man's hand so +long that now we have got to feel with man. Every year makes it +more pitiful because then there are more flowers gone, and added to +the vast numbers of those gone before, and never gathered or looked +at, though they could have given so much pleasure. And all the work +and labour, and thinking, and reading and learning that your people +do ends in nothing—not even one flower. We cannot understand +why it should be so. There are thousands of wheat-ears in this +field, more than you would know how to write down with your pencil, +though you have learned your tables, sir. Yet all of us thinking, +and talking, cannot understand why it is when we consider how +clever your people are, and how they bring ploughs, and +steam-engines, and put up wires along the roads to tell you things +when you are miles away, and sometimes we are sown where we can +hear the hum, hum, all day of the children learning in the school. +The butterflies flutter over us, and the sun shines, and the doves +are very, very happy at their nest, but the children go on hum, hum +inside this house, and learn, learn. So we suppose you must be very +clever, and yet you cannot manage this. All your work is wasted, +and you labour in vain—you dare not leave it a minute.</p> +<p>"If you left it a minute it would all be gone; it does not mount +up and make a store, so that all of you could sit by it and be +happy. Directly you leave off you are hungry, and thirsty, and +miserable like the beggars that tramp along the dusty road here. +All the thousand years of labour since this field was first +ploughed have not stored up anything for you. It would not matter +about the work so much if you were only happy; the bees work every +year, but they are happy; the doves build a nest every year, but +they are very, very happy. We think it must be because you do not +come out to us and be with us, and think more as we do. It is not +because your people have not got plenty to eat and drink—you +have as much as the bees. Why just look at us! Look at the wheat +that grows all over the world; all the figures that were ever +written in pencil could not tell how much, it is such an immense +quantity. Yet your people starve and die of hunger every now and +then, and we have seen the wretched beggars tramping along the +road. We have known of times when there was a great pile of us, +almost a hill piled up, it was not in this country, it was in +another warmer country, and yet no one dared to touch it—they +died at the bottom of the hill of wheat. The earth is full of +skeletons of people who have died of hunger. They are dying now +this minute in your big cities, with nothing but stones all round +them, stone walls and stone streets; not jolly stones like those +you threw in the water, dear—hard, unkind stones that make +them cold and let them die, while we are growing here, millions of +us, in the sunshine with the butterflies floating over us. This +makes us unhappy; I was very unhappy this morning till you came +running over and played with us.</p> +<p>"It is not because there is not enough: it is because your +people are so short-sighted, so jealous and selfish, and so +curiously infatuated with things that are not so good as your old +toys which you have flung away and forgotten. And you teach the +children hum, hum, all day to care about such silly things, and to +work for them and to look to them as the object of their lives. It +is because you do not share us among you without price or +difference; because you do not share the great earth among you +fairly, without spite and jealousy and avarice; because you will +not agree; you silly, foolish people to let all the flowers wither +for a thousand years while you keep each other at a distance, +instead of agreeing and sharing them! Is there something in +you—as there is poison in the nightshade, you know it, dear, +your papa told you not to touch it—is there a sort of poison +in your people that works them up into a hatred of one another? +Why, then, do you not agree and have all things, all the great +earth can give you, just as we have the sunshine and the rain? How +happy your people could be if they would only agree! But you go on +teaching even the little children to follow the same silly objects, +hum, hum, hum, all the day, and they will grow up to hate each +other, and to try which can get the most round things—you +have one in your pocket."</p> +<p>"Sixpence," said Guido. "It's quite a new one."</p> +<p>"And other things quite as silly," the Wheat continued. "All the +time the flowers are flowering, but they will go, even the oaks +will go. We think the reason you do not all have plenty, and why +you do not do only just a little work, and why you die of hunger if +you leave off, and why so many of you are unhappy in body and mind, +and all the misery is because you have not got a spirit like the +wheat, like us; you will not agree, and you will not share, and you +will hate each other, and you will be so avaricious, and you will +<i>not</i> touch the flowers, or go into the sunshine (you would +rather half of you died among the hard stones first), and you will +teach your children hum, hum, to follow in some foolish course that +has caused you all this unhappiness a thousand years, and you will +<i>not</i> have a spirit like us, and feel like us. Till you have a +spirit like us, and feel like us, you will never, never be happy. +Lie still, dear; the shadow of the oak is broad and will not move +from you for a long time yet."</p> +<p>"But perhaps Paul will come up to my house, and Percy and +Morna."</p> +<p>"Look up in the oak very quietly, don't move, just open your +eyes and look," said the Wheat, who was very cunning. Guido looked +and saw a lovely little bird climbing up a branch. It was +chequered, black and white, like a very small magpie, only without +such a long tail, and it had a spot of red about its neck. It was a +pied woodpecker, not the large green woodpecker, but another kind. +Guido saw it go round the branch, and then some way up, and round +again till it came to a place that pleased it, and then the +woodpecker struck the bark with its bill, tap-tap. The sound was +quite loud, ever so much more noise than such a tiny bill seemed +able to make. Tap-tap! If Guido had not been still so that the bird +had come close he would never have found it among the leaves. +Tap-tap! After it had picked out all the insects there, the +woodpecker flew away over the ashpoles of the copse.</p> +<p>"I should just like to stroke him," said Guido. "If I climbed up +into the oak perhaps he would come again, and I could catch +him."</p> +<p>"No," said the Wheat, "he only comes once a day,"</p> +<p>"Then tell me stories," said Guido, imperiously.</p> +<p>"I will if I can," said the Wheat. "Once upon a time, when the +oak the lightning struck was still living, and when the wheat was +green in this very field, a man came staggering out of the wood, +and walked out into it. He had an iron helmet on, and he was +wounded, and his blood stained the green wheat red as he walked. He +tried to get to the streamlet, which was wider then, Guido dear, to +drink, for he knew it was there, but he could not reach it. He fell +down and died in the green wheat, dear, for he was very much hurt +with a sharp spear, but more so with hunger and thirst."</p> +<p>"I am so sorry," said Guido; "and now I look at you, why you are +all thirsty and dry, you nice old Wheat, and the ground is as dry +as dry under you; I will get you something to drink."</p> +<p>And down he scrambled into the ditch, setting his foot firm on a +root, for though he was so young, he knew how to get down to the +water without wetting his feet, or falling in, and how to climb up +a tree, and everything jolly. Guido dipped his hand in the +streamlet, and flung the water over the wheat, five or six good +sprinklings till the drops hung on the wheat-ears. Then he said, +"Now you are better."</p> +<p>"Yes, dear, thank you, my love," said the Wheat, who was very +pleased, though of course the water was not enough to wet its +roots. Still it was pleasant, like a very little shower. Guido lay +down on his chest this time, with his elbows on the ground, +propping his head up, and as he now faced the wheat he could see in +between the stalks.</p> +<p>"Lie still," said the Wheat, "the corncrake is not very far off, +he has come up here since your papa told the mowers to mow the +meadow, and very likely if you stay quiet you will see him. If you +do not understand all I say, never mind, dear; the sunshine is +warm, but not too warm in the shade, and we all love you, and want +you to be as happy as ever you can be."</p> +<p>"It is jolly to be quite hidden like this," said Guido. "No one +could find me; if Paul were to look all day he would never find me; +even Papa could not find me. Now go on and tell me stories."</p> +<p>"Ever so many times, when the oak the lightning struck was +young," said the Wheat, "great stags used to come out of the wood +and feed on the green wheat; it was early in the morning when they +came. Such great stags, and so proud, and yet so timid, the least +thing made them go bound, bound, bound."</p> +<p>"Oh, I know!" said Guido; "I saw some jump over the fence in the +forest—I am going there again soon. If I take my bow I will +shoot one!"</p> +<p>"But there are no deer here now," said the Wheat; "they have +been gone a long, long time; though I think your papa has one of +their antlers,"</p> +<p>"Now, how did you know that?" said Guido; "you have never been +to our house, and you cannot see in from here because the fir copse +is in the way; how do you find out these things?"</p> +<p>"Oh!" said the Wheat, laughing, "we have lots of ways of finding +out things. Don't you remember the swallow that swooped down and +told you not to be frightened at the hare? The swallow has his nest +at your house, and he often flies by your windows and looks in, and +he told me. The birds tell us lots of things, and all about what is +over the sea."</p> +<p>"But that is not a story," said Guido.</p> +<p>"Once upon a time," said the Wheat, "when the oak the lightning +struck was alive, your papa's papa's papa, ever so much farther +back than that, had all the fields round here, all that you can see +from Acre Hill. And do you know it happened that in time every one +of them was lost or sold, and your family, Guido dear, were +homeless—no house, no garden or orchard, and no dogs or guns, +or anything jolly. One day the papa that was then came along the +road with <i>his</i> little Guido, and they were beggars, dear, and +had no place to sleep, and they slept all night in the wheat in +this very field close to where the hawthorn bush grows +now—where you picked the May flowers, you know, my love. They +slept there all the summer night, and the fern owls flew to and +fro, and the bats and crickets chirped, and the stars shone +faintly, as if they were made pale by the heat. The poor papa never +had a house, but that little Guido lived to grow up a great man, +and he worked so hard, and he was so clever, and every one loved +him, which was the best of all things. He bought this very field +and then another, and another, and got such a lot of the old fields +back again, and the goldfinches sang for joy, and so did the larks +and the thrushes, because they said what a kind man he was. Then +his son got some more of them, till at last your papa bought ever +so many more. But we often talk about the little boy who slept in +the wheat in this field, which was his father's father's field. If +only the wheat then could have helped him, and been kind to him, +you may be sure it would. We love you so much we like to see the +very crumbs left by the men who do the hoeing when they eat their +crusts; we wish they could have more to eat, but we like to see +their crumbs, which you know are made of wheat, so that we have +done them some good at least."</p> +<p>"That's not a story," said Guido.</p> +<p>"There's a gold coin here somewhere," said the Wheat, "such a +pretty one, it would make a capital button for your jacket, dear, +or for your mamma; that is all any sort of money is good for; I +wish all the coins were made into buttons for little Guido."</p> +<p>"Where is it?" said Guido.</p> +<p>"I can't exactly tell where it is," said the Wheat. "It was very +near me once, and I thought the next thunder's rain would wash it +down into the streamlet—it has been here ever so long, it +came here first just after the oak the lightning split died. And it +has been rolled about by the ploughs ever since, and no one has +ever seen it; I thought it must go into the ditch at last, but when +the men came to hoe one of them knocked it back, and then another +kicked it along—it was covered with earth—and then, one +day, a rook came and split the clod open with his bill, and pushed +the pieces first one side and then the other, and the coin went one +way, but I did not see; I must ask a humble-bee, or a mouse, or a +mole, or some one who knows more about it. It is very thin, so that +if the rook's bill had struck it, his strong bill would have made a +dint in it, and there is, I think, a ship marked on it."</p> +<p>"Oh, I must have it! A ship! Ask a humble-bee directly; be +quick!"</p> +<p>Bang! There was a loud report, a gun had gone off in the +copse.</p> +<p>"That's my papa," shouted Guido. "I'm sure that was my papa's +gun!" Up he jumped, and getting down the ditch, stepped across the +water, and, seizing a hazel-bough to help himself, climbed up the +bank. At the top he slipped through the fence by the oak and so +into the copse. He was in such a hurry he did not mind the thistles +or the boughs that whipped him as they sprang back, he scrambled +through, meeting the vapour of the gunpowder and the smell of +sulphur. In a minute he found a green path, and in the path was his +papa, who had just shot a cruel crow. The crow had been eating the +birds' eggs, and picking the little birds to pieces.</p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="2">GOLDEN-BROWN</a></h3> +<p>Three fruit-pickers—women—were the first people I +met near the village (in Kent). They were clad in "rags and jags," +and the face of the eldest was in "jags" also. It was torn and +scarred by time and weather; wrinkled, and in a manner twisted like +the fantastic turns of a gnarled tree-trunk, hollow and decayed. +Through these jags and tearings of weather, wind, and work, the +nakedness of the countenance—the barren framework—was +visible; the cheekbones like knuckles, the chin of brown stoneware, +the upper-lip smooth, and without the short groove which should +appear between lip and nostrils. Black shadows dwelt in the hollows +of the cheeks and temples, and there was a blackness about the +eyes. This blackness gathers in the faces of the old who have been +much exposed to the sun, the fibres of the skin are scorched and +half-charred, like a stick thrust in the fire, and withdrawn before +the flames seize it. Beside her were two young women, both in the +freshness of youth and health. Their faces glowed with a +golden-brown, and so great is the effect of colour that their plain +features were transfigured. The sunlight under their faces made +them beautiful. The summer light had been absorbed by the skin and +now shone forth from it again; as certain substances exposed to the +day absorb light and emit a phosphorescent gleam in the darkness of +night, so the sunlight had been drank up by the surface of the +skin, and emanated from it.</p> +<p>Hour after hour in the gardens and orchards they worked in the +full beams of the sun, gathering fruit for the London market, +resting at midday in the shade of the elms in the corner. Even then +they were in the sunshine—even in the shade, for the air +carries it, or its influence, as it carries the perfumes of +flowers. The heated air undulates over the field in waves which are +visible at a distance; near at hand they are not seen, but roll in +endless ripples through the shadows of the trees, bringing with +them the actinic power of the sun. Not +actinic—alchemic— some intangible mysterious power +which cannot be supplied in any other form but the sun's rays. It +reddens the cherry, it gilds the apple, it colours the rose, it +ripens the wheat, it touches a woman's face with the golden-brown +of ripe life—ripe as a plum. There is no other hue so +beautiful as this human sunshine tint.</p> +<p>The great painters knew it—Rubens, for instance; perhaps +he saw it on the faces of the women who gathered fruit or laboured +at the harvest in the Low Countries centuries since. He could never +have seen it in a city of these northern climes, that is certain. +Nothing in nature that I know, except the human face, ever attains +this colour. Nothing like it is ever seen in the sky, either at +dawn or sunset; the dawn is often golden, often scarlet, or purple +and gold; the sunset crimson, flaming bright, or delicately grey +and scarlet; lovely colours all of them, but not like this. Nor is +there any flower comparable to it, nor any gem. It is purely human, +and it is only found on the human face which has felt the sunshine +continually. There must, too, I suppose, be a disposition towards +it, a peculiar and exceptional condition of the fibres which build +up the skin; for of the numbers who work out of doors, very, very +few possess it; they become brown, red, or tanned, sometimes of a +parchment hue—they do not get this colour.</p> +<p>These two women from the fruit gardens had the golden-brown in +their faces, and their plain features were transfigured. They were +walking in the dusty road; there was as background a high, dusty +hawthorn hedge which had lost the freshness of spring and was +browned by the work of caterpillars; they were in rags and jags, +their shoes had split, and their feet looked twice as wide in +consequence. Their hands were black; not grimy, but absolutely +black, and neither hands nor necks ever knew water, I am sure. +There was not the least shape to their garments; their dresses +simply hung down in straight ungraceful lines; there was no colour +of ribbon or flower, to light up the dinginess. But they had the +golden-brown in their faces, and they were beautiful.</p> +<p>The feet, as they walked, were set firm on the ground, and the +body advanced with measured, deliberate, yet lazy and confident +grace; shoulders thrown back—square, but not over-square (as +those who have been drilled); hips swelling at the side in lines +like the full bust, though longer drawn; busts well filled and +shapely, despite the rags and jags and the washed-out gaudiness of +the shawl. There was that in their cheeks that all the wealth of +London could not purchase—a superb health in their carriage +princesses could not obtain. It came, then, from the air and +sunlight, and still more, from some alchemy unknown to the +physician or the physiologist, some faculty exercised by the body, +happily endowed with a special power of extracting the utmost +richness and benefit from the rudest elements. Thrice blessed and +fortunate, beautiful golden-brown in their cheeks, superb health in +their gait, they walked as the immortals on earth.</p> +<p>As they passed they regarded me with bitter envy, jealousy, and +hatred written in their eyes; they cursed me in their hearts. I +verily believe—so unmistakably hostile were their +glances—that had opportunity been given, in the dead of night +and far from help, they would gladly have taken me unawares with +some blow of stone or club, and, having rendered me senseless, +would have robbed me, and considered it a righteous act. Not that +there was any blood-thirstiness or exceptional evil in their nature +more than in that of the thousand-and-one toilers that are met on +the highway, but simply because they worked—such hard work of +hands and stooping backs, and I was idle, for all they knew. +Because they were going from one field of labour to another field +of labour, and I walked slowly and did no visible work. My dress +showed no stain, the weather had not battered it; there was no +rent, no rags and jags. At an hour when they were merely changing +one place of work for another place of work, to them it appeared +that I had found idleness indoors wearisome and had just come forth +to exchange it for another idleness. They saw no end to their +labour; they had worked from childhood, and could see no possible +end to labour until limbs failed or life closed. Why should they be +like this? Why should I do nothing? They were as good as I was, and +they hated me. Their indignant glances spoke it as plain as words, +and far more distinctly than I can write it. You cannot read it +with such feeling as I received their looks.</p> +<p>Beautiful golden-brown, superb health, what would I not give for +these? To be the thrice-blessed and chosen of nature, what +inestimable fortune! To be indifferent to any +circumstances—to be quite thoughtless as to draughts and +chills, careless of heat, indifferent to the character of dinners, +able to do well on hard, dry bread, capable of sleeping in the open +under a rick, or some slight structure of a hurdle, propped on a +few sticks and roughly thatched with straw, and to sleep sound as +an oak, and wake strong as an oak in the morning-gods, what a +glorious life! I envied them; they fancied I looked askance at +their rags and jags. I envied them, and considered their health and +hue ideal. I envied them that unwearied step, that firm +uprightness, and measured yet lazy gait, but most of all the power +which they possessed, though they did not exercise it +intentionally, of being always in the sunlight, the air, and abroad +upon the earth. If so they chose, and without stress or strain, +they could see the sunrise, they could be with him as it +were—unwearied and without distress—the livelong day; +they could stay on while the moon rose over the corn, and till the +silent stars at silent midnight shone in the cool summer night, and +on and on till the cock crew and the faint dawn appeared. The whole +time in the open air, resting at mid-day under the elms with the +ripple of heat flowing through the shadow; at midnight between the +ripe corn and the hawthorn hedge on the white wild camomile and the +poppy pale in the duskiness, with face upturned to the thoughtful +heaven.</p> +<p>Consider the glory of it, the life above this life to be +obtained from constant presence with the sunlight and the stars. I +thought of them all day, and envied them (as they envied me), and +in the evening I found them again. It was growing dark, and the +shadow took away something of the coarseness of the group outside +one of the village "pothouses." Green foliage overhung them and the +men with whom they were drinking; the white pipes, the blue smoke, +the flash of a match, the red sign which had so often swung to and +fro in the gales now still in the summer eve, the rude seats and +blocks, the reaping-hooks bound about the edge with hay, the white +dogs creeping from knee to knee, some such touches gave an interest +to the scene. But a quarrel had begun; the men swore, but the women +did worse. It is impossible to give a hint of the language they +used, especially the elder of the three whose hollow face was +blackened by time and exposure. The two golden-brown girls were so +heavily intoxicated they could but stagger to and fro and mouth and +gesticulate, and one held a quart from which, as she moved, she +spilled the ale.</p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="3">WILD FLOWERS</a></h3> +<p>A fir-tree is not a flower, and yet it is associated in my mind +with primroses. There was a narrow lane leading into a wood, where +I used to go almost every day in the early months of the year, and +at one corner it was overlooked by three spruce firs. The rugged +lane there began to ascend the hill, and I paused a moment to look +back. Immediately the high fir-trees guided the eye upwards, and +from their tops to the deep azure of the March sky over, but a step +from the tree to the heavens. So it has ever been to me, by day or +by night, summer or winter, beneath trees the heart feels nearer to +that depth of life the far sky means. The rest of spirit found only +in beauty, ideal and pure, comes there because the distance seems +within touch of thought. To the heaven thought can reach lifted by +the strong arms of the oak, carried up by the ascent of the +flame-shaped fir. Round the spruce top the blue was deepened, +concentrated by the fixed point; the memory of that spot, as it +were, of the sky is still fresh—I can see it +distinctly—still beautiful and full of meaning. It is painted +in bright colour in my mind, colour thrice laid, and indelible; as +one passes a shrine and bows the head to the Madonna, so I recall +the picture and stoop in spirit to the aspiration it yet arouses. +For there is no saint like the sky, sunlight shining from its +face.</p> +<p>The fir-tree flowered thus before the primroses—the first +of all to give me a bloom, beyond reach but visible, while even the +hawthorn buds hesitated to open. Primroses were late there, a high +district and thin soil; you could read of them as found elsewhere +in January; they rarely came much before March, and but sparingly +then. On the warm red sand (red, at least, to look at, but green by +geological courtesy, I think) of Sussex, round about Hurst of the +Pierre-points, primroses are seen soon after the year has turned. +In the lanes about that curious old mansion, with its windows +reaching from floor to roof, that stands at the base of Wolstanbury +Hill, they grow early, and ferns linger in sheltered overhung +banks. The South Down range, like a great wall, shuts off the sea, +and has a different climate on either hand; south by the +sea—hard, harsh, flowerless, almost grassless, bitter, and +cold; on the north side, just over the hill—warm, soft, with +primroses and fern, willows budding and birds already busy. It is a +double England there, two countries side by side.</p> +<p>On a summer's day Wolstanbury Hill is an island in sunshine; you +may lie on the grassy rampart, high up in the most delicate +air—Grecian air, pellucid—alone, among the butterflies +and humming bees at the thyme, alone and isolated; endless masses +of hills on three sides, endless weald or valley on the fourth; all +warmly lit with sunshine, deep under liquid sunshine like the sands +under the liquid sea, no harshness of man-made sound to break the +insulation amid nature, on an island in a far Pacific of sunshine. +Some people would hesitate to walk down the staircase cut in the +turf to the beech-trees beneath; the woods look so small beneath, +so far down and steep, and no handrail. Many go to the Dyke, but +none to Wolstanbury Hill. To come over the range reminds one of +what travellers say of coming over the Alps into Italy; from harsh +sea-slopes, made dry with salt as they sow salt on razed cities +that naught may grow, to warm plains rich in all things, and with +great hills as pictures hung on a wall to gaze at. Where there are +beech-trees the land is always beautiful; beech-trees at the foot +of this hill, beech-trees at Arundel in that lovely park which the +Duke of Norfolk, to his glory, leaves open to all the world, and +where the anemones flourish in unusual size and number; beech-trees +in Marlborough Forest; beech-trees at the summit to which the lane +leads that was spoken of just now. Beech and beautiful scenery go +together.</p> +<p>But the primroses by that lane did not appear till late; they +covered the banks under the thousand thousand ash-poles; foxes +slipped along there frequently, whose friends in scarlet coats +could not endure the pale flowers, for they might chink their spurs +homewards. In one meadow near primroses were thicker than the +grass, with gorse interspersed, and the rabbits that came out fed +among flowers. The primroses last on to the celandines and +cowslips, through the time of the bluebells, past the +violets—one dies but passes on the life to another, one sets +light to the next, till the ruddy oaks and singing cuckoos call up +the tall mowing grass to fringe summer.</p> +<p>Before I had any conscious thought it was a delight to me to +find wild flowers, just to see them. It was a pleasure to gather +them and to take them home; a pleasure to show them to +others—to keep them as long as they would live, to decorate +the room with them, to arrange them carelessly with grasses, green +sprays, tree-bloom—large branches of chestnut snapped off, +and set by a picture perhaps. Without conscious thought of seasons +and the advancing hours to light on the white wild violet, the +meadow orchis, the blue veronica, the blue meadow cranesbill; +feeling the warmth and delight of the increasing sun-rays, but not +recognising whence or why it was joy. All the world is young to a +boy, and thought has not entered into it; even the old men with +grey hair do not seem old; different but not aged, the idea of age +has not been mastered. A boy has to frown and study, and then does +not grasp what long years mean. The various hues of the petals +pleased without any knowledge of colour-contrasts, no note even of +colour except that it was bright, and the mind was made happy +without consideration of those ideals and hopes afterwards +associated with the azure sky above the fir-tree. A fresh footpath, +a fresh flower, a fresh delight. The reeds, the grasses, the +rushes—unknown and new things at every step—something +always to find; no barren spot anywhere, or sameness. Every day the +grass painted anew, and its green seen for the first time; not the +old green, but a novel hue and spectacle, like the first view of +the sea.</p> +<p>If we had never before looked upon the earth, but suddenly came +to it man or woman grown, set down in the midst of a summer mead, +would it not seem to us a radiant vision? The hues, the shapes, the +song and life of birds, above all the sunlight, the breath of +heaven, resting on it; the mind would be filled with its glory, +unable to grasp it, hardly believing that such things could be mere +matter and no more. Like a dream of some spirit-land it would +appear, scarce fit to be touched lest it should fall to pieces, too +beautiful to be long watched lest it should fade away. So it seemed +to me as a boy, sweet and new like this each morning; and even now, +after the years that have passed, and the lines they have worn in +the forehead, the summer mead shines as bright and fresh as when my +foot first touched the grass. It has another meaning now; the +sunshine and the flowers speak differently, for a heart that has +once known sorrow reads behind the page, and sees sadness in joy. +But the freshness is still there, the dew washes the colours before +dawn. Unconscious happiness in finding wild +flowers—unconscious and unquestioning, and therefore +unbounded.</p> +<p>I used to stand by the mower and follow the scythe sweeping down +thousands of the broad-flowered daisies, the knotted knapweeds, the +blue scabious, the yellow rattles, sweeping so close and true that +nothing escaped; and, yet although I had seen so many hundreds of +each, although I had lifted armfuls day after day, still they were +fresh. They never lost their newness, and even now each time I +gather a wild flower it feels a new thing. The greenfinches came to +the fallen swathe so near to us they seemed to have no fear; but I +remember the yellowhammers most, whose colour, like that of the +wild flowers and the sky, has never faded from my memory. The +greenfinches sank into the fallen swathe, the loose grass gave +under their weight and let them bathe in flowers.</p> +<p>One yellowhammer sat on a branch of ash the livelong morning, +still singing in the sun; his bright head, his clean bright yellow, +gaudy as Spain, was drawn like a brush charged heavily with colour +across the retina, painting it deeply, for there on the eye's +memory it endures, though that was boyhood and this is manhood, +still unchanged. The field— Stewart's Mash—the very +tree, young ash timber, the branch projecting over the sward, I +could make a map of them. Sometimes I think sun-painted colours are +brighter to me than to many, and more strongly affect the nerves of +the eye. Straw going by the road on a dusky winter's day seems so +pleasantly golden, the sheaves lying aslant at the top, and these +bundles of yellow tubes thrown up against the dark ivy on the +opposite wall. Tiles, red burned, or orange coated, the sea +sometimes cleanly definite, the shadows of trees in a thin wood +where there is room for shadows to form and fall; some such shadows +are sharper than light, and have a faint blue tint. Not only in +summer but in cold winter, and not only romantic things but plain +matter-of-fact things, as a waggon freshly painted red beside the +wright's shop, stand out as if wet with colour and delicately +pencilled at the edges. It must be out of doors; nothing indoors +looks like this.</p> +<p>Pictures are very dull and gloomy to it, and very contrasted +colours like those the French use are necessary to fix the +attention. Their dashes of pink and scarlet bring the faint shadow +of the sun into the room. As for our painters, their works are hung +behind a curtain, and we have to peer patiently through the dusk of +evening to see what they mean. Out-of-door colours do not need to +be gaudy—a mere dull stake of wood thrust in the ground often +stands out sharper than the pink flashes of the French studio; a +faggot; the outline of a leaf; low tints without reflecting power +strike the eye as a bell the ear. To me they are intensely clear, +and the clearer the greater the pleasure. It is often too great, +for it takes me away from solid pursuits merely to receive the +impression, as water is still to reflect the trees. To me it is +very painful when illness blots the definition of outdoor things, +so wearisome not to see them rightly, and more oppressive than +actual pain. I feel as if I was struggling to wake up with dim, +half-opened lids and heavy mind. This one yellowhammer still sits +on the ash branch in Stewart's Mash over the sward, singing in the +sun, his feathers freshly wet with colour, the same sun-song, and +will sing to me so long as the heart shall beat.</p> +<p>The first conscious thought about wild flowers was to find out +their names—the first conscious pleasure,—and then I +began to see so many that I had not previously noticed. Once you +wish to identify them there is nothing escapes, down to the little +white chickweed of the path and the moss of the wall. I put my hand +on the bridge across the brook to lean over and look down into the +water. Are there any fish? The bricks of the pier are covered with +green, like a wall-painting to the surface of the stream, mosses +along the lines of the mortar, and among the moss little +plants—what are these? In the dry sunlit lane I look up to +the top of the great wall about some domain, where the green figs +look over upright on their stalks; there are dry plants on the +coping—what are these? Some growing thus, high in the air, on +stone, and in the chinks of the tower, suspended in dry air and +sunshine; some low down under the arch of the bridge over the +brook, out of sight utterly, unless you stoop by the brink of the +water and project yourself forward to examine under. The kingfisher +sees them as he shoots through the barrel of the culvert. There the +sun direct never shines upon them, but the sunlight thrown up by +the ripples runs all day in bright bars along the vault of the +arch, playing on them. The stream arranges the sand in the shallow +in bars, minute fixed undulations; the stream arranges the sunshine +in successive flashes, undulating as if the sun, drowsy in the +heat, were idly closing and unclosing his eyelids for sleep.</p> +<p>Plants everywhere, hiding behind every tree, under the leaves, +in the shady places, behind the dry furrows of the field; they are +only just behind something, hidden openly. The instant you look for +them they multiply a hundredfold; if you sit on the beach and begin +to count the pebbles by you, their number instantly increases to +infinity by virtue of that conscious act.</p> +<p>The bird's-foot lotus was the first. The boy must have seen it, +must have trodden on it in the bare woodland pastures, certainly +run about on it, with wet naked feet from the bathing; but the boy +was not conscious of it. This was the first, when the desire came +to identify and to know, fixing upon it by means of a pale and +feeble picture. In the largest pasture there were different soils +and climates; it was so large it seemed a little country of itself +then—the more so because the ground rose and fell, making a +ridge to divide the view and enlarge by uncertainty. The high sandy +soil on the ridge where the rabbits had their warren; the rocky +soil of the quarry; the long grass by the elms where the rooks +built, under whose nests there were vast unpalatable +mushrooms—the true mushrooms with salmon gills grew nearer +the warren; the slope towards the nut-tree hedge and spring. +Several climates in one field: the wintry ridge over which leaves +were always driving in all four seasons of the year; the level +sunny plain and fallen cromlech still tall enough for a gnomon and +to cast its shadow in the treeless drought; the moist, warm, grassy +depression; the lotus-grown slope, warm and dry.</p> +<p>If you have been living in one house in the country for some +time, and then go on a visit to another, though hardly half a mile +distant, you will find a change in the air, the feeling, and tone +of the place. It is close by, but it is not the same. To discover +these minute differences, which make one locality healthy and home +happy, and the next adjoining unhealthy, the Chinese have invented +the science of Feng-shui, spying about with cabalistic mystery, +casting the horoscope of an acre. There is something in all +superstitions; they are often the foundation of science. +Superstition having made the discovery, science composes a lecture +on the reason why, and claims the credit. Bird's-foot lotus means a +fortunate spot, dry, warm—so far as soil is concerned. If you +were going to live out of doors, you might safely build your +kibitka where you found it. Wandering with the pictured +flower-book, just purchased, over the windy ridge where last year's +skeleton leaves, blown out from the alder copse below, came on with +grasshopper motion—lifted and laid down by the wind, lifted +and laid down—I sat on the sward of the sheltered slope, and +instantly recognised the orange-red claws of the flower beside me. +That was the first; and this very morning, I dread to consider how +many years afterwards, I found a plant on a wall which I do not +know. I shall have to trace out its genealogy and emblazon its +shield. So many years and still only at the beginning—the +beginning, too, of the beginning—for as yet I have not +thought of the garden or conservatory flowers (which are wild +flowers somewhere), or of the tropics, or the prairies.</p> +<p>The great stone of the fallen cromlech, crouching down afar off +in the plain behind me, cast its shadow in the sunny morn as it had +done, so many summers, for centuries—for thousands of years: +worn white by the endless sunbeams—the ceaseless flood of +light—the sunbeams of centuries, the impalpable beams +polishing and grinding like rushing water: silent, yet witnessing +of the Past; shadowing the Present on the dial of the field: a mere +dull stone; but what is it the mind will not employ to express to +itself its own thoughts?</p> +<p>There was a hollow near in which hundreds of skeleton leaves had +settled, a stage on their journey from the alder copse, so thick as +to cover the thin grass, and at the side of the hollow a wasp's +nest had been torn out by a badger. On the soft and spreading sand +thrown out from his burrow the print of his foot looked as large as +an elephant might make. The wild animals of our fields are so small +that the badger's foot seemed foreign in its size, calling up +thought of the great game of distant forests. He was a bold badger +to make his burrow there in the open warren, unprotected by park +walls or preserve laws, where every one might see who chose. I +never saw him by daylight: that they do get about in daytime is, +however, certain, for one was shot in Surrey recently by sportsmen; +they say he weighed forty pounds.</p> +<p>In the mind all things are written in pictures—there is no +alphabetical combination of letters and words; all things are +pictures and symbols. The bird's-foot lotus is the picture to me of +sunshine and summer, and of that summer in the heart which is known +only in youth, and then not alone. No words could write that +feeling: the bird's-foot lotus writes it.</p> +<p>When the efforts to photograph began, the difficulty was to fix +the scene thrown by the lens upon the plate. There the view +appeared perfect to the least of details, worked out by the sun, +and made as complete in miniature as that he shone upon in nature. +But it faded like the shadows as the summer sun declines. Have you +watched them in the fields among the flowers?—the deep strong +mark of the noonday shadow of a tree such as the pen makes drawn +heavily on the paper; gradually it loses its darkness and becomes +paler and thinner at the edge as it lengthens and spreads, till +shadow and grass mingle together. Image after image faded from the +plates, no more to be fixed than the reflection in water of the +trees by the shore. Memory, like the sun, paints to me bright +pictures of the golden summer time of lotus; I can see them, but +how shall I fix them for you? By no process can that be +accomplished. It is like a story that cannot be told because he who +knows it is tongue-tied and dumb. Motions of hands, wavings and +gestures, rudely convey the framework, but the finish is not +there.</p> +<p>To-day, and day after day, fresh pictures are coloured +instantaneously in the retina as bright and perfect in detail and +hue. This very power is often, I think, the cause of pain to me. To +see so clearly is to value so highly and to feel too deeply. The +smallest of the pencilled branches of the bare ash-tree drawn +distinctly against the winter sky, waving lines one within the +other, yet following and partly parallel, reproducing in the curve +of the twig the curve of the great trunk; is it not a pleasure to +trace each to its ending? The raindrops as they slide from leaf to +leaf in June, the balmy shower that reperfumes each wild flower and +green thing, drops lit with the sun, and falling to the chorus of +the refreshed birds; is not this beautiful to see? On the grasses +tall and heavy the purplish blue pollen, a shimmering dust, sown +broadcast over the ripening meadow from July's warm hand—the +bluish pollen, the lilac pollen of the grasses, a delicate mist of +blue floating on the surface, has always been an especial delight +to me. Finches shake it from the stalks as they rise. No day, no +hour of summer, no step but brings new mazes—there is no word +to express design without plan, and these designs of flower and +leaf and colours of the sun cannot be reduced to set order. The eye +is for ever drawn onward and finds no end. To see these always so +sharply, wet and fresh, is almost too much sometimes for the +wearied yet insatiate eye. I am obliged to turn away—to shut +my eyes and say I will not see, I will not observe; I will +concentrate my mind on my own little path of life, and steadily +gaze downwards. In vain. Who can do so? who can care alone for his +or her petty trifles of existence, that has once entered amongst +the wild flowers? How shall I shut out the sun? Shall I deny the +constellations of the night? They are there; the Mystery is for +ever about us—the question, the hope, the aspiration cannot +be put out. So that it is almost a pain not to be able to cease +observing and tracing the untraceable maze of beauty.</p> +<p>Blue veronica was the next identified, sometimes called +germander speedwell, sometimes bird's-eye, whose leaves are so +plain and petals so blue. Many names increase the trouble of +identification, and confusion is made certain by the use of various +systems of classification. The flower itself I knew, its name I +could not be sure of—not even from the illustration, which +was incorrectly coloured; the central white spot of the flower was +reddish in the plate. This incorrect colouring spoils much of the +flower-picturing done; pictures of flowers and birds are rarely +accurate unless hand-painted. Any one else, however, would have +been quite satisfied that the identification was right. I was too +desirous to be correct, too conscientious, and thus a summer went +by with little progress. If you really wish to identify with +certainty, and have no botanist friend and no <i>magnum opus</i> of +Sowerby to refer to, it is very difficult indeed to be quite sure. +There was no Sowerby, no Bentham, no botanist friend—no one +even to give the common country names; for it is a curious fact +that the country people of the time rarely know the names put down +as the vernacular for flowers in the books.</p> +<p>No one there could tell me the name of the marsh-marigold which +grew thickly in the water-meadows—"A sort of big buttercup," +that was all they knew. Commonest of common plants is the "sauce +alone"—in every hedge, on every bank, the whitish-green leaf +is found—yet <i>I</i> could not make certain of it. If some +one tells you a plant, you know it at once and never forget it, but +to learn it from a book is another matter; it does not at once take +root in the mind, it has to be seen several times before you are +satisfied—you waver in your convictions. The leaves were +described as large and heart-shaped, and to remain green (at the +ground) through the winter; but the colour of the flower was +omitted, though it was stated that the petals of the hedge-mustard +were yellow. The plant that seemed to me to be probably "sauce +alone" had leaves somewhat heart-shaped, but so confusing is +<i>partial</i> description that I began to think I had hit on +"ramsons" instead of "sauce alone," especially as ramsons was said +to be a very common plant. So it is in some counties, but, as I +afterwards found, there was not a plant of ramsons, or garlic, +throughout the whole of that district. When, some years afterwards, +I saw a white-flowered plant with leaves like the lily of the +valley, smelling of garlic, in the woods of Somerset, I recognised +It immediately. The plants that are really common—common +everywhere—are not numerous, and if you are studying you must +be careful to understand that word locally. My "sauce alone" +identification was right; to be right and not certain is still +unsatisfactory.</p> +<p>There shone on the banks white stars among the grass. Petals +delicately white in a whorl of rays—light that had started +radiating from a centre and become fixed—shining among the +flowerless green. The slender stem had grown so fast it had drawn +its own root partly out of the ground, and when I tried to gather +it, flower, stem and root came away together. The wheat was +springing, the soft air full of the growth and moisture, blackbirds +whistling, wood-pigeons nesting, young oak-leaves out; a sense of +swelling, sunny fulness in the atmosphere. The plain road was made +beautiful by the advanced boughs that overhung and cast their +shadows on the dust—boughs of ash-green, shadows that lay +still, listening to the nightingale. A place of enchantment in the +mornings where was felt the power of some subtle influence working +behind bough and grass and bird-song. The orange-golden dandelion +in the sward was deeply laden with colour brought to it anew again +and again by the ships of the flowers, the humble-bees—to +their quays they come, unlading priceless essences of sweet odours +brought from the East over the green seas of wheat, unlading +priceless colours on the broad dandelion disks, bartering these +things for honey and pollen. Slowly tacking aslant, the pollen ship +hums in the south wind. The little brown wren finds her way through +the great thicket of hawthorn. How does she know her path, hidden +by a thousand thousand leaves? Tangled and crushed together by +their own growth, a crown of thorns hangs over the thrush's nest; +thorns for the mother, hope for the young. Is there a crown of +thorns over your heart? A spike has gone deep enough into mine. The +stile looks farther away because boughs have pushed forward and +made it smaller. The willow scarce holds the sap that tightens the +bark and would burst it if it did not enlarge to the pressure.</p> +<p>Two things can go through the solid oak; the lightning of the +clouds that rends the iron timber, the lightning of the +spring—the electricity of the sunbeams forcing him to stretch +forth and lengthen his arms with joy. Bathed in buttercups to the +dewlap, the roan cows standing in the golden lake watched the hours +with calm frontlet; watched the light descending, the meadows +filling, with knowledge of long months of succulent clover. On +their broad brows the year falls gently; their great, beautiful +eyes, which need but a tear or a smile to make them +human,—without these, such eyes, so large and full, seem +above human life, eyes of the immortals enduring without +passion,—in these eyes, as a mirror, nature is reflected.</p> +<p>I came every day to walk slowly up and down the plain road, by +the starry flowers under the ash-green boughs; ash is the coolest, +softest green. The bees went drifting over by my head; as they +cleared the hedges they passed by my ears, the wind singing in +their shrill wings. White tent-walls of cloud—a warm white, +being full to overflowing of sunshine—stretched across from +ash-top to ash-top, a cloud-canvas roof, a tent-palace of the +delicious air. For of all things there is none so sweet as sweet +air—one great flower it is, drawn round about, over, and +enclosing, like Aphrodite's arms; as if the dome of the sky were a +bell-flower drooping down over us, and the magical essence of it +filling all the room of the earth. Sweetest of all things is +wild-flower air. Full of their ideal the starry flowers strained +upwards on the bank, striving to keep above the rude grasses that +pushed by them; genius has ever had such a struggle. The plain road +was made beautiful by the many thoughts it gave. I came every +morning to stay by the starlit bank.</p> +<p>A friend said, "Why do you go the same road every day? Why not +have a change and walk somewhere else sometimes? Why keep on up and +down the same place?" I could not answer; till then it had not +occurred to me that I did always go one way; as for the reason of +it I could not tell; I continued in my old mind while the summers +went away. Not till years afterwards was I able to see why I went +the same round and did not care for change. I do not want change: I +want the same old and loved things, the same wild-flowers, the same +trees and soft ash-green; the turtle-doves, the blackbirds, the +coloured yellowhammer sing, sing, singing so long as there is light +to cast a shadow on the dial, for such is the measure of his song, +and I want them in the same place. Let me find them morning after +morning, the starry-white petals radiating, striving upwards to +their ideal. Let me see the idle shadows resting on the white dust; +let me hear the humble-bees, and stay to look down on the rich +dandelion disk. Let me see the very thistles opening their great +crowns—I should miss the thistles; the reed-grasses hiding +the moorhen; the bryony bine, at first crudely ambitious and lifted +by force of youthful sap straight above the hedgerow to sink of its +own weight presently and progress with crafty tendrils; swifts shot +through the air with outstretched wings like crescent-headed +shaftless arrows darted from the clouds; the chaffinch with a +feather in her bill; all the living staircase of the spring, step +by step, upwards to the great gallery of the summer—let me +watch the same succession year by year.</p> +<p>Why, I knew the very dates of them all—the reddening elm, +the arum, the hawthorn leaf, the celandine, the may; the yellow +iris of the waters, the heath of the hillside. The time of the +nightingale—the place to hear the first note; onwards to the +drooping fern and the time of the redwing—the place of his +first note, so welcome to the sportsman as the acorn ripens and the +pheasant, come to the age of manhood, feeds himself; onwards to the +shadowless days—the long shadowless winter, for in winter it +is the shadows we miss as much as the light. They lie over the +summer sward, design upon design, dark lace on green and gold; they +glorify the sunlight: they repose on the distant hills like gods +upon Olympus; without shadow, what even is the sun? At the foot of +the great cliffs by the sea you may know this, it is dry glare; +mighty ocean is dearer as the shadows of the clouds sweep over as +they sweep over the green corn. Past the shadowless winter, when it +is all shade, and therefore no shadow; onwards to the first +coltsfoot and on to the seed-time again; I knew the dates of all of +them. I did not want change; I wanted the same flowers to return on +the same day, the titlark to rise soaring from the same oak to +fetch down love with a song from heaven to his mate on the nest +beneath. No change, no new thing; if I found a fresh wild-flower in +a fresh place, still it wove at once into the old garland. In vain, +the very next year was different even in the same +place—<i>that</i> had been a year of rain, and the flag +flowers were wonderful to see; <i>this</i> was a dry year, and the +flags not half the height, the gold of the flower not so deep; next +year the fatal billhook came and swept away a slow-grown hedge that +had given me crab-blossom in cuckoo-time and hazelnuts in harvest. +Never again the same, even in the same place.</p> +<p>A little feather droops downwards to the ground—a +swallow's feather fuller of miracle than the Pentateuch—how +shall that feather be placed again in the breast where it grew? +Nothing twice. Time changes the places that knew us, and if we go +back in after years, still even then it is not the old spot; the +gate swings differently, new thatch has been put on the old gables, +the road has been widened, and the sward the driven sheep lingered +on is gone. Who dares to think then? For faces fade as flowers, and +there is no consolation. So now I am sure I was right in always +walking the same way by the starry flowers striving upwards on a +slender ancestry of stem; I would follow the plain old road to-day +if I could. Let change be far from me; that irresistible change +must come is bitter indeed. Give me the old road, the same +flowers—they were only stitchwort—the old succession of +days and garland, ever weaving into it fresh wild-flowers from far +and near. Fetch them from distant mountains, discover them on +decaying walls, in unsuspected corners; though never seen before, +still they are the same: there has been a place in the heart +waiting for them.</p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="4">SUNNY BRIGHTON</a></h3> +<p>Some of the old streets opening out of the King's Road look very +pleasant on a sunny day. They ran to the north, so that the sun +over the sea shines nearly straight up them, and at the farther +end, where the houses close in on higher ground, the deep blue sky +descends to the rooftrees. The old red tiles, the red chimneys, the +green jalousies, give some colour; and beneath there are shadowy +corners and archways. They are not too wide to whisper across, for +it is curious that to be interesting a street must be narrow, and +the pavements are but two or three bricks broad. These pavements +are not for the advantage of foot passengers; they are merely to +prevent cart-wheels from grating against the houses. There is +nothing ancient or carved in these streets, they are but moderately +old, yet turning from the illuminated sea it is pleasant to glance +up them as you pass, in their stillness and shadow, lying outside +the inconsiderate throng walking to and fro, and contrasting in +their irregularity with the set façades of the front. +Opposite, across the King's Road, the mastheads of the fishing +boats on the beach just rise above the rails of the cliff, tipped +with fluttering pennants, or fish-shaped vanes changing to the +wind. They have a pulley at the end of a curved piece of iron for +hauling up the lantern to the top of the mast when trawling; this +thin curve, with a dot at the extremity surmounting the straight +and rigid mast, suits the artist's pencil. The gold-plate +shop—there is a bust of Psyche in the doorway—often +attracts the eye in passing; gold and silver plate in large masses +is striking, and it is a very good place to stand a minute and +watch the passers-by.</p> +<p>It is a Piccadilly crowd by the sea-exactly the same style of +people you meet in Piccadilly, but freer in dress, and particularly +in hats. All fashionable Brighton parades the King's Road twice a +day, morning and afternoon, always on the side of the shops. The +route is up and down the King's Road as far as Preston Street, back +again and up East Street. Riding and driving Brighton extends its +Rotten Row sometimes to Third Avenue, Hove. These well-dressed and +leading people never look at the sea. Watching by the gold-plate +shop you will not observe a single glance in the direction of the +sea, beautiful as it is, gleaming under the sunlight. They do not +take the slightest interest in sea, or sun, or sky, or the fresh +breeze calling white horses from the deep. Their pursuits are +purely "social," and neither ladies nor gentlemen ever go on the +beach or lie where the surge comes to the feet. The beach is +ignored; it is almost, perhaps quite vulgar; or rather it is +entirely outside the pale. No one rows, very few sail; the sea is +not "the thing" in Brighton, which is the least nautical of seaside +places. There is more talk of horses.</p> +<p>The wind coming up the cliff seems to bring with it whole +armfuls of sunshine, and to throw the warmth and light against you +as you linger. The walls and glass reflect the light and push back +the wind in puffs and eddies; the awning flutters; light and wind +spring upwards from the pavement; the sky is richly blue against +the parapets overhead; there are houses on one side, but on the +other open space and sea, and dim clouds in the extreme distance. +The atmosphere is full of light, and gives a sense of liveliness! +every atom of it is in motion. How delicate are the fore legs of +these thoroughbred horses passing! Small and slender, the hoof, as +the limb rises, seems to hang by a thread, yet there is strength +and speed in those sinews. Strength is often associated with size, +with the mighty flank, the round barrel, the great shoulder. But I +marvel more at the manner in which that strength is conveyed +through these slender sinews; the huge brawn and breadth of flesh +all depend upon these little cords. It is at these junctions that +the wonder of life is most evident. The succession of well-shaped +horses, overtaking and passing, crossing, meeting, their +high-raised heads and action increase the impression of pleasant +movement. Quick wheels, sometimes a tandem, or a painted coach, +towering over the line,—so rolls the procession of busy +pleasure. There is colour in hat and bonnet, feathers, flowers, and +mantles, not brilliant but rapidly changing, and in that sense +bright. Faces on which the sun shines and the wind blows whether +cared for or not, and lit up thereby; faces seen for a moment and +immediately followed by others as interesting; a flowing gallery of +portraits; all life, life! Waiting unobserved under the awning, +occasionally, too, I hear voices as the throng goes by on the +pavement—pleasant tones of people chatting and the human +sunshine of laughter. The atmosphere is full of movement, full of +light, and life streams to and fro.</p> +<p>Yonder, over the road, a row of fishermen lean against the rails +of the cliff, some with their backs to the sea, some facing it. +"The cliff" is rather a misnomer, it is more like a sea-wall in +height. This row of stout men in blue jerseys, or copper-hued tan +frocks, seems to be always there, always waiting for the +tide—or nothing. Each has his particular position; one, +shorter than the rest, leans with his elbows backwards on the low +rail; another hangs over and looks down at the site of the fish +market; an older man stands upright, and from long habit looks +steadily out to sea. They have their hands in their pockets; they +appear fat and jolly, as round as the curves of their smacks drawn +up on the beach beneath them. They are of such that "sleep o' +nights;" no anxious ambition disturbs their placidity. No man in +this world knows how to absolutely do—nothing, like a +fisherman. Sometimes he turns round, sometimes he does not, that is +all. The sun shines, the breeze comes up the cliff, far away a +French fishing lugger is busy enough. The boats on the beach are +idle, and swarms of boys are climbing over them, swinging on a rope +from the bowsprit, or playing at marbles under the cliff. Bigger +boys collect under the lee of a smack, and do nothing cheerfully. +The fashionable throng hastens to and fro, but the row leaning +against the railings do not stir.</p> +<p>Doleful tales they have to tell any one who inquires about the +fishing. There have been "no herrings" these two years. One man +went out with his smack, and after working for hours returned with +<i>one sole</i>. I can never get this one sole out of my mind when +I see the row by the rails. While the fisherman was telling me this +woeful story, I fancied I heard voices from a crowd of the bigger +boys collected under a smack, voices that said, "Ho! ho! Go on! +you're kidding the man!" Is there much "kidding" in this business +of fish? Another man told me (but he was not a smack proprietor) +that L50, L70, or L80 was a common night's catch. Some people say +that the smacks never put to sea until the men have spent every +shilling they have got, and are obliged to sail. If truth lies at +the bottom of a well, it is the well of a fishing boat, for there +is nothing so hard to get at as the truth about fish. At the time +when society was pluming itself on the capital results attained by +the Fisheries Exhibition in London, and gentlemen described in the +papers how they had been to market and purchased cod at sixpence a +pound, one shilling and eightpence a pound was the price in the +Brighton fishmongers' shops, close to the sea. Not the least effect +was produced in Brighton; fish remains at precisely the same price +as before all this ridiculous trumpeting. But while the fishmongers +charge twopence each for fresh herrings, the old women bring them +to the door at sixteen a shilling. The poor who live in the old +part of Brighton, near the markets, use great quantities of the +smaller and cheaper fish, and their children weary of the taste to +such a degree that when the girls go out to service they ask to be +excused from eating it.</p> +<p>The fishermen say they can often find a better market by sending +their fish to Paris; much of the fish caught off Brighton goes +there. It is fifty miles to London, and 250 to Paris; how then can +this be? Fish somehow slip through ordinary rules, being slimy of +surface; the maxims of the writers on demand and supply are quite +ignored, and there is no groping to the bottom of this well of +truth.</p> +<p>Just at the corner of some of the old streets that come down to +the King's Road one or two old fishermen often stand. The front one +props himself against the very edge of the buildings, and peers +round into the broad sunlit thoroughfare; his brown copper frock +makes a distinct patch of colour at the edge of the house. There is +nothing in common between him and the moving throng: he is quite +separate and belongs to another race; he has come down from the +shadow of the old street, and his copper-hued frock might have come +out of the last century.</p> +<p>The fishing-boats and the fishing, the nets, and all the fishing +work are a great ornament to Brighton. They are real; there is +something about them that forms a link with the facts of the sea, +with the forces of the tides and winds, and the sunlight gleaming +on the white crests of the waves. They speak to thoughts lurking in +the mind; they float between life and death as with a billow on +either hand; their anchors go down to the roots of existence. This +is real work, real labour of man, to draw forth food from the deep +as the plough draws it from the earth. It is in utter contrast to +the artificial work—the feathers, the jewellery, the writing +at desks of the town. The writings of a thousand clerks, the busy +factory work, the trimmings and feathers, and counter attendance do +not touch the real. They are all artificial. For food you must +still go to the earth and to the sea, as in primeval days. Where +would your thousand clerks, your trimmers, and counter-salesmen be +without a loaf of bread, without meat, without fish? The old brown +sails and the nets, the anchors and tarry ropes, go straight to +nature. You do not care for nature now? Well! all I can say is, you +will have to go to nature one day—when you die: you will find +nature very real then. I rede you to recognise the sunlight and the +sea, the flowers and woods <i>now</i>.</p> +<p>I like to go down on the beach among the fishing-boats, and to +recline on the shingle by a smack when the wind comes gently from +the west, and the low wave breaks but a few yards from my feet. I +like the occasional passing scent of pitch: they are melting it +close by. I confess I like tar: one's hands smell nice after +touching ropes. It is more like home down on the beach here; the +men are doing something real, sometimes there is the clink of a +hammer; behind me there is a screen of brown net, in which rents +are being repaired; a big rope yonder stretches as the horse goes +round, and the heavy smack is drawn slowly up over the pebbles. The +full curves of the rounded bows beside me are pleasant to the eye, +as any curve is that recalls those of woman. Mastheads stand up +against the sky, and a loose rope swings as the breeze strikes it; +a veer of the wind brings a puff of smoke from the funnel of a +cabin, where some one is cooking, but it is not disagreeable, like +smoke from a house chimney-pot; another veer carries it away +again,—depend upon it the simplest thing cooked there is +nice. Shingle rattles as it is shovelled up for ballast—the +sound of labour makes me more comfortably lazy. They are not in a +hurry, nor "chivy" over their work either; the tides rise and fall +slowly, and they work in correspondence. No infernal fidget and +fuss. Wonder how long it would take me to pitch a pebble so as to +lodge on the top of that large brown pebble there? I try, once now +and then.</p> +<p>Far out over the sea there is a peculiar bank of clouds. I was +always fond of watching clouds; these do not move much. In my +pocket-book I see I have several notes about these peculiar +sea-clouds. They form a band not far above the horizon, not very +thick but elongated laterally. The upper edge is curled or wavy, +not so heavily as what is called mountainous, not in the least +threatening; this edge is white. The body of the vapour is a little +darker, either because thicker, or because the light is reflected +at a different angle. But it is the lower edge which is singular: +in direct contrast with the curled or wavy edge above, the under +edge is perfectly straight and parallel to the line of the horizon. +It looks as if the level of the sea made this under line. This bank +moves very slowly—scarcely perceptibly—but in course of +hours rises, and as it rises spreads, when the extremities break +off in detached pieces, and these gradually vanish. Sometimes when +travelling I have pointed out the direction of the sea, feeling +sure it was there, and not far off, though invisible, on account of +the appearance of the clouds, whose under edge was cut across so +straight. When this peculiar bank appears at Brighton it is an +almost certain sign of continued fine weather, and I have noticed +the same thing elsewhere; once particularly it remained fine after +this appearance despite every threat the sky could offer of a +storm. All the threats came to nothing for three weeks, not even +thunder and lightning could break it up,—"deceitful flashes," +as the Arabs say; for, like the sons of the desert, just then the +farmers longed for rain on their parched fields. To me, while on +the beach among the boats, the value of these clouds lies in their +slowness of movement, and consequent effect in soothing the mind. +Outside the hurry and drive of life a rest comes through the calm +of nature. As the swell of the sea carries up the pebbles, and +arranges the largest farthest inland, where they accumulate and +stay unmoved, so the drifting of the clouds, and the touch of the +wind, the sound of the surge, arrange the molecules of the mind in +still layers. It is then that a dream fills it, and a dream is +sometimes better than the best reality. Laugh at the idea of +dreaming where there is an odour of tar if you like, but you see it +is outside intolerable civilisation. It is a hundred miles from the +King's Road, though but just under it.</p> +<p>There is a scheme on foot for planking over the ocean, beginning +at the bottom of West Street. An immense central pier is proposed, +which would occupy the only available site for beaching the smacks. +If carried out, the whole fishing industry must leave +Brighton,—to the fishermen the injury would be beyond +compensation, and the aspect of Brighton itself would be destroyed. +Brighton ought to rise in revolt against it.</p> +<p>All Brighton chimney-pots are put on with giant cement, in order +to bear the strain of the tremendous winds rushing up from the sea. +Heavy as the gales are, they seldom do much mischief to the roofs, +such as are recorded inland. On the King's Road a plate-glass +window is now and then blown in, so that on hurricane days the +shutters are generally half shut. It is said that the wind gets +between the iron shutters and the plate glass and shakes the +windows loose. The heaviest waves roll in by the West Pier, and at +the bottom of East Street. Both sides of the West Pier are washed +by larger waves than can be seen all along the coast from the +Quarter Deck. Great rollers come in at the concrete groyne at the +foot of East Street. Exposed as the coast is, the waves do not +convey so intense an idea of wildness, confusion, and power as they +do at Dover. To see waves in their full vigour go to the Admiralty +Pier and watch the seas broken by the granite wall. Windy Brighton +has not an inch of shelter anywhere in a gale, and the salt rain +driven by the wind penetrates the thickest coat. The windiest spot +is at the corner of Second Avenue, Hove; the wind just there is +almost enough to choke those who face it. Double +windows—Russian fashion—are common all along the +sea-front, and are needed.</p> +<p>After a gale, when the wind changes, as it usually does, it is +pleasant to see the ships work in to the verge of the shore. The +sea is turbid and yellow with sand beaten up by the recent +billows,—this yellowness extends outwards to a certain line, +and is there succeeded by the green of clearer water. Beyond this +again the surface looks dark, as if still half angry, and clouds +hang over it, both to retire from the strife. As bees come out of +their hives when the rain ceases and the sun shines, so the vessels +which have been lying-to in harbour, or under shelter of +promontories, are now eagerly making their way down Channel, and, +in order to get as long a tack and as much advantage as possible, +they are brought to the edge of the shallow water. Sometimes +fifteen or twenty or more stand in; all sizes from the ketch to the +three-master. The wind is not strong, but that peculiar drawing +breeze which seems to pull a ship along as if with a tow-rope. The +brig stands straight for the beach, with all sail set; she heels a +little, not much; she scarcely heaves to the swell, and is not +checked by meeting waves; she comes almost to the yellow line of +turbid water, when round she goes, and you can see the sails shiver +as the breeze touches them on both surfaces for a moment. Then +again she shows her stern and away she glides, while another +approaches: and all day long they pass. There is always something +shadowy, not exactly unreal, but shadowy about a ship; it seems to +carry a romance, and the imagination fashions a story to the +swelling sails.</p> +<p>The bright light of Brighton brings all things into clear +relief, giving them an edge and outline; as steel burns with a +flame like wood in oxygen, so the minute particles of iron in the +atmosphere seem to burn and glow in the sunbeams, and a twofold +illumination fills the air. Coming back to the place after a +journey this brilliant light is very striking, and most new +visitors notice it. Even a room with a northern aspect is full of +light, too strong for some eyes, till accustomed to it. I am a +great believer in light—sunlight—and of my free will +never let it be shut out with curtains. Light is essential to life, +like air; life is thought; light is as fresh air to the mind. +Brilliant sunshine is reflected from the houses and fills the +streets. The walls of the houses are clean and less discoloured by +the deposit of carbon than usual in most towns, so that the +reflection is stronger from these white surfaces. Shadow there is +none in summer, for the shadows are lit up by diffusion. Something +in the atmosphere throws light down into shaded places as if from a +mirror. Waves beat ceaselessly on the beach, and the undulations of +light flow continuously forwards into the remotest corners. Pure +air, free from suspended matter, lets the light pass freely, and +perhaps this absence of suspended material is the reason that the +heat is not so oppressive as would be supposed considering the +glare. Certainly it is not so hot as London; on going up to town on +a July or August day it seems much hotter there, so much so that +one pants for air. Conversely in winter, London appears much +colder, the thick dark atmosphere seems to increase the bitterness +of the easterly winds, and returning to Brighton is entering a +warmer because clearer air. Many complain of the brilliance of the +light; they say the glare is overpowering, but the eyes soon become +acclimatised. This glare is one of the great recommendations of +Brighton; the strong light is evidently one of the causes of its +healthfulness to those who need change. There is no such glowing +light elsewhere along the south coast; these things are very +local.</p> +<p>A demand has been made for trees, to plant the streets and turn +them into boulevards for shade, than which nothing could be more +foolish. It is the dryness of the place that gives it its +character. After a storm, after heavy rain for days, in an hour the +pavements are not only dry but clean; no dirt, sticky and greasy, +remains. The only dirt in Brighton, for three-fourths of the year, +is that made by the water-carts. Too much water is used, and a good +clean road covered with mud an inch thick in August; but this is +not the fault of Brighton—it is the lack of observation on +the part of the Cadi who ought to have noticed the wretched +condition of ladies' boots when compelled to cross these miry +promenades. Trees are not wanted in Brighton; it is the peculiar +glory of Brighton to be treeless. Trees are the cause of damp, they +suck down moisture, and fill a circle round them with humidity. +Places full of trees are very trying in spring and autumn even to +robust people, much more so to convalescents and delicate persons. +Have nothing to do with trees, if Brighton is to retain its value. +Glowing light, dry, clear, and clean air, general +dryness—these are the qualities that rendered Brighton a +sanatorium; light and glow without oppressive moist heat; in winter +a clear cold. Most terrible of all to bear is cold when the +atmosphere is saturated with water. If any reply that trees have no +leaves in winter and so do not condense moisture, I at once deny +the conclusion; they have no leaves, but they condense moisture +nevertheless. This is effected by the minute twigs, thousands of +twigs and little branches, on which the mists condense, and distil +in drops. Under a large tree, in winter, there is often a perfect +shower, enough to require an umbrella, and it lasts for hours. +Eastbourne is a pleasant place, but visit Eastbourne, which is +proud of its trees, in October, and feel the damp fallen leaves +under your feet, and you would prefer no trees.</p> +<p>Let nothing check the descent of those glorious beams of +sunlight which fall at Brighton. Watch the pebbles on the beach; +the foam runs up and wets them, almost before it can slip back the +sunshine has dried them again. So they are alternately wetted and +dried. Bitter sea and glowing light, bright clear air, dry as +dry,—that describes the place. Spain is the country of +sunlight, burning sunlight; Brighton is a Spanish town in England, +a Seville. Very bright colours can be worn in summer because of +this powerful light; the brightest are scarcely noticed, for they +seem to be in concert with the sunshine. Is it difficult to paint +in so strong a light? Pictures in summer look dull and out of tune +when this Seville sun is shining. Artificial colours of the palette +cannot live in it. As a race we do not seem to care much for colour +or art—I mean in the common things of daily life—else a +great deal of colour might be effectively used in Brighton in +decorating houses and woodwork. Much more colour might be put in +the windows, brighter flowers and curtains; more, too, inside the +rooms; the sober hues of London furniture and carpets are not in +accord with Brighton light. Gold and ruby and blue, the blue of +transparent glass, or purple, might be introduced, and the romance +of colour freely indulged. At high tide of summer Spanish +mantillas, Spanish fans, would not be out of place in the open air. +No tint is too bright—scarlet, cardinal, anything the +imagination fancies; the brightest parasol is a matter of course. +Stand, for instance, by the West Pier, on the Esplanade, looking +east on a full-lit August day. The sea is blue, streaked with +green, and is stilled with heat; the low undulations can scarcely +rise and fall for somnolence. The distant cliffs are white; the +houses yellowish-white; the sky blue, more blue than fabled Italy. +Light pours down, and the bitter salt sea wets the pebbles; to look +at them makes the mouth dry, in the unconscious recollection of the +saltness and bitterness. The flags droop, the sails of the +fishing-boats hang idle; the land and the sea are conquered by the +great light of the sun.</p> +<p>Some people become famous by being always in one attitude. Meet +them when you will, they have invariably got an arm—the same +arm—crossed over the breast, and the hand thrust in between +the buttons of the coat to support it. Morning, noon, or evening, +in the street, the carriage, sitting, reading the paper, always the +same attitude; thus they achieve social distinction; it takes the +place of a medal or the red ribbon. What is a general or a famous +orator compared to a man always in the same attitude? Simply +nobody, nobody knows him, everybody knows the mono-attitude man. +Some people make their mark by invariably wearing the same short +pilot coat. Doubtless it has been many times renewed, still it is +the same coat. In winter it is thick, in summer thin, but identical +in cut and colour. Some people sit at the same window of the +reading-room at the same hour every day, all the year round. This +is the way to become marked and famous; winning a battle is nothing +to it. When it was arranged that a military band should play on the +Brunswick Lawns, it became the fashion to stop carriages in the +road and listen to it. Frequently there were carriages four deep, +while the gale blew the music out to sea and no one heard a note. +Still they sat content.</p> +<p>There are more handsome women in Brighton than anywhere else in +the world. They are so common that gradually the standard of taste +in the mind rises, and good-looking women who would be admired in +other places pass by without notice. Where all the flowers are +roses, you do not see a rose. They are all plump, not to say fat, +which would be rude; very plump, and have the glow and bloom of +youth upon the cheeks. They do not suffer from "pernicious +anaemia," that evil bloodlessness which London physicians are not +unfrequently called upon to cure, when the cheeks are white as +paper and have to be rosied with minute doses of arsenic. They +extract their arsenic from the air. The way they step and the +carriage of the form show how full they are of life and spirits. +Sarah Bernhardt will not come to Brighton if she can help it, lest +she should lose that high art angularity and slipperiness of shape +which suits her <i>rôle</i>. Dresses seem always to fit well, +because people somehow expand to them. It is pleasant to see the +girls walk, because the limbs do not drag, the feet are lifted +gaily and with ease. Horse-exercise adds a deeper glow to the face; +they ride up on the Downs first, out of pure cunning, for the air +there is certain to impart a freshness to the features like dew on +a flower, and then return and walk their horses to and fro the +King's Road, certain of admiration. However often these tricks are +played, they are always successful. Those philanthropic folk who +want to reform women's dress, and call upon the world to observe +how the present style contracts the chest, and forces the organs of +the body out of place (what a queer expression it seems, "organs"!) +have not a chance in Brighton. Girls lace tight and "go in" for the +tip of the fashion, yet they bloom and flourish as green bay trees, +and do not find their skirts any obstacle in walking or tennis. The +horse-riding that goes on is a thing to be chronicled; they are +always on horseback, and you may depend upon it that it is better +for them than all the gymnastic exercises ever invented. The +liability to strain, and even serious internal injury, which is +incurred in gymnastic exercises, ought to induce sensible people to +be extremely careful how they permit their daughters to sacrifice +themselves on this scientific altar. Buy them horses to ride, if +you want them to enjoy good health and sound constitutions. Nothing +like horses for women. Send the professors to Suakim, and put the +girls on horseback. Whether Brighton grows handsome girls, or +whether they flock there drawn by instinct, or become lovely by +staying there, is an inquiry too difficult to pursue.</p> +<p>There they are, one at least in every group, and you have to +walk, as the Spaniards say, with your beard over your shoulder, +continually looking back at those who have passed. The only +antidote known is to get married before you visit the place, and +doubts have been expressed as to its efficacy. In the south-coast +Seville there is nothing done but heart-breaking; it is so common +it is like hammering flints for road mending; nobody cares if your +heart is in pieces. They break hearts on horseback, and while +walking, playing tennis, shopping—actually at shopping, not +to mention parties of every kind. No one knows where the next +danger will be encountered—at the very next corner perhaps. +Feminine garments have an irresistible flutter in the sea-breeze; +feathers have a beckoning motion. No one can be altogether good in +Brighton, and that is the great charm of it. The language of the +eyes is cultivated to a marvellous degree; as we say of dogs, they +quite talk with their eyes. Even when you do not chance to meet an +exceptional beauty, still the plainer women are not plain like the +plain women in other places. The average is higher among them, and +they are not so irredeemably uninteresting. The flash of an eye, +the shape of a shoulder, the colour of the hair—something or +other pleases. Women without a single good feature are often +good-looking in New Seville because of an indescribable style or +manner. They catch the charm of the good-looking by living among +them, so that if any young lady desires to acquire the art of +attraction she has only to take train and join them. Delighted with +our protectorate of Paphos, Venus has lately decided to reside on +these shores, Every morning the girls' schools go for their +constitutional walks; there seem no end of these schools—the +place has a garrison of girls, and the same thing is noticeable in +their ranks. Too young to have developed actual loveliness, some in +each band distinctly promise future success. After long residence +the people become accustomed to good looks, and do not see anything +especial around them, but on going away for a few days soon miss +these pleasant faces.</p> +<p>In reconstructing Brighton station, one thing was +omitted—a balcony from which to view the arrival and +departure of the trains in summer and autumn. The scene is as +lively and interesting as the stage when a good play is proceeding. +So many happy expectant faces, often very beautiful; such a +mingling of colours, and succession of different figures; now a +brunette, now golden hair: it is a stage, only it is real. The +bustle, which is not the careworn anxious haste of business; the +rushing to and fro; the greetings of friends; the smiles; the +shifting of the groups, some coming, and some going—plump and +rosy,—it is really charming. One has a fancy dog, another a +bright-bound novel; very many have cavaliers; and look at the piles +of luggage! What dresses, what changes and elegance concealed +therein!—conjurors' trunks out of which wonders will spring. +Can anything look jollier than a cab overgrown with luggage, like +huge barnacles, just starting away with its freight? One can +imagine such a fund of enjoyment on its way in that cab. This happy +throng seems to express something that delights the heart. I often +used to walk up to the station just to see it, and left feeling +better.</p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="5">THE PINE WOOD</a></h3> +<p>There was a humming in the tops of the young pines as if a swarm +of bees were busy at the green cones. They were not visible through +the thick needles, and on listening longer it seemed as if the +sound was not exactly the note of the bee—a slightly +different pitch, and the hum was different, while bees have a habit +of working close together. Where there is one bee there are usually +five or six, and the hum is that of a group; here there only +appeared one or two insects to a pine. Nor was the buzz like that +of the humble-bee, for every now and then one came along low down, +flying between the stems, and his note was much deeper. By-and-by, +crossing to the edge of the plantation, where the boughs could be +examined, being within reach, I found it was wasps. A yellow wasp +wandered over the blue-green needles till he found a pair with a +drop of liquid like dew between them. There he fastened himself and +sucked at it; you could see the drop gradually drying up till it +was gone. The largest of these drops were generally between two +needles—those of the Scotch fir or pine grow in +pairs—but there were smaller drops on the outside of other +needles. In searching for this exuding turpentine the wasps filled +the whole plantation with the sound of their wings. There must have +been many thousands of them. They caused no inconvenience to any +one walking in the copse, because they were high overhead.</p> +<p>Watching these wasps I found two cocoons of pale yellow silk on +a branch of larch, and by them a green spider. He was quite +green—two shades, lightest on the back, but little lighter +than the green larch bough. An ant had climbed up a pine and over +to the extreme end of a bough; she seemed slow and stupefied in her +motions, as if she had drunken of the turpentine and had lost her +intelligence. The soft cones of the larch could be easily cut down +the centre with a penknife, showing the structure of the cone and +the seeds inside each scale. It is for these seeds that birds +frequent the fir copses, shearing off the scales with their beaks. +One larch cone had still the tuft at the top—a pineapple in +miniature. The loudest sound in the wood was the humming in the +trees; there was no wind, no sunshine; a summer day, still and +shadowy, under large clouds high up. To this low humming the sense +of hearing soon became accustomed, and it served but to render the +silence deeper. In time, as I sat waiting and listening, there came +the faintest far-off song of a bird away in the trees; the merest +thin upstroke of sound, slight in structure, the echo of the strong +spring singing. This was the summer repetition, dying away. A +willow-wren still remembered his love, and whispered about it to +the silent fir tops, as in after days we turn over the pages of +letters, withered as leaves, and sigh. So gentle, so low, so tender +a song the willow-wren sang that it could scarce be known as the +voice of a bird, but was like that of some yet more delicate +creature with the heart of a woman.</p> +<p>A butterfly with folded wings clung to a stalk of grass; upon +the under side of his wing thus exposed there were buff spots, and +dark dots and streaks drawn on the finest ground of pearl-grey, +through which there came a tint of blue; there was a blue, too, +shut up between the wings, visible at the edges. The spots, and +dots, and streaks were not exactly the same on each wing; at first +sight they appeared similar, but, on comparing one with the other, +differences could be traced. The pattern was not mechanical; it was +hand-painted by Nature, and the painter's eye and fingers varied in +their work.</p> +<p>How fond Nature is of spot-markings!—the wings of +butterflies, the feathers of birds, the surface of eggs, the leaves +and petals of plants are constantly spotted; so, too, fish—as +trout. From the wing of the butterfly I looked involuntarily at the +foxglove I had just gathered; inside, the bells were thickly +spotted—dots and dustings that might have been transferred to +a butterfly's wing. The spotted meadow-orchis; the brown dots on +the cowslips; brown, black, greenish, reddish dots and spots and +dustings on the eggs of the finches, the whitethroats, and so many +others—some of the spots seem as if they had been splashed on +and had run into short streaks, some mottled, some gathered +together at the end; all spots, dots, dustings of minute specks, +mottlings, and irregular markings. The histories, the stories, the +library of knowledge contained in those signs! It was thought a +wonderful thing when at last the strange inscriptions of Assyria +were read, made of nail-headed characters whose sound was lost; it +was thought a triumph when the yet older hieroglyphics of Egypt +were compelled to give up their messages, and the world hoped that +we should know the secrets of life. That hope was disappointed; +there was nothing in the records but superstition and useless +ritual. But here we go back to the beginning; the antiquity of +Egypt is nothing to the age of these signs—they date from +unfathomable time. In them the sun has written his commands, and +the wind inscribed deep thought. They were before superstition +began; they were composed in the old, old world, when the Immortals +walked on earth. They have been handed down thousands upon +thousands of years to tell us that to-day we are still in the +presence of the heavenly visitants, if only we will give up the +soul to these pure influences. The language in which they are +written has no alphabet, and cannot be reduced to order. It can +only be understood by the heart and spirit. Look down into this +foxglove bell and you will know that; look long and lovingly at +this blue butterfly's underwing, and a feeling will rise to your +consciousness.</p> +<p>Some time passed, but the butterfly did not move; a touch +presently disturbed him, and flutter, flutter went his blue wings, +only for a few seconds, to another grass-stalk, and so on from +grass-stalk to grass-stalk as compelled, a yard flight at most. He +would not go farther; he settled as if it had been night. There was +no sunshine, and under the clouds he had no animation. A swallow +went by singing in the air, and as he flew his forked tail was +shut, and but one streak of feathers drawn past. Though but young +trees, there was a coating of fallen needles under the firs an inch +thick, and beneath it the dry earth touched warm. A fern here and +there came up through it, the palest of pale green, quite a +different colour to the same species growing in the hedges away +from the copse. A yellow fungus, streaked with scarlet as if blood +had soaked into it, stood at the foot of a tree occasionally. Black +fungi, dry, shrivelled, and dead, lay fallen about, detached from +the places where they had grown, and crumbling if handled. Still +more silent after sunset, the wood was utterly quiet; the swallows +no longer passed twittering, the willow-wren was gone, there was no +hum or rustle; the wood was as silent as a shadow.</p> +<p>But before the darkness a song and an answer arose in a tree, +one bird singing a few notes and another replying side by side. Two +goldfinches sat on the cross of a larch-fir and sang, looking +towards the west, where the light lingered. High up, the larch-fir +boughs with the top shoot form a cross; on this one goldfinch sat, +the other was immediately beneath. At even the birds often turn to +the west as they sing.</p> +<p>Next morning the August sun shone, and the wood was all a-hum +with insects. The wasps were working at the pine boughs high +overhead; the bees by dozens were crowding to the bramble flowers; +swarming on them, they seemed so delighted; humble-bees went +wandering among the ferns in the copse and in the +ditches—they sometimes alight on fern—and calling at +every purple heath-blossom, at the purple knapweeds, purple +thistles, and broad handfuls of yellow-weed flowers. Wasp-like +flies barred with yellow suspended themselves in the air between +the pine-trunks like hawks hovering, and suddenly shot themselves a +yard forward or to one side, as if the rapid vibration of their +wings while hovering had accumulated force which drove them as if +discharged from a cross-bow. The sun had set all things in +motion.</p> +<p>There was a hum under the oak by the hedge, a hum in the pine +wood, a humming among the heath and the dry grass which heat had +browned. The air was alive and merry with sound, so that the day +seemed quite different and twice as pleasant. Three blue +butterflies fluttered in one flowery corner, the warmth gave them +vigour; two had a silvery edging to their wings, one was brown and +blue. The nuts reddening at the tips appeared ripening like apples +in the sunshine. This corner is a favourite with wild bees and +butterflies; if the sun shines they are sure to be found there at +the heath-bloom and tall yellow-weed, and among the dry seeding +bennets or grass-stalks. All things, even butterflies, are local in +their habits. Far up on the hillside the blue green of the pines +beneath shone in the sun—a burnished colour; the high +hillside is covered with heath and heather. Where there are open +places a small species of gorse, scarcely six inches high, is in +bloom, the yellow blossom on the extremity of the stalk.</p> +<p>Some of these gorse plants seemed to have a different flower +growing at the side of the stem, instead of at the extremity. These +florets were cream-coloured, so that it looked like a new species +of gorse. On gathering it to examine the thick-set florets, if was +found that a slender runner or creeper had been torn up with it. +Like a thread the creeper had wound itself round and round the +furze, buried in and hidden by the prickles, and it was this +creeper that bore the white or cream-florets. It was tied round as +tightly as thread could be, so that the florets seemed to start +from the stem, deceiving the eye at first. In some places this +parasite plant had grown up the heath and strangled it, so that the +tips turned brown and died. The runners extended in every direction +across the ground, like those of strawberries. One creeper had +climbed up a bennet, or seeding grass-stalk, binding the stalk and +a blade of the grass together, and flowering there. On the ground +there were patches of grey lichen; many of the pillar-like stems +were crowned with a red top. Under a small boulder stone there was +an ants' nest. These boulders, or, as they are called locally, +"bowlers," were scattered about the heath. Many of the lesser +stones were spotted with dark dots of lichen, not unlike a +toad.</p> +<p>Thoughtlessly turning over a boulder about nine inches square, +lo! there was subject enough for thinking underneath it—a +subject that has been thought about many thousand years; for this +piece of rock had formed the roof of an ants' nest. The stone had +sunk three inches deep into the dry soil of sand and peaty mould, +and in the floor of the hole the ants had worked out their +excavations, which resembled an outline map. The largest excavation +was like England; at the top, or north, they had left a narrow +bridge, an eighth of an inch wide, under which to pass into +Scotland, and from Scotland again another narrow arch led to the +Orkney Islands; these last, however, were dug in the perpendicular +side of the hole. In the corners of these excavations tunnels ran +deeper into the ground, and the ants immediately began hurrying +their treasures, the eggs, down into these cellars. At one angle a +tunnel went beneath the heath into further excavations beneath a +second boulder stone. Without, a fern grew, and the dead dry stems +of heather crossed each other.</p> +<p>This discovery led to the turning over of another boulder stone +not far off, and under it there appeared a much more extensive and +complete series of galleries, bridges, cellars and tunnels. In +these the whole life-history of the ant was exposed at a single +glance, as if one had taken off the roofs of a city. One cell +contained a dust-like deposit, another a collection resembling the +dust, but now elongated and a little greenish; a third treasury, +much larger, was piled up with yellowish grains about the size of +wheat, each with a black dot on the top, and looking like minute +hop-pockets. Besides these, there was a pure white substance in a +corridor, which the irritated ants seemed particularly anxious to +remove out of sight, and quickly carried away. Among the ants +rushing about there were several with wings; one took flight; one +was seized by a wingless ant and dragged down into a cellar, as if +to prevent its taking wing. A helpless green fly was in the midst, +and round the outside galleries there crept a creature like a +spider, seeming to try to hide itself. If the nest had been formed +under glass, it could not have been more open to view. The stone +was carefully replaced.</p> +<p>Below the pine wood on the slope of the hill a plough was +already at work, the crop of peas having been harvested. The four +horses came up the slope, and at the ridge swept round in a fine +curve to go back and open a fresh furrow. As soon as they faced +down-hill they paused, well aware of what had to be done, and the +ploughman in a manner knocked his plough to pieces, putting it +together again the opposite way, that the earth he was about to cut +with the share might fall on what he had just turned. With a piece +of iron he hammered the edge of the share, to set it, for the hard +ground had bent the edge, and it did not cut properly. I said his +team looked light; they were not so heavily built as the +cart-horses used in many places. No, he said, they did not want +heavy horses. "Dese yer thick-boned hosses be more clutter-headed +over the clots," as he expressed it, <i>i.e.</i> more clumsy or +thick-headed over the clods. He preferred comparatively light +cart-horses to step well. In the heat of the sun the furze-pods +kept popping and bursting open; they are often as full of insects +as seeds, which come creeping out. A green and black +lady-bird—exactly like a tortoise—flew on to my hand. +Again on the heath, and the grasshoppers rose at every step, +sometimes three or four springing in as many directions. They were +winged, and as soon as they were up spread their vanes and floated +forwards. As the force of the original hop decreased, the wind took +their wings and turned them aside from the straight course before +they fell. Down the dusty road, inches deep in sand, comes a +sulphur butterfly, rushing as quick as if hastening to a +butterfly-fair. If only rare, how valued he would be! His colour is +so evident and visible; he fills the road, being brighter than all, +and for the moment is more than the trees and flowers.</p> +<p>Coming so suddenly over the hedge into the road close to me, he +startled me as if I had been awakened from a dream—I had been +thinking it was August, and woke to find it February—for the +sulphur butterfly is the February pleasure. Between the dark storms +and wintry rains there is a warm sunny interval of a week in +February. Away one goes for a walk, and presently there appears a +bright yellow spot among the furze, dancing along like a flower let +loose. It is a sulphur butterfly, who thus comes before the +earliest chiffchaff—before the watch begins for the first +swallow. I call it the February pleasure, as each month has its +delight. So associated as this butterfly is with early spring, to +see it again after months of leaf and flower—after June and +July—with the wheat in shock and the scent of harvest in the +land, is startling. The summer, then, is a dream! It is still +winter; but no, here are the trees in leaf, the nuts reddening, the +hum of bees, and dry summer dust on the high wiry grass. The +sulphur butterfly comes twice; there is a second brood; but there +are some facts that are always new and surprising, however well +known. I may say again, if only rare, how this butterfly would be +prized! Along the hedgerow there are several spiders' webs. In the +centre they are drawn inwards, forming a funnel, which goes back a +few inches into the hedge, and at the bottom of this the spider +waits. If you look down the funnel you see his claws at the bottom, +ready to run up and seize a fly.</p> +<p>Sitting in the garden after a walk, it is pleasant to watch the +eave-swallows feeding their young on the wing. The young bird +follows the old one; then they face each other and stay a moment in +the air, while the insect food is transferred from beak to beak; +with a loud note they part. There was a constant warfare between +the eave-swallows and the sparrows frequenting a house where I was +staying during the early part of the summer. The sparrows strove +their utmost to get possession of the nests the swallows built, and +there was no peace between them It is common enough for one or two +swallows' nests to be attacked in this way, but here every nest +along the eaves was fought for, and the sparrows succeeded in +conquering many of them. The driven-out swallows after a while +began to build again, and I noticed that more than a pair seemed to +work at the same nest. One nest was worked at by four swallows; +often all four came together and twittered at it.</p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="6">NATURE ON THE ROOF</a></h3> +<p>Increased activity on the housetop marks the approach of spring +and summer exactly as in the woods and hedges, for the roof has its +migrants, its semi-migrants, and its residents. When the first +dandelion is opening on a sheltered bank, and the pale-blue field +veronica flowers in the waste corner, the whistle of the starling +comes from his favourite ledge. Day by day it is heard more and +more, till, when the first green spray appears on the hawthorn, he +visits the roof continually. Besides the roof-tree and the +chimney-pot, he has his own special place, sometimes under an eave, +sometimes between two gables; and as I sit writing, I can see a +pair who have a ledge which slightly projects from the wall between +the eaves and the highest window. This was made by the builder for +an ornament; but my two starlings consider it their own particular +possession. They alight with a sort of half-scream half-whistle +just over the window, flap their wings, and whistle again, run +along the ledge to a spot where there is a gable, and with another +note, rise up and enter an aperture between the slates and the +wall. There their nest will be in a little time, and busy indeed +they will be when the young require to be fed, to and fro the +fields and the gable the whole day through; the busiest and the +most useful of birds, for they destroy thousands upon thousands of +insects, and if farmers were wise they would never have one shot, +no matter how the thatch was pulled about.</p> +<p>My pair of starlings were frequently at this ledge last autumn, +very late in autumn, and I suspect they had a winter brood there. +The starling does rear a brood sometimes in the midst of the +winter, contrary as that may seem to our general ideas of natural +history. They may be called roof-residents, as they visit it all +the year round; they nest in the roof, rearing two and sometimes +three broods; and use it as their club and place of meeting. +Towards July the young starlings and those that have for the time +at least finished nesting, flock together, and pass the day in the +fields, returning now and then to their old home. These flocks +gradually increase; the starling is so prolific that the flocks +become immense, till in the latter part of the autumn in southern +fields it is common to see a great elm-tree black with them, from +the highest bough downwards, and the noise of their chattering can +be heard a long distance. They roost in firs or in osier-beds. But +in the blackest days of winter, when frost binds the ground hard as +iron, the starlings return to the roof almost every day; they do +not whistle much, but have a peculiar chuckling whistle at the +instant of alighting. In very hard weather, especially snow, the +starlings find it difficult to obtain a living, and at such times +will come to the premises at the rear, and at farmhouses where +cattle are in the yards, search about among them for insects.</p> +<p>The whole history of the starling is interesting, but I must +here only mention it as a roof-bird. They are very handsome in +their full plumage, which gleams bronze and green among the darker +shades; quick in their motions, and full of spirit; loaded to the +muzzle with energy, and never still. I hope none of those who are +so good as to read what I have written will ever keep a starling in +a cage; the cruelty is extreme. As for shooting pigeons at a trap, +it is mercy in comparison.</p> +<p>Even before the starling whistles much, the sparrows begin to +chirp: in the dead of winter they are silent; but so soon as the +warmer winds blow, if only for a day, they begin to chirp. In +January this year I used to listen to the sparrows chirping, the +starlings whistling, and the chaffinches' "chink, chink" about +eight o'clock, or earlier, in the morning: the first two on the +roof; the latter, which is not a roof-bird, in some garden shrubs. +As the spring advances, the sparrows sing—it is a short song, +it is true, but still it is singing—perched at the edge of a +sunny wall. There is not a place about the house where they will +not build—under the eaves, on the roof, anywhere where there +is a projection or shelter, deep in the thatch, under the tiles, in +old eave-swallows' nest. The last place I noticed as a favourite +one in towns is on the half-bricks left projecting in perpendicular +rows at the sides of unfinished houses, Half a dozen nests may be +counted at the side of a house on these bricks; and like the +starlings, they rear several broods, and some are nesting late in +the autumn. By degrees as the summer advances they leave the houses +for the corn, and gather in vast flocks, rivalling those of the +starlings. At this time they desert the roofs, except those who +still have nesting duties. In winter and in the beginning of the +new year, they gradually return; migration thus goes on under the +eyes of those who care to notice it. In London, some who fed +sparrows on the roof found that rooks also came for the crumbs +placed out. I sometimes see a sparrow chasing a rook, as if angry, +and trying to drive it away over the roofs where I live, the thief +does not retaliate, but, like a thief, flees from the scene of his +guilt. This is not only in the breeding season, when the rook +steals eggs, but in winter. Town residents are apt to despise the +sparrow, seeing him always black; but in the country the sparrows +are as clean as a pink; and in themselves they are the most +animated, clever little creatures.</p> +<p>They are easily tamed. The Parisians are fond of taming them. At +a certain hour in the Tuilleries Gardens, you may see a man +perfectly surrounded with a crowd of sparrows—some perching +on his shoulder; some fluttering in the air immediately before his +face; some on the ground like a tribe of followers; and others on +the marble seats. He jerks a crumb of bread into the air—a +sparrow dexterously seizes it as he would a flying insect; he puts +a crumb between his lips—a sparrow takes it out and feeds +from his mouth. Meantime they keep up a constant chirping; those +that are satisfied still stay by and adjust their feathers. He +walks on, giving a little chirp with his mouth, and they follow him +along the path—a cloud about his shoulders, and the rest +flying from shrub to shrub, perching, and then following again. +They are all perfectly clean—a contrast to the London +Sparrow. I came across one of these sparrow-tamers by chance, and +was much amused at the scene, which, to any one not acquainted with +birds, appears marvellous; but it is really as simple as possible, +and you can repeat it for yourself if you have patience, for they +are so sharp they soon understand you. They seem to play at +nest-making before they really begin; taking up straws in their +beaks, and carrying them half-way to the roof, then letting the +straws float away; and the same with stray feathers, Neither of +these, starlings nor sparrows, seem to like the dark. Under the +roof, between it and the first ceiling, there is a large open +space; if the slates or tiles are kept in good order, very little +light enters, and this space is nearly dark in daylight. Even if +chinks admit a beam of light, it is not enough; they seldom enter +or fly about there, though quite accessible to them. But if the +roof is in bad order, and this space light, they enter freely. +Though nesting in holes, yet they like light. The swallows could +easily go in and make nests upon the beams, but they will not, +unless the place is well lit. They do not like darkness in the +daytime.</p> +<p>The swallows bring us the sunbeams on their wings from Africa to +fill the fields with flowers. From the time of the arrival of the +first swallow the flowers take heart; the few and scanty plants +that had braved the earlier cold are succeeded by a constantly +enlarging list, till the banks and lanes are full of them. The +chimney-swallow is usually the forerunner of the three +house-swallows; and perhaps no fact in natural history has been so +much studied as the migration of these tender birds. The commonest +things are always the most interesting. In summer there is no bird +so common everywhere as the swallow, and for that reason many +overlook it, though they rush to see a "white elephant." But the +deepest thinkers have spent hours and hours in considering the +problem of the swallow—its migrations, its flight, its +habits; great poets have loved it; great artists and art-writers +have curiously studied it. The idea that it is necessary to seek +the wilderness or the thickest woods for nature is a total mistake; +nature it, at home, on the roof, close to every one. Eave-swallows, +or house-martins (easily distinguished by the white bar across the +tail), build sometimes in the shelter of the porches of old +houses.</p> +<p>As you go in or out, the swallows visiting or leaving their +nests fly so closely as almost to brush the face. Swallow means +porch-bird, and for centuries and centuries their nests have been +placed in the closest proximity to man. They might be called man's +birds, so attached are they to the human race. I think the greatest +ornament a house can have is the nest of an eave-swallow under the +eaves—far superior to the most elaborate carving, colouring, +or arrangement the architect can devise. There is no ornament like +the swallow's nest; the home of a messenger between man and the +blue heavens, between us and the sunlight, and all the promise of +the sky. The joy of life, the highest and tenderest feelings, +thoughts that soar on the swallow's wings, come to the round nest +under the roof. Not only to-day, not only the hopes of future +years, but all the past dwells there. Year after year the +generations and descent of the swallow have been associated with +our homes, and all the events of successive lives have taken place +under their guardianship. The swallow is the genius of good to a +house. Let its nest, then, stay; to me it seems the extremity of +barbarism, or rather stupidity, to knock it down. I wish I could +induce them to build under the eaves of this house; I would if I +could discover some means of communicating with them.</p> +<p>It is a peculiarity of the swallow that you cannot make it +afraid of you; just the reverse of other birds. The swallow does +not understand being repulsed, but comes back again. Even knocking +the nest down will not drive it away, until the stupid process has +been repeated several years. The robin must be coaxed; the sparrow +is suspicious, and though easy to tame, quick to notice the least +alarming movement. The swallow will not be driven away. He has not +the slightest fear of man; he flies to his nest close to the +window, under the low eave, or on the beams in the out-houses, no +matter if you are looking on or not. Bold as the starlings are, +they will seldom do this. But in the swallow the instinct of +suspicion is reversed, an instinct of confidence occupies its +place. In addition to the eave-swallow, to which I have chiefly +alluded, and the chimney-swallow, there is the swift, also a +roof-bird, and making its nest in the slates of houses in the midst +of towns. These three are migrants in the fullest sense, and come +to our houses over thousands of miles of land and sea.</p> +<p>Robins frequently visit the roof for insects, especially when it +is thatched; so do wrens; and the latter, after they have peered +along, have a habit of perching at the extreme angle of a gable, or +the extreme edge of a corner, and uttering their song. Finches +occasionally fly up to the roofs of country-houses if shrubberies +are near, also in pursuit of insects; but they are not truly +roof-birds. Wagtails perch on roofs; they often have their nests in +the ivy, or creepers trained against walls; they are quite at +borne, and are frequently seen on the ridges of farmhouses. Tits of +several species, particularly the great titmouse and the blue tit, +come to thatch for insects, both in summer and winter. In some +districts where they are common, it is not unusual to see a +goatsucker or fern-owl hawk along close to the eaves in the dusk of +the evening for moths. The white owl is a roof-bird (though not +often of the house), building inside the roof, and sitting there +all day in some shaded corner. They do sometimes take up their +residence in the roofs of outhouses attached to dwellings, but not +often nowadays, though still residing in the roofs of old castles. +Jackdaws, again, are roof-birds, building in the roofs of towers. +Bats live in roofs, and hang there wrapped up in their membranous +wings till the evening calls them forth. They are residents in the +full sense, remaining all the year round, though principally seen +in the warmer months; but they are there in the colder, hidden +away, and if the temperature rises, will venture out and hawk to +and fro in the midst of the winter. Tame pigeons and doves hardly +come into this paper, but still it is their habit to use roofs as +tree-tops. Rats and mice creep through the crevices of roofs, and +in old country-houses hold a sort of nightly carnival, racing to +and fro under the roof. Weasels sometimes follow them indoors and +up to their roof strongholds.</p> +<p>When the first warm days of spring sunshine strike against the +southern side of the chimney, sparrows perch there and enjoy it; +and again in autumn, when the general warmth of the atmosphere is +declining, they still find a little pleasant heat there. They make +use of the radiation of heat, as the gardener does who trains his +fruit-trees to a wall. Before the autumn has thinned the leaves, +the swallows gather on the highest ridge of the roof in a row and +twitter to each other; they know the time is approaching when they +must depart for another climate. In winter, many birds seek the +thatched roofs to roost. Wrens, tits, and even blackbirds roost in +the holes left by sparrows or starlings.</p> +<p>Every crevice is the home of insects, or used by them for the +deposit of their eggs—under the tiles or slates, where mortar +has dropped out between the bricks, in the holes of thatch, and on +the straws. The number of insects that frequent a large roof must +be very great—all the robins, wrens, bats, and so on, can +scarcely affect them; nor the spiders, though these, too, are +numerous. Then there are the moths, and those creeping creatures +that work out of sight, boring their way through the rafters and +beams. Sometimes a sparrow may be seen clinging to the bare wall of +the house; tits do the same thing. It is surprising how they manage +to hold on. They are taking insects from the apertures of the +mortar. Where the slates slope to the south, the sunshine soon +heats them, and passing butterflies alight on the warm surface, and +spread out their wings, as if hovering over the heat. Flies are +attracted in crowds sometimes to heated slates and tiles, and wasps +will occasionally pause there. Wasps are addicted to haunting +houses, and, in the autumn, feed on the flies. Floating germs +carried by the air must necessarily lodge in numbers against roofs; +so do dust and invisible particles; and together, these make the +rain-water collected in water-butts after a storm turbid and dark; +and it soon becomes full of living organisms.</p> +<p>Lichen and moss grow on the mortar wherever it has become +slightly disintegrated; and if any mould, however minute, by any +means accumulates between the slates, there, too, they spring up, +and even on the slates themselves. Tiles are often coloured yellow +by such growths. On some old roofs, which have decayed, and upon +which detritus has accumulated, wallflowers may be found; and the +house-leek takes capricious root where it fancies. The stonecrop is +the finest of roof-plants, sometimes forming a broad patch of +brilliant yellow. Birds carry up seeds and grains, and these +germinate in moist thatch. Groundsel, for instance, and stray +stalks of wheat, thin and drooping for lack of soil, are sometimes +seen there, besides grasses. Ivy is familiar as a roof-creeper. +Some ferns and the pennywort will grow on the wall close to the +roof. A correspondent tells me that in Wales he found a cottage +perfectly roofed with fern—it grew so thickly as to conceal +the roof. Had a painter put this in a picture, many would have +exclaimed: "How fanciful! He must have made it up; it could never +have grown like that!" Not long after receiving my correspondent's +kind letter, I chanced to find a roof near London upon which the +same fern was growing in lines along the tiles. It grew +plentifully, but was not in so flourishing a condition as that +found in Wales. Painters are sometimes accused of calling upon +their imagination when they are really depicting fact, for the ways +of nature vary very much in different localities, and that which +may seem impossible in one place is common enough in another.</p> +<p>Where will not ferns grow? We saw one attached to the under-side +of a glass coal-hole cover; its green could be seen through the +thick glass on which people stepped daily.</p> +<p>Recently, much attention has been paid to the dust which is +found on roofs and ledges at great heights. This meteoric dust, as +it is called, consists of minute particles of iron, which are +thought to fall from the highest part of the atmosphere, or +possibly to be attracted to the earth from space. Lightning usually +strikes the roof. The whole subject of lightning-conductors has +been re-opened of late years, there being reason to think that +mistakes have been made in the manner of their erection. The reason +English roofs are high-pitched is not only because of the rain, +that it may shoot off quickly, but on account of snow. Once now and +then there comes a snow-year, and those who live in houses with +flat surfaces anywhere on the roof soon discover how inconvenient +they are. The snow is sure to find its way through, damaging +ceilings, and doing other mischief. Sometimes, in fine summer +weather, people remark how pleasant it would be if the roof were +flat, so that it could be used as a terrace, as it is in warmer +climates. But the fact is, the English roof, although now merely +copied and repeated without a thought of the reason of its shape, +grew up from experience of severe winters. Of old, great care and +ingenuity—what we should now call artistic skill—were +employed in contracting the roof. It was not only pleasant to the +eye with its gables, but the woodwork was wonderfully well done. +Such roofs may still be seen on ancient mansions, having endured +for centuries. They are splendid pieces of workmanship, and seen +from afar among foliage, are admired by every one who has the least +taste. Draughtsmen and painters value them highly. No matter +whether reproduced on a large canvas or in a little woodcut, their +proportions please. The roof is much neglected in modern houses; it +is either conventional, or it is full indeed of gables, but gables +that do not agree, as it were, with each other—that are +obviously put there on purpose to look artistic, and fail +altogether. Now, the ancient roofs were true works of art, +consistent, and yet each varied to its particular circumstances, +and each impressed with the individuality of the place and of the +designer. The finest old roofs were built of oak or chestnut; the +beams are black with age, and, in that condition, oak is scarcely +distinguishable from chestnut.</p> +<p>So the roof has its natural history, its science, and art; it +has its seasons, its migrants and residents, of whom a housetop +calendar might be made. The fine old roofs which have just been +mentioned are often associated with historic events and the rise of +families; and the roof-tree, like the hearth, has a range of +proverbs or sayings and ancient lore to itself. More than one great +monarch has been slain by a tile thrown from the housetop, and +numerous other incidents have occurred in connection with it. The +most interesting is the story of the Grecian mother who, with her +infant, was on the roof, when, in a moment of inattention, the +child crept to the edge, and was balanced on the very verge. To +call to it, to touch it, would have insured its destruction; but +the mother, without a second's thought, bared her breast, and the +child eagerly turning to it, was saved!</p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="7">ONE OF THE NEW VOTERS</a></h3> +<h4 align="center">I</h4> +<p>If any one were to get up about half-past five on an August +morning and look out of an eastern window in the country, he would +see the distant trees almost hidden by a white mist. The tops of +the larger groups of elms would appear above it, and by these the +line of the hedgerows could be traced. Tier after tier they stretch +along, rising by degrees on a gentle slope, the space between +filled with haze. Whether there were corn-fields or meadows under +this white cloud he could not tell—a cloud that might have +come down from the sky, leaving it a clear azure. This morning haze +means intense heat in the day. It is hot already, very hot, for the +sun is shining with all his strength, and if you wish the house to +be cool it is time to set the sunblinds.</p> +<p>Roger, the reaper, had slept all night in the cowhouse, lying on +the raised platform of narrow planks put up for cleanliness when +the cattle were there. He had set the wooden window wide open and +left the door ajar when he came stumbling in overnight, long after +the late swallows had settled in their nests in the beams, and the +bats had wearied of moth catching. One of the swallows twittered a +little, as much as to say to his mate, "my love, it is only a +reaper, we need not be afraid," and all was silence and darkness. +Roger did not so much as take off his boots, but flung himself on +the boards crash, curled himself up hedgehog fashion with some old +sacks, and immediately began to breathe heavily. He had no +difficulty in sleeping, first because his muscles had been tried to +the utmost, and next because his skin was full to the brim, not of +jolly "good ale and old" but of the very smallest and poorest of +wish-washy beer. In his own words, it "blowed him up till he very +nigh bust." Now the great authorities on dyspepsia, so eagerly +studied by the wealthy folk whose stomachs are deranged, tell us +that a very little flatulence will make the heart beat irregularly +and cause the most distressing symptoms.</p> +<p>Roger had swallowed at least a gallon of a liquid chemically +designed, one might say, on purpose to utterly upset the internal +economy. Harvest beer is probably the vilest drink in the world. +The men say it is made by pouring muddy water into empty casks +returned sour from use, and then brushing them round and round +inside with a besom. This liquid leaves a stickiness on the tongue +and a harsh feeling at the back of the mouth which soon turns to +thirst, so that having once drunk a pint the drinker must go on +drinking. The peculiar dryness caused by this beer is not like any +other throat drought—worse than dust, or heat, or thirst from +work; there is no satisfying it. With it there go down the germs of +fermentation, a sour, yeasty, and, as it were, secondary +fermentation; not that kind which is necessary to make beer, but +the kind that unmakes and spoils beer. It is beer rotting and +decomposing in the stomach. Violent diarrhoea often follows, and +then the exhaustion thus caused induces the men to drink more in +order to regain the strength necessary to do their work. The great +heat of the sun and the heat of hard labour, the strain and +perspiration, of course try the body and weaken the digestion. To +distend the stomach with half a gallon of this liquor, expressly +compounded to ferment, is about the most murderous thing a man +could do—murderous because it exposes him to the risk of +sunstroke. So vile a drink there is not elsewhere in the world; +arrack, and potato-spirit, and all the other killing extracts of +the distiller are not equal to it. Upon this abominable mess the +golden harvest of English fields is gathered in.</p> +<p>Some people have in consequence endeavoured to induce the +harvesters to accept a money payment in place of beer, and to a +certain extent successfully. Even then, however, they must drink +something. Many manage on weak tea after a fashion, but not so well +as the abstainers would have us think. Others have brewed for their +men a miserable stuff in buckets, an infusion of oatmeal, and got a +few to drink it; but English labourers will never drink +oatmeal-water unless they are paid to do it. If they are paid extra +beer-money and oatmeal water is made for them gratis, some will, of +course, imbibe it, especially if they see that thereby they may +obtain little favours from their employer by yielding to his fad. +By drinking the crotchet perhaps they may get a present now and +then-food for themselves, cast-off clothes for their families, and +so on. For it is a remarkable feature of human natural history, the +desire to proselytise. The spectacle of John Bull—jovial John +Bull—offering his men a bucket of oatmeal liquor is not a +pleasant one. Such a John Bull ought to be ashamed of himself.</p> +<p>The truth is the English farmer's man was and is, and will be, a +drinker of beer. Neither tea, nor oatmeal, nor vinegar and water +(coolly recommended by indoor folk) will do for him. His natural +constitution rebels against such "peevish" drink. In winter he +wants beer against the cold and the frosty rime and the heavy raw +mist that hangs about the hollows; in spring and autumn against the +rain, and in summer to support him under the pressure of additional +work and prolonged hours. Those who really wish well to the +labourer cannot do better than see that he really has beer to +drink—real beer, genuine brew of malt and hops, a moderate +quantity of which will supply force to his thews and sinews, and +will not intoxicate or injure. If by giving him a small money +payment in lieu of such large quantities you can induce him to be +content with a little, so much the better. If an employer followed +that plan, and at the same time once or twice a day sent out a +moderate supply of genuine beer as a gift to his men, he would do +them all the good in the world, and at the same time obtain for +himself their goodwill and hearty assistance, that hearty work +which is worth so much.</p> +<p>Roger breathed heavily in his sleep in the cowhouse, because the +vile stuff he had taken puffed him up and obstructed nature. The +tongue in his open mouth became parched and cracked, swollen and +dry; he slept indeed, but he did not rest; he groaned heavily at +times and rolled aside. Once he awoke choking—he could not +swallow, his tongue was so dry and large; he sat up, swore, and +again lay down. The rats in the sties had already discovered that a +man slept in the cowhouse, a place they rarely visited, as there +was nothing there to eat; how they found it out no one knows. They +are clever creatures, the despised rats. They came across in the +night and looked under his bed, supposing that he might have eaten +his bread-and-cheese for supper there, and that fragments might +have dropped between the boards. There were none. They mounted the +boards and sniffed round him; they would have stolen the food from +his very pocket if it had been there. Nor could they find a bundle +in a handkerchief, which they would have gnawn through speedily. +Not a scrap of food was there to be smelt at, so they left him. +Roger had indeed gone supperless, as usual; his supper he had +swilled and not eaten. His own fault; he should have exercised +self-control. Well, I don't know; let us consider further before we +judge.</p> +<p>In houses the difficulty often is to get the servants up in the +morning; one cannot wake, and the rest sleep too sound—much +the same thing; yet they have clocks and alarums. The reapers are +never behind. Roger got off his planks, shook himself, went outside +the shed, and tightened his shoelaces in the bright light. His +rough hair he just pushed back from his forehead, and that was his +toilet. His dry throat sent him to the pump, but he did not swallow +much of the water—he washed his mouth out, and that was +enough; and so without breakfast he went to his work. Looking down +from the stile on the high ground there seemed to be a white cloud +resting on the valley, through which the tops of the high trees +penetrated; the hedgerows beneath were concealed, and their course +could only be traced by the upper branches of the elms. Under this +cloud the wheat-fields were blotted out; there seemed neither corn +nor grass, work for man nor food for animal; there could be nothing +doing there surely. In the stillness of the August morning, without +song of bird, the sun, shining brilliantly high above the mist, +seemed to be the only living thing, to possess the whole and reign +above absolute peace. It is a curious sight to see the early +harvest morn—all hushed under the burning sun, a morn that +you know is full of life and meaning, yet quiet as if man's foot +had never trodden the land. Only the sun is there, rolling on his +endless way.</p> +<p>Roger's head was bound with brass, but had it not been he would +not have observed anything in the aspect of the earth. Had a brazen +band been drawn firmly round his forehead it could not have felt +more stupefied. His eyes blinked in the sunlight; every now and +then he stopped to save himself from staggering; he was not in a +condition to think. It would have mattered not at all if his head +had been clear; earth, sky, and sun were nothing to him; he knew +the footpath, and saw that the day would be fine and hot, and that +was sufficient for him, because his eyes had never been opened.</p> +<p>The reaper had risen early to his labour, but the birds had +preceded him hours. Before the sun was up the swallows had left +their beams in the cowshed and twittered out into the air. The +rooks and wood-pigeons and doves had gone to the corn, the +blackbird to the stream, the finch to the hedgerow, the bees to the +heath on the hills, the humble-bees to the clover in the plain. +Butterflies rose from the flowers by the footpath, and fluttered +before him to and fro and round and back again to the place whence +they had been driven. Goldfinches tasting the first thistledown +rose from the corner where the thistles grew thickly. A hundred +sparrows came rushing up into the hedge, suddenly filling the +boughs with brown fruit; they chirped and quarrelled in their talk, +and rushed away again back to the corn as he stepped nearer. The +boughs were stripped of their winged brown berries as quickly as +they had grown. Starlings ran before the cows feeding in the +aftermath, so close to their mouths as to seem in danger of being +licked up by their broad tongues. All creatures, from the tiniest +insect upward, were in reality busy under that curtain of +white-heat haze. It looked so still, so quiet, from afar; entering +it and passing among the fields, all that lived was found busy at +its long day's work. Roger did not interest himself in these +things, in the wasps that left the gate as he approached—they +were making <i>papier-maché</i> from the wood of the top +bar,—in the bright poppies brushing against his drab +unpolished boots, in the hue of the wheat or the white convolvulus; +they were nothing to him.</p> +<p>Why should they be? His life was work without skill or thought, +the work of the horse, of the crane that lifts stones and timber. +His food was rough, his drink rougher, his lodging dry planks. His +books were—none; his picture-gallery a coloured print at the +alehouse—a dog, dead, by a barrel, "Trust is dead! Bad Pay +killed him." Of thought he thought nothing; of hope his idea was a +shilling a week more wages; of any future for himself of comfort +such as even a good cottage can give—of any future +whatever—he had no more conception than the horse in the +shafts of the waggon. A human animal simply in all this, yet if you +reckoned upon him as simply an animal—as has been done these +centuries—you would now be mistaken. But why should he note +the colour of the butterfly, the bright light of the sun, the hue +of the wheat? This loveliness gave him no cheese for breakfast; of +beauty in itself, for itself, he had no idea. How should he? To +many of us the harvest—the summer—is a time of joy in +light and colour; to him it was a time for adding yet another crust +of hardness to the thick skin of his hands.</p> +<p>Though the haze looked like a mist it was perfectly dry; the +wheat was as dry as noon; not a speck of dew, and pimpernels wide +open for a burning day. The reaping-machine began to rattle as he +came up, and work was ready for him. At breakfast-time his fellows +lent him a quarter of a loaf, some young onions, and a drink from +their tea. He ate little, and the tea slipped from his hot tongue +like water from the bars of a grate; his tongue was like the heated +iron the housemaid tries before using it on the linen. As the +reaping-machine went about the gradually decreasing square of corn, +narrowing it by a broad band each time, the wheat fell flat on the +short stubble. Roger stooped, and, gathering sufficient together, +took a few straws, knotted them to another handful as you might tie +two pieces of string, and twisted the band round the sheaf. He +worked stooping to gather the wheat, bending to tie it in sheaves; +stooping, bending—stooping, bending,—and so across the +field. Upon his head and back the fiery sun poured down the +ceaseless and increasing heat of the August day. His face grew red, +his neck black; the drought of the dry ground rose up and entered +his mouth and nostrils, a warm air seemed to rise from the earth +and fill his chest. His body ached from the ferment of the vile +beer, his back ached with stooping, his forehead was bound tight +with a brazen band. They brought some beer at last; it was like the +spring in the desert to him. The vicious liquor—"a hair of +the dog that bit him"—sank down his throat grateful and +refreshing to his disordered palate as if he had drunk the very +shadow of green boughs. Good ale would have seemed nauseous to him +at that moment, his taste and stomach destroyed by so many gallons +of this. He was "pulled together," and worked easier; the slow +hours went on, and it was luncheon. He could have borrowed more +food, but he was content instead with a screw of tobacco for his +pipe and his allowance of beer.</p> +<p>They sat in the corner of the field. There were no trees for +shade; they had been cut down as injurious to corn, but there were +a few maple bushes and thin ash sprays, which seemed better than +the open. The bushes cast no shade at all, the sun being so nearly +overhead, but they formed a kind of enclosure, an open-air home, +for men seldom sit down if they can help it on the bare and level +plain; they go to the bushes, to the corner, or even to some +hollow. It is not really any advantage; it is habit; or shall we +not rather say that it is nature? Brought back as it were in the +open field to the primitive conditions of life, they resumed the +same instincts that controlled man in the ages past. Ancient man +sought the shelter of trees and banks, of caves and hollows, and so +the labourers under somewhat the same conditions came to the corner +where the bushes grew. There they left their coats and slung up +their luncheon-bundles to the branches; there the children played +and took charge of the infants; there the women had their hearth +and hung their kettle over a fire of sticks.</p> +<h4 align="center">II</h4> +In August the unclouded sun, when there is no wind, shines as +fervently in the harvest-field as in Spain. It is doubtful if the +Spanish people feel the heat so much as our reapers; they have +their siesta; their habits have become attuned to the sun, and it +is no special strain upon them. In India our troops are carefully +looked after in the hot weather, and everything made as easy for +them as possible; without care and special clothing and coverings +for the head they could not long endure. The English simoon of heat +drops suddenly on the heads of the harvesters and finds them +entirely unprepared; they have not so much as a cooling drink +ready; they face it, as it were, unarmed. The sun spares not; It is +fire from morn till night. Afar in the town the sun-blinds are up, +there is a tent on the lawn in the shade, people drink claret-cup +and use ice; ice has never been seen in the harvest-field. Indoors +they say they are melting lying on a sofa in a darkened room, made +dusky to keep out the heat. The fire falls straight from the sky on +the heads of the harvesters—men, women, and +children—and the white-hot light beats up again from the dry +straw and the hard ground. <br> +<br> + +<p>The tender flowers endure; the wide petal of the poppy, which +withers between the fingers, lies afloat on the air as the lilies +on water, afloat and open to the weight of the heat. The red +pimpernel looks straight up at the sky from the early morning till +its hour of closing in the afternoon. Pale blue speedwell does not +fade; the pale blue stands the warmth equally with the scarlet. Far +in the thick wheat the streaked convolvulus winds up the stalks, +and is not smothered for want of air though wrapped and circled +with corn. Beautiful though they are, they are bloodless, not +sensitive; we have given to them our feelings, they do not share +our pain or pleasure. Heat has gone into the hollow stalks of the +wheat and down the yellow tubes to the roots, drying them in the +earth. Heat has dried the leaves upon the hedge, and they touch +rough—dusty rough, as books touch that have been lying +unused; the plants on the bank are drying up and turning white. +Heat has gone down into the cracks of the ground; the bar of the +stile is so dry and powdery in the crevices that if a reaper +chanced to drop a match on it there would seem risk of fire. The +still atmosphere is laden with heat, and does not move in the +corner of the field between the bushes.</p> +<p>Roger the reaper smoked out his tobacco; the children played +round and watched for scraps of food; the women complained of the +heat; the men said nothing. It is seldom that a labourer grumbles +much at the weather, except as interfering with his work. Let the +heat increase, so it would only keep fine. The fire in the sky +meant money. Work went on again; Roger had now to go to another +field to pitch—that is, help to load the waggon; as a young +man, that was one of the jobs allotted to him. This was the +reverse. Instead of stooping he had now to strain himself upright +and lift sheaves over his head. His stomach empty of everything but +small ale did not like this any more than his back had liked the +other; but those who work for bare food must not question their +employment. Heavily the day drove on; there was more beer, and +again more beer, because it was desired to clear some fields that +evening. Monotonously pitching the sheaves, Roger laboured by the +waggon till the last had been loaded—till the moon was +shining. His brazen forehead was unbound now; in spite of the beer +the work and the perspiration had driven off the aching. He was +weary but well. Nor had he been dull during the day; he had talked +and joked—cumbrously in labourers' fashion—with his +fellows. His aches, his empty stomach, his labour, and the heat had +not overcome the vitality of his spirits. There was life enough +left for a little rough play as the group gathered together and +passed out through the gateway. Life enough left in him to go with +the rest to the alehouse; and what else, oh moralist, would you +have done in his place? This, remember, is not a fancy sketch of +rural poetry; this is the reaper's real existence.</p> +<p>He had been in the harvest-field fourteen hours, exposed to the +intense heat, not even shielded by a pith helmet; he had worked the +day through with thew and sinew; he had had for food a little dry +bread and a few onions, for drink a little weak tea and a great +deal of small beer. The moon was now shining in the sky, still +bright with sunset colours. Fourteen hours of sun and labour and +hard fare! Now tell him what to do. To go straight to his plank-bed +in the cowhouse; to eat a little more dry bread, borrow some cheese +or greasy bacon, munch it alone, and sit musing till sleep +came—he who had nothing to muse about. I think it would need +a very clever man indeed to invent something for him to do, some +way for him to spend his evening. Read! To recommend a man to read +after fourteen hours' burning sun is indeed a mockery; darn his +stockings would be better. There really is nothing whatsoever that +the cleverest and most benevolent person could suggest. Before any +benevolent or well-meaning suggestions could be effective the +preceding circumstances must be changed—the hours and +conditions of labour, everything; and can that be done? The world +has been working these thousands of years, and still it is the +same; with our engines, our electric light, our printing press, +still the coarse labour of the mine, the quarry, the field has to +be carried out by human hands. While that is so, it is useless to +recommend the weary reaper to read. For a man is not a horse: the +horse's day's work is over; taken to his stable he is content, his +mind goes no deeper than the bottom of his manger, and so long as +his nose does not feel the wood, so long as it is met by corn and +hay, he will endure happily. But Roger the reaper is not a +horse.</p> +<p>Just as his body needed food and drink, so did his mind require +recreation, and that chiefly consists of conversation. The drinking +and the smoking are in truth but the attributes of the labourer's +public-house evening. It is conversation that draws him thither, +just as it draws men with money in their pockets to the club and +the houses of their friends. Any one can drink or smoke alone; it +needs several for conversation, for company. You pass a +public-house—the reaper's house—in the summer evening. +You see a number of men grouped about trestle-tables out of doors, +and others sitting at the open window; there is an odour of +tobacco, a chink of glasses and mugs. You can smell the tobacco and +see the ale; you cannot see the indefinite power which holds men +there—the magnetism of company and conversation. <i>Their</i> +conversation, not <i>your</i> conversation; not the last book, the +last play; not saloon conversation; but theirs—talk in which +neither you nor any one of your condition could really join. To us +there would seem nothing at all in that conversation, vapid and +subjectless; to them it means much. We have not been through the +same circumstances: our day has been differently spent, and the +same words have therefore a varying value. Certain it is, that it +is conversation that takes men to the public-house. Had Roger been +a horse he would have hastened to borrow some food, and, having +eaten that, would have cast himself at once upon his rude bed. Not +being an animal, though his life and work were animal, he went with +his friends to talk. Let none unjustly condemn him as a blackguard +for that—no, not even though they had seen him at ten o'clock +unsteadily walking to his shed, and guiding himself occasionally +with his hands to save himself from stumbling. He blundered against +the door, and the noise set the swallows on the beams twittering. +He reached his bedstead, and sat down and tried to unlace his +boots, but could not. He threw himself upon the sacks and fell +asleep. Such was one twenty-four hours of harvest-time.</p> +<p>The next and the next, for weeks, were almost exactly similar; +now a little less beer, now a little more; now tying up, now +pitching, now cutting a small field or corner with a fagging-hook. +Once now and then there was a great supper at the farm. Once he +fell out with another fellow, and they had a fight; Roger, however, +had had so much ale, and his opponent so much whisky, that their +blows were soft and helpless. They both fell—that is, they +stumbled,—they were picked up, there was some more beer, and +it was settled. One afternoon Roger became suddenly giddy, and was +so ill that he did no more work that day, and very little on the +following. It was something like a sunstroke, but fortunately a +slight attack; on the third day he resumed his place. Continued +labour in the sun, little food and much drink, stomach derangement, +in short, accounted for his illness. Though he resumed his place +and worked on, he was not so well afterwards; the work was more of +an effort to him, and his face lost its fulness, and became drawn +and pointed. Still he laboured, and would not miss an hour, for +harvest was coming to an end, and the extra wages would soon cease. +For the first week or so of haymaking or reaping the men usually +get drunk, delighted with the prospect before them, they then +settle down fairly well. Towards the end they struggle hard to +recover lost time and the money spent in ale.</p> +<p>As the last week approached, Roger went up into the village and +ordered the shoemaker to make him a good pair of boots. He paid +partly for them then, and the rest next pay-day. This was a +tremendous effort. The labourer usually pays a shilling at a time, +but Roger mistrusted himself. Harvest was practically over, and +after all the labour and the long hours, the exposure to the sun +and the rude lodging, he found he should scarcely have thirty +shillings. With the utmost ordinary care he could have saved a good +lump of money. He was a single man, and his actual keep cost but +little. Many married labourers, who had been forced by hard +necessity to economy, contrived to put by enough to buy clothes for +their families. The single man, with every advantage, hardly had +thirty shillings, and even then it showed extraordinary prudence on +his part to go and purchase a pair of boots for the winter. Very +few in his place would have been as thoughtful as that; they would +have got boots somehow in the end, but not beforehand. This life of +animal labour does not grow the spirit of economy. Not only in +farming, but in navvy work, in the rougher work of factories and +mines, the same fact is evident. The man who labours with thew and +sinew at horse labour—crane labour—not for himself, but +for others, is not the man who saves. If he worked for his own hand +possibly he might, no matter how rough his labour and fare; not +while working for another. Roger reached his distant home among the +meadows at last, with one golden half-sovereign in his pocket. That +and his new pair of boots, not yet finished, represented the golden +harvest to him. He lodged with his parents when at home; he was so +far fortunate that he had a bed to go to; therefore in the +estimation of his class he was not badly off. But if we consider +his position as regards his own life we must recognise that he was +very badly off indeed, so much precious time and the strength of +his youth having been wasted.</p> +<p>Often it is stated that the harvest wages recoup the labourer +for the low weekly receipts of the year, and if the money be put +down in figures with pen and ink it is so. But in actual fact the +pen-and-ink figures do not represent the true case; these extra +figures have been paid for, and gold may be bought too dear. Roger +had paid heavily for his half-sovereign and his boots; his pinched +face did not look as if he had benefited greatly. His cautious old +father, rendered frugal by forty years of labour, had done fairly +well; the young man not at all. The old man, having a cottage, in a +measure worked for his own hand. The young man, with none but +himself to think of, scattered his money to the winds. Is money +earned with such expenditure of force worth the having? Look at the +arm of a woman labouring in the harvest-field—thin, muscular, +sinewy, black almost, it tells of continual strain. After much of +this she becomes pulled out of shape, the neck loses its roundness +and shows the sinews, the chest flattens. In time the women find +the strain of it tell severely. I am not trying to make out a case +of special hardship, being aware that both men, women, and children +work as hard and perhaps suffer more in cities; I am simply +describing the realities of rural life behind the scenes. The +golden harvest is the first scene: the golden wheat, glorious under +the summer sun. Bright poppies flower in its depths, and +convolvulus climbs the stalks. Butterflies float slowly over the +yellow surface as they might over a lake of colour. To linger by +it, to visit it day by day, at even to watch the sunset by it, and +see it pale under the changing light, is a delight to the +thoughtful mind. There is so much in the wheat, there are books of +meditation in it, it is dear to the heart. Behind these beautiful +aspects comes the reality of human labour—hours upon hours of +heat and strain; there comes the reality of a rude life, and in the +end little enough of gain. The wheat is beautiful, but human life +is labour.</p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="8">THE MODERN THAMES</a></h3> + +<h4 align="center">I</h4> +<p>The wild red deer can never again come down to drink at the +Thames in the dusk of the evening as once they did. While modern +civilisation endures, the larger fauna must necessarily be confined +to parks or restrained to well-marked districts; but for that very +reason the lesser creatures of the wood, the field, and the river +should receive the more protection. If this applies to the secluded +country, far from the stir of cities, still more does it apply to +the neighbourhood of London. From a sportsman's point of view, or +from that of a naturalist, the state of the river is one of chaos. +There is no order. The Thames appears free even from the usual +rules which are in force upon every highway. A man may not fire a +gun within a certain distance of a road under a penalty—a law +enacted for the safety of passengers, who were formerly endangered +by persons shooting small birds along the hedges bordering roads. +Nor may he shoot at all, not so much as fire off a pistol (as +recently publicly proclaimed by the Metropolitan police to restrain +the use of revolvers), without a licence. But on the river people +do as they choose, and there does not seem to be any law at +all—or at least there is no authority to enforce it, if it +exists. Shooting from boats and from the towing-path is carried on +in utter defiance of the licensing law, of the game law (as +applicable to wild fowl), and of the safety of persons who may be +passing. The moorhens are shot, the kingfishers have been nearly +exterminated or driven away from some parts, the once common +black-headed bunting is comparatively scarce in the more frequented +reaches, and if there is nothing else to shoot at, then the +swallows are slaughtered. Some have even taken to shooting at the +rooks in the trees or fields by the river with small-bore +rifles—a most dangerous thing to do. The result is that the +osier-beds on the eyots and by the backwaters—the copses of +the river—are almost devoid of life. A few moorhens creep +under the aquatic grasses and conceal themselves beneath the +bushes, water-voles hide among the flags, but the once extensive +host of waterfowl and river life has been reduced to the smallest +limits. Water-fowl cannot breed because they are shot on the nest, +or their eggs taken. As for rarer birds, of course they have not +the slightest chance. The fish have fared better because they have +received the benefit of close seasons, enforced with more or less +vigilance all along the river. They are also protected by +regulations making it illegal to capture them except in a +sportsmanlike manner; snatching, for instance, is unlawful. +Riverside proprietors preserve some reaches, piscatorial societies +preserve others, and the complaint indeed is that the rights of the +public have been encroached upon. The too exclusive preservation of +fish is in a measure responsible for the destruction of water-fowl, +which are cleared off preserved places in order that they may not +help themselves to fry or spawn. On the other hand, the societies +may claim to have saved parts of the river from being entirely +deprived of fish, for it is not long since it appeared as if the +stream would be quite cleared out. Large quantities of fish have +also been placed in the river taken from ponds and bodily +transported to the Thames. So that upon the whole the fish have +been well looked after of recent years.</p> +<p>The more striking of the aquatic plants—such as white +water-lilies—have been much diminished in quantity by the +constant plucking, and injury is said to have been done by careless +navigation. In things of this kind a few persons can do a great +deal of damage. Two or three men with guns, and indifferent to the +interests of sport or natural history, at work every day, can clear +a long stretch of river of waterfowl, by scaring if not by actually +killing them. Imagine three or four such gentry allowed to wander +at will in a large game preserve—in a week they would totally +destroy it as a preserve. The river, after all, is but a narrow +band as it were, and is easily commanded by a gun. So, too, with +fish poachers; a very few men with nets can quickly empty a good +piece of water: and flowers like water-lilies, which grow only in +certain spots, are soon pulled or spoiled. This aspect of the +matter—the immense mischief which can be effected by a very +few persons—should be carefully borne in mind in framing any +regulations. For the mischief done on the river is really the work +of a small number, a mere fraction of the thousands of all classes +who frequent it. Not one in a thousand probably perpetrates any +intentional damage to fish, fowl, or flowers.</p> +<p>As the river above all things is, and ought to be, a place of +recreation, care must be particularly taken that in restraining +these practices the enjoyment of the many be not interfered with. +The rational pleasure of 999 people ought not to be checked because +the last of the thousand acts as a blackguard. This point, too, +bears upon the question of steam-launches. A launch can pass as +softly and quietly as a skiff floating with the stream. And there +is a good deal to be said on the other side, for the puntsmen stick +themselves very often in the way of every one else; and if you +analyse fishing for minnows from a punt you will not find it a +noble sport. A river like the Thames, belonging as it does—or +as it ought—to a city like London, should be managed from the +very broadest standpoint. There should be pleasure for all, and +there certainly is no real difficulty in arranging matters to that +end. The Thames should be like a great aquarium, in which a certain +balance of life has to be kept up. When aquaria first came into +favour such things as snails and weeds were excluded as eyesores +and injurious. But it was soon discovered that the despised snails +and weeds were absolutely necessary; an aquarium could not be +maintained in health without them, and now the most perfect +aquarium is the one in which the natural state is most completely +copied. On the same principle it is evident that too exclusive +preservation must be injurious to the true interests of the river. +Fish enthusiasts, for instance, desire the extinction of +water-fowl—there is not a single aquatic bird which they do +not accuse of damage to fry, spawn, or full-grown fish; no, not +one, from the heron down to the tiny grebe. They are nearly as +bitter against animals, the poor water-vole (or water-rat) even is +denounced and shot. Any one who chooses may watch the water-rat +feeding on aquatic vegetation; never mind, shoot him because he's +there. There is no other reason. Bitterest, harshest, most +envenomed of all is the outcry and hunt directed against the otter. +It is as if the otter were a wolf—as if he were as injurious +as the mighty boar whom Meleager and his companions chased in the +days of dim antiquity. What, then, has the otter done? Has he +ravaged the fields? does he threaten the homesteads? is he at +Temple Bar? are we to run, as the old song says, from the Dragon? +The fact is, the ravages attributed to the otter are of a local +character. They are chiefly committed in those places where fish +are more or less confined. If you keep sheep close together in a +pen the wolf who leaps the hurdles can kill the flock if he +chooses. In narrow waters, and where fish are maintained in +quantities out of proportion to extent, an otter can work doleful +woe. That is to say, those who want too many fish are those who +give the otter his opportunity.</p> +<p>In a great river like the Thames a few otters cannot do much or +lasting injury except in particular places. The truth is, that the +otter is an ornament to the river, and more worthy of preservation +than any other creature. He is the last and largest of the wild +creatures who once roamed so freely in the forests which enclosed +Londinium, that fort in the woods and marshes—marshes which +to this day, though drained and built over, enwrap the +nineteenth-century city in thick mists. The red deer are gone, the +boar is gone, the wolf necessarily destroyed—the red deer can +never again drink at the Thames in the dusk of the evening while +our civilisation endures. The otter alone remains—the +wildest, the most thoroughly self-supporting of all living things +left—a living link going back to the days of Cassivelaunus. +London ought to take the greatest interest in the otters of its +river. The shameless way in which every otter that dares to show +itself is shot, trapped, beaten to death, and literally battered +out of existence, should rouse the indignation of every sportsman +and every lover of nature. The late Rev. John Russell, who, it will +be admitted, was a true sportsman, walked three thousand miles to +see an otter. That was a different spirit, was it not?</p> +<p>That is the spirit in which the otter in the Thames should be +regarded. Those who offer money rewards for killing Thames otters +ought to be looked on as those who would offer rewards for +poisoning foxes in Leicestershire, I suppose we shall not see the +ospreys again; but I should like to. Again, on the other side of +the boundary, in the tidal waters, the same sort of ravenous +destruction is carried on against everything that ventures up. A +short time ago a porpoise came up to Mortlake; now, just think, a +porpoise up from the great sea—that sea to which Londoners +rush with such joy—past Gravesend, past Greenwich, past the +Tower, under London Bridge, past Westminster and the Houses of +Parliament, right up to Mortlake. It is really a wonderful thing +that a denizen of the sea, so large and interesting as a porpoise, +should come right through the vast City of London. In an aquarium, +people would go to see it and admire it, and take their children to +see it. What happened? Some one hastened out in a boat, armed with +a gun or a rifle, and occupied himself with shooting at it. He did +not succeed in killing it, but it was wounded. Some difference here +to the spirit of John Russell. If I may be permitted to express an +opinion, I think that there is not a single creature, from the +sand-marten and the black-headed bunting to the broad-winged heron, +from the water-vole to the otter, from the minnow on one side of +the tidal boundary to the porpoise on the other—big and +little, beasts and birds (of prey or not)—that should not be +encouraged and protected on this beautiful river, morally the +property of the greatest city in the world.</p> +<h4 align="center">II</h4> +<p>I looked forward to living by the river with delight, +anticipating the long rows I should have past the green eyots and +the old houses red-tiled among the trees. I should pause below the +weir and listen to the pleasant roar, and watch the fisherman cast +again and again with the "transcendent patience" of genius by which +alone the Thames trout is captured. Twisting the end of a willow +bough round my wrist I could moor myself and rest at ease, though +the current roared under the skiff, fresh from the waterfall. A +thousand thousand bubbles rising to the surface would whiten the +stream—a thousand thousand succeeded by another thousand +thousand—and still flowing, no multiple could express the +endless number. That which flows continually by some sympathy is +acceptable to the mind, as if thereby it realised its own existence +without an end. Swallows would skim the water to and fro as yachts +tack, the sandpiper would run along the strand, a black-headed +bunting would perch upon the willow; perhaps, as the man of genius +fishing and myself made no noise, a kingfisher might come, and we +might see him take his prey.</p> +<p>Or I might quit hold of the osier, and, entering a shallow +backwater, disturb shoals of roach playing where the water was +transparent to the bottom, after their wont. Winding in and out +like an Indian in his canoe, perhaps traces of an otter might be +found—his kitchen mödding—and in the sedges +moorhens and wildfowl would hide from me. From its banks I should +gather many a flower and notice many a plant, there would be, too, +the beautiful water-lily. Or I should row on up the great stream by +meadows full of golden buttercups, past fields crimson with +trifolium or green with young wheat. Handsome sailing craft would +come down spanking before the breeze, laden with bright +girls—laughter on board, and love the golden fleece of their +argosy.</p> +<p>I should converse with the ancient men of the ferries, and +listen to their river lore; they would show me the mark to which +the stream rose in the famous year of floods. On again to the cool +hostelry whose sign was reflected in the water, where there would +be a draught of fine ale for the heated and thirsty sculler. On +again till steeple or tower rising over the trees marked my +journey's end for the day, some old town where, after rest and +refreshment, there would be a ruin or a timbered house to look at, +where I should meet folk full of former days and quaint tales of +yore. Thus to journey on from place to place would be the great +charm of the river—travelling by water, not merely sculling +to and fro, but really travelling. Upon a lake I could but row +across and back again, and however lovely the scenery might be, +still it would always be the same. But the Thames, upon the river I +could really travel, day after day, from Teddington Lock upwards to +Windsor, to Oxford, on to quiet Lechlade, or even farther deep into +the meadows by Cricklade. Every hour there would be something +interesting, all the freshwater life to study, the very barges +would amuse me, and at last there would be the delicious ease of +floating home carried by the stream, repassing all that had pleased +before.</p> +<p>The time came. I lived by the river, not far from its widest +reaches, before the stream meets its tide. I went to the eyot for a +boat, and my difficulties began. The crowd of boats lashed to each +other in strings ready for the hirer disconcerted me. There were so +many I could not choose; the whole together looked like a broad +raft. Others were hauled on the shore. Over on the eyot, a little +island, there were more boats, boats launched, boats being +launched, boats being carried by gentlemen in coloured flannels as +carefully as mothers handle their youngest infants, boats covered +in canvas mummy-cases, and dim boats under roofs, their sharp prows +projecting like crocodiles' snouts. Tricksy outriggers, ready to +upset on narrow keel, were held firmly for the sculler to step +daintily into his place. A strong eight shot by up the stream, the +men all pulling together as if they had been one animal. A strong +sculler shot by down the stream, his giant arms bare and the +muscles visible as they rose, knotting and unknotting with the +stroke. Every one on the bank and eyot stopped to watch +him—they knew him, he was training. How could an amateur +venture out and make an exhibition of himself after such splendid +rowing! Still it was noticeable that plenty of amateurs did venture +out, till the waterway was almost concealed—boated over +instead of bridged—and how they managed to escape locking +their oars together, I could not understand.</p> +<p>I looked again at the boats. Some were outriggers. I could not +get into an outrigger after seeing the great sculler. The rest were +one and all after the same pattern, <i>i.e.</i> with the stern +cushioned and prepared for a lady. Some were larger, and could +carry three or four ladies, but they were all intended for the same +purpose. If the sculler went out in such a boat by himself he must +either sit too forward and so depress the stem and dig himself, as +it were, into the water at each stroke, or he must sit too much to +the rear and depress the stern, and row with the stem lifted up, +sniffing the air. The whole crowd of boats on hire were exactly the +same; in short, they were built for woman and not for man, for +lovely woman to recline, parasol in one hand and tiller ropes in +the other, while man—inferior man—pulled and pulled and +pulled as an ox yoked to the plough. They could only be balanced by +man and woman, that was the only way they could be trimmed on an +even keel; they were like scales, in which the weight on one side +must be counterpoised by a weight in the other. They were dead +against bachelors. They belonged to woman, and she was absolute +mistress of the river.</p> +<p>As I looked, the boats ground together a little, chafing, +laughing at me, making game of me, asking distinctly what business +a man had there without at least one companion in petticoats? My +courage ebbed, and it was in a feeble voice that I inquired whether +there was no such thing as a little skiff a fellow might paddle +about in? No, nothing of the kind; would a canoe do? Somehow a +canoe would not do. I never took kindly to canoes, excepting always +the Canadian birch-bark pattern; evidently there was no boat for +me. There was no place on the great river for an indolent, dreamy +particle like myself, apt to drift up into nooks, and to spend much +time absorbing those pleasures which enter by the exquisite +sensitiveness of the eye—colour, and shade, and form, and the +cadence of glittering ripple and moving leaf. You must be prepared +to pull and push, and struggle for your existence on the river, as +in the vast city hard by men push and crush for money. You must +assert yourself, and insist upon having your share of the waterway; +you must be perfectly convinced that yours is the very best style +of rowing to be seen; every one ought to get out of your way. You +must consult your own convenience only, and drive right into other +people's boats, forcing them up into the willows, or against the +islands. Never slip along the shore, or into quiet backwaters; +always select the more frequented parts, not because you want to go +there, but to make your presence known, and go amongst the crowd; +and if a few sculls get broken, it only proves how very inferior +and how very clumsy other people are. If you see another boat +coming down stream, in the centre of the river with a broad space +on either side for others to pass, at once head your own boat +straight at her, and take possession of the way. Or, better still, +never look ahead, but pull straight on, and let things happen as +they may. Annoy everybody, and you are sure to be right, and to be +respected; splash the ladies as you pass with a dexterous flip of +the scull, and soak their summer costumes; it is capital sport, and +they look so sulky—or is it contemptuous?</p> +<p>There was no such thing as a skiff in which one could quietly +paddle about, or gently make way—mile after mile—up the +beautiful stream. The boating throng grew thicker, and my courage +less and less, till I desperately resorted to the ferry—at +all events, I could be rowed over in the ferry-boat, that would be +something; I should be on the water, after a fashion—and the +ferryman would know a good deal. The burly ferryman cared nothing +at all about the river, and merely answered "Yes," or "No;" he was +full of the Derby and Sandown; didn't know about the fishing; +supposed there were fish; didn't see 'em, nor eat 'em; want a punt? +No. So he landed me, desolate and hopeless, on the opposite bank, +and I began to understand how the souls felt after Charon had got +them over. They could not have been more unhappy than I was on the +towing-path, as the ferryboat receded and left me watching the +continuous succession of boats passing up and down the river.</p> +<p>By-and-by an immense black hulk came drifting round the +bend—an empty barge—almost broadside across the stream, +for the current at the curve naturally carried it out from the +shore. This huge helpless monster occupied the whole river, and had +no idea where it was going, for it had no fins or sweeps to guide +its course, and the rudder could only induce it to submit itself +lengthways to the stream after the lapse of some time. The fairway +of the river was entirely taken up by this irresponsible +Frankenstein of the Thames, which some one had started, but which +now did as it liked. Some of the small craft got up into the +willows and waited; some seemed to narrowly escape being crushed +against a wall on the opposite bank. The bright white sails of a +yacht shook and quivered as its steersman tried all he knew to coax +his vessel an inch more into the wind out of the monster's path. In +vain! He had to drop down the stream, and lose what it had taken +him half an hour's skill to gain. What a pleasing monster to meet +in the narrow arches of a bridge! The man in charge leaned on the +tiller, and placidly gazed at the wild efforts of some unskilful +oarsmen to escape collision. In fact, the monster had charge of the +man, and did as it liked with him.</p> +<p>Down the river they drifted together, Frankenstein swinging +round and thrusting his blunt nose first this way and then that; +down the river, blocking up the narrow passage by the eyot; +stopping the traffic at the lock; out at last into the tidal +stream, there to begin a fresh life of annoyance, and finally to +endanger the good speed of many a fine three-master and ocean +steamer off the docks. The Thames barge knows no law. No judge, no +jury, no Palace of Justice, no Chancery, no appeal to the Lords has +any terror for the monster barge. It drifts by the Houses of +Parliament with no more respect than it shows for the lodge of the +lock-keeper. It drifts by Royal Windsor and cares not. The guns of +the Tower are of no account. There is nothing in the world so +utterly free as this monster.</p> +<p>Often have I asked myself if the bargee at the tiller, now +sucking at his short black pipe, now munching onions and cheese +(the little onions he pitches on the lawns by the river side, there +to take root and flourish)—if this amiable man has any notion +of his own incomparable position. Just some inkling of the irony of +the situation must, I fancy, now and then dimly dawn within his +grimy brow. To see all these gentlemen shoved on one side; to be +lying in the way of a splendid Australian clipper; to stop an +incoming vessel, impatient for her berth; to swing, and sway, and +roll as he goes; to bump the big ships, and force the little ones +aside; to slip, and slide, and glide with the tide, ripples dancing +under the prow, and be master of the world-famed Thames from source +to mouth, is not this a joy for ever? Liberty is beyond price; now +no one is really free unless he can crush his neighbour's interest +underfoot, like a horse-roller going over a daisy. Bargee is free, +and the ashes of his pipe are worth a king's ransom.</p> +<p>Imagine a great van loaded at the East-end of London with the +heaviest merchandise, with bags of iron nails, shot, leaden sheets +in rolls, and pig iron; imagine four strong +horses—dray-horses—harnessed thereto. Then let the +waggoner mount behind in a seat comfortably contrived for him +facing the rear, and settle himself down happily among his sacks, +light his pipe, and fold his hands untroubled with any worry of +reins. Away they go through the crowded city, by the Bank of +England, and across into Cheapside, cabs darting this way, +carriages that, omnibuses forced up into side-streets, foot traffic +suspended till the monster has passed; up Fleet-street, clearing +the road in front of them—right through the stream of lawyers +always rushing to and fro the Temple and the New Law Courts, along +the Strand, and finally in triumph into Rotten Row at five o'clock +on a June afternoon. See how they scatter! see how they run! The +Row is swept clear from end to end—beauty, fashion, +rank,—what are such trifles of an hour? The monster vans +grind them all to powder. What such a waggoner might do on land, +bargee does on the river.</p> +<p>Of olden time the silver Thames was the chosen mode of travel of +Royalty—the highest in the land were rowed from palace to +city, or city to palace, between its sunlit banks. Noblemen had +their special oarsmen, and were in like manner conveyed, and could +any other mode of journeying be equally pleasant? The coal-barge +has bumped them all out of the way.</p> +<p>No man dares send forth the commonest cart unless in proper +charge, and if the horse is not under control a fine is promptly +administered. The coal-barge rolls and turns and drifts as chance +and the varying current please. How huge must be the rent in the +meshes of the law to let so large a fish go through! But in truth +there is no law about it, and to this day no man can confidently +affirm that he knows to whom the river belongs. These curious +anomalies are part and parcel of our political system, and as I +watched the black monster slowly go by with the stream it occurred +to me that grimy bargee, with his short pipe and his onions, was +really the guardian of the British Constitution.</p> +<p>Hardly had he gone past than a loud Pant! pant! pant! began some +way down the river; it came from a tug, whose short puffs of steam +produced a giant echo against the walls and quays and houses on the +bank. These angry pants sounded high above the splash of oars and +laughter, and the chorus of singers in a boat; they conquered all +other sounds and noises, and domineered the place. It was +impossible to shut the ears to them, or to persuade the mind not to +heed. The swallows dipped their breasts; how gracefully they drank +on the wing! Pant! pant! pant! The sunlight gleamed on the wake of +a four-oar. Pant! pant! pant! The soft wind blew among the trees +and over the hawthorn hedge. Pant! pant! pant! Neither the eye nor +ear could attend to aught but this hideous uproar. The tug was +weak, the stream strong, the barges behind heavy, broad, and deeply +laden, so that each puff and pant and turn of the screw barely +advanced the mass a foot. There are many feet in a mile, and for +all that weary time—Pant! pant! pant! This dreadful uproar, +like that which Don Quixote and Sancho Panza heard proceeding from +the fulling mill, must be endured. Could not philosophy by stoic +firmness shut out the sound? Can philosophy shut out anything that +is real? A long black streak of smoke hung over the water, fouling +the gleaming surface. A noise of Dante—hideous, +uncompromising as the rusty hinge of the gate which forbids hope. +Pant! pant! pant!</p> +<p>Once upon a time a Queen of England was rowed down the silver +Thames to the sweet low sound of the flute.</p> +<p>At last the noise grew fainter in the distance, and the black +hulls disappeared round the bend. I walked on up the towing-path. +Accidentally lifting my hand to shade my eyes, I was hailed by a +ferryman on the watch. He conveyed me over without much volition on +my part, and set me ashore by the inn of my imagination. The rooms +almost overhung the water: so far my vision was fulfilled. Within +there was an odour of spirits and spilled ale, a rustle of sporting +papers, talk of racings, and the click of billiard-balls. Without +there were two or three loafers, half boatmen, half vagabonds, +waiting to pick up stray sixpences—a sort of leprosy of +rascal and sneak in their faces and the lounge of their bodies. +These Thames-side "beach-combers" are a sorry lot, a special Pariah +class of themselves. Some of them have been men once: perhaps one +retains his sculling skill, and is occasionally engaged by a +gentleman to give him lessons. They regarded me eagerly—they +"spotted" a Thames freshman who might be made to yield silver; but +I walked away down the road into the village. The spire of the +church interested me, being of shingles—<i>i.e.</i> of wooden +slates—as the houses are roofed in America, as houses were +roofed in Elizabethan England; for Young America reproduces Old +England even in roofs. Some of the houses so closely approached the +churchyard that the pantry windows on a level with the ground were +partly blocked up by the green mounds of graves. Borage grew +thickly all over the yard, dropping its blue flowers on the dead. +The sharp note of a bugle rang in the air: they were changing +guard, I suppose, in Wolsey's Palace.</p> +<h4 align="center">III</h4> +<p>In time I did discover a skiff moored in a little-visited creek, +which the boatman got out for me. The sculls were rough and +shapeless—it is a remarkable fact that sculls always are, +unless you have them made and keep them for your own use. I paddled +up the river; I paused by an osier-grown islet; I slipped past the +barges, and avoided an unskilful party; it was the morning, and +none of the uproarious as yet were about. Certainly, it was very +pleasant. The sunshine gleamed on the water, broad shadows of trees +fell across; swans floated in the by-channels. A peacefulness which +peculiarly belongs to water hovered above the river. A house-boat +was moored near the willow-grown shore, and it was evidently +inhabited, for there was a fire smouldering on the bank, and some +linen that had been washed spread on the bushes to bleach. All the +windows of this gipsy-van of the river were wide open, and the air +and light entered freely into every part of the dwelling-house +under which flowed the stream. A lady was dressing herself before +one of these open windows, twining up large braids of dark hair, +her large arms bare to the shoulder, and somewhat farther. I +immediately steered out into the channel to avoid intrusion; but I +felt that she was regarding me with all a matron's contempt for an +unknown man—a mere member of the opposite sex, not +introduced, or of her "set." I was merely a man—no more than +a horse on the bank,—and had she been in her smock she would +have been just as indifferent.</p> +<p>Certainly it was a lovely morning; the old red palace of the +Cardinal seemed to slumber amid its trees, as if the passage of the +centuries had stroked and soothed it into indolent peace. The +meadows rested; even the swallows, the restless swallows, glided in +an effortless way through the busy air. I could see this, and yet I +did not quite enjoy it; something drew me away from perfect +contentment, and gradually it dawned upon me that it was the +current causing an unsuspected amount of labour in sculling. The +forceless particles of water, so yielding to the touch, which +slipped aside at the motion of the oar, in their countless myriads +ceaselessly flowing grew to be almost a solid obstruction to the +boat. I had not noticed it for a mile or so; now the pressure of +the stream was becoming evident. I persuaded myself that it was +nothing. I held on by the boathook to a root and rested, and so +went on again. Another mile or more; another rest: decidedly +sculling against a swift current is work—downright work. You +have no energy to spare over and above that needed for the labour +of rowing, not enough even to look round and admire the green +loveliness of the shore. I began to think that I should not get as +far as Oxford after all.</p> +<p>By-and-by, I began to question if rowing on a river is as +pleasant as rowing on a lake, where you can rest on your oars +without losing ground, where no current opposes progress, and after +the stroke the boat slips ahead some distance of its own impetus. +On the river the boat only travels as far as you actually pull it +at each stroke; there is no life in it after the scull is lifted, +the impetus dies, and the craft first pauses and then drifts +backward. I crept along the shore, so near that one scull +occasionally grounded, to avoid the main force of the water, which +is in the middle of the river. I slipped behind eyots and tried all +I knew. In vain, the river was stronger than I, and my arms could +not for many hours contend with the Thames. So faded another part +of my dream. The idea of rowing from one town to another—of +expeditions and travelling across the country, so pleasant to think +of—in practice became impossible. An athlete bent on nothing +but athleticism—a canoeist thinking of nothing but his +canoe—could accomplish it, setting himself daily so much work +to do, and resolutely performing it. A dreamer, who wanted to enjoy +his passing moment, and not to keep regular time with his strokes, +who wanted to gather flowers, and indulge his luxurious eyes with +effects of light and shadow and colour, could not succeed. The +river is for the man of might.</p> +<p>With a weary back at last I gave up the struggle at the foot of +a weir, almost in the splash of the cascade. My best friend, the +boathook, kept me stationary without effort, and in time rest +restored the strained muscles to physical equanimity. The roar of +the river falling over the dam soothed the mind—the sense of +an immense power at hand, working with all its might while you are +at ease, has a strangely soothing influence. It makes me sleepy to +see the vast beam of an engine regularly rise and fall in ponderous +irresistible labour. Now at last some fragment of my fancy was +realised—a myriad myriad rushing bubbles whitening the stream +burst, and were instantly succeeded by myriads more; the boat +faintly vibrated as the wild waters shot beneath it; the green +cascade, smooth at its first curve, dashed itself into the depth +beneath, broken to a million million particles; the eddies whirled, +and sucked, and sent tiny whirlpools rotating along the surface; +the roar rose or lessened in intensity as the velocity of the wind +varied; sunlight sparkled—the warmth inclined the senses to a +drowsy idleness. Yonder was the trout fisherman, just as I had +imagined him, casting and casting again with that transcendental +patience which is genius; his line and the top of his rod formed +momentary curves pleasant to look at. The kingfisher did not +come—no doubt he had been shot—but a reed-sparrow did, +in velvet black cap and dainty brown, pottering about the willow +near me. This was really like the beautiful river I had dreamed of. +If only we could persuade ourselves to remain quiescent when we are +happy! If only we would remain still in the armchair as the last +curl of vapour rises from a cigar that has been enjoyed! If only we +would sit still in the shadow and not go indoors to write that +letter! Let happiness alone. Stir not an inch; speak not a word: +happiness is a coy maiden—hold her hand and be still.</p> +<p>In an evil moment I spied the corner of a newspaper projecting +from the pocket of my coat in the stern-sheets. Folly led me to +open that newspaper, and in it I saw and read a ghastly paragraph. +Two ladies and a gentleman while boating had been carried by the +current against the piles of a weir. The boat upset; the ladies +were rescued, but the unfortunate gentleman was borne over the fall +and drowned. His body had not been recovered; men were watching the +pool day and night till some chance eddy should bring it to the +surface. So perished my dream, and the coy-maiden happiness left me +because I could not be content to be silent and still. The accident +had not happened at this weir, but it made no difference; I could +see all as plainly. A white face, blurred and indistinct, seemed to +rise up from beneath the rushing bubbles till, just as it was about +to jump to the surface, as things do that come up, down it was +drawn again by that terrible underpull which has been fatal to so +many good swimmers.</p> +<p>Who can keep afloat with a force underneath dragging at the +feet? Who can swim when the water—all bubbles, that is +air—gives no resistance to the hands? Hands and feet slip +through the bubbles. You might as well spring from the parapet of a +house and think to float by striking out as to swim in such a +medium. Sinking under, a hundred tons of water drive the body to +the bottom; there it rotates, it rises, it is forced down again, a +hundred tons of water beat upon it; the foot, perhaps, catches +among stones or woodwork, and what was once a living being is +imprisoned in death. Enough of this. I unloosed the boathook, and +drifted down with the stream, anxious to get away from the horrible +weir.</p> +<p>These accidents, which are entirely preventable, happen year +after year with lamentable monotony. Each weir is a little Niagara, +and a boat once within its influence is certain to be driven to +destruction. The current carries it against the piles, where it is +either broken or upset, the natural and reasonable alarm of the +occupants increasing the risk. In descending the river every boat +must approach the weir, and must pass within a few yards of the +dangerous current. If there is a press of boats one is often forced +out of the proper course into the rapid part of the stream without +any negligence on the part of those in it. There is nothing to +prevent this—no fence, or boom; no mark, even, between what +is dangerous and what is not; no division whatever. Persons +ignorant of the river may just as likely as not row right into +danger. A vague caution on a notice-board may or may not be seen; +in either case it gives no directions, and is certainly no +protection. Let the matter be argued from whatever point of view, +the fact remains that these accidents occur from the want of an +efficient division between the dangerous and the safe part of the +approach to a weir. A boom or some kind of fence is required, and +how extraordinary it seems that nothing of the kind is done! It is +not done because there is no authority, no control, no one +responsible. Two or three gentlemen acquainted with aquatics could +manage the river from end to end, to the safety and satisfaction of +all, if they were entrusted with discretionary powers. Stiff rules +and rigid control are not needed; what is wanted is a rational +power freely using its discretion. I do not mean a Board with its +attendant follies; I mean a small committee, unfettered, +untrammelled by "legal advisers" and so forth, merely using their +own good sense.</p> +<p>I drifted away from the weir—now grown hideous—and +out of hearing of its wailing dirge for the unfortunate. I drifted +past more barges coming up, and more steam-tugs; past river lawns, +where gay parties were now sipping claret-cup or playing tennis. +By-and-by, I began to meet pleasure-boats and to admire their +manner of progress. First there came a gentleman in white flannels, +walking on the tow-path, with a rope round his waist, towing a boat +in which two ladies were comfortably seated. In a while came two +more gentlemen in striped flannels, one streaked with gold the +other with scarlet, striding side by side and towing a boat in +which sat one lady. They were very earnestly at work, pacing in +step, their bodies slightly leaning forwards, and every now and +then they mopped their faces with handkerchiefs which they carried +in their girdles. Something in their slightly-bowed attitude +reminded me of the captives depicted on Egyptian monuments, with +cords about their necks. How curious is that instinct which makes +each sex, in different ways, the willing slave of the other! These +human steam-tugs paced and pulled, and drew the varnished craft +swiftly against the stream, evidently determined to do a certain +distance by a certain hour. As I drifted by without labour, I +admired them very much. An interval, and still more gentlemen in +flannel, labouring like galley-slaves at the tow-rope, hot, +perspiring, and happy after their kind, and ladies under parasols, +comfortably seated, cool, and happy after their kind.</p> +<p>Considering upon these things, I began to discern the true and +only manner in which the modern Thames is to be enjoyed. Above all +things—nothing heroic. Don't scull—don't +row—don't haul at tow-ropes—don't swim—don't +flourish a fishing-rod. Set your mind at ease. Make friends with +two or more athletes, thorough good fellows, good-natured, +delighting in their thews and sinews. Explain to them that somehow, +don't you see, nature did not bless you with such superabundant +muscularity, although there is nothing under the sun you admire so +much. Forthwith these good fellows will pet you, and your Thames +fortune is made. You take your place in the stern-sheets, happily +protected on either side by feminine human nature, and the parasols +meeting above shield you from the sun. The tow-rope is adjusted, +and the tugs start. The gliding motion soothes the soul. Feminine +boating nature has no antipathy to the cigarette. A delicious +odour, soft as new-mown hay, a hint of spices and distant +flowers—sunshine dried and preserved, sunshine you can +handle—rises from the smouldering fibres. This is smoking +summer itself. Yonder in the fore part of the craft I espy certain +vessels of glass on which is the label of Epernay. And of such is +peace.</p> +<p>Drifting ever downwards, I approached the creek where my skiff +had to be left; but before I reached it a "beach-comber," with a +coil of cord over his shoulder, asked me if he should tow me "up to +'Ampton." I shook my head, whereupon he abused me in such choice +terms that I listened abashed at my ignorance. It had never +occurred to me that swearing could be done like that. It is true we +have been swearing now, generation after generation, these eight +thousand years for certain, and language expands with use. It is +also true that we are all educated now. Shakespeare is credited +with knowing everything, past or future, but I doubt if he knew how +a Thames "beach-comber" can curse in these days.</p> +<p>The Thames is swearing free. You must moderate your curses on +the Queen's highway; you must not be even profane in the streets, +lest you be taken before the magistrates; but on the Thames you may +swear as the wind blows—howsoever you list. You may begin at +the mouth, off the Nore, and curse your way up to Cricklade. A +hundred miles for swearing is a fine preserve. It is one of the +marvels of our civilisation.</p> +<p>Aided by scarce a touch of the sculls the stream drifted me up +into the creek, and the boatman took charge of his skiff. "Shall I +keep her handy for you, sir?" he said, thinking to get me down +every day as a newcomer. I begged him not to put himself to any +trouble, still he repeated that he would keep her ready. But in the +road I shook off the dust of my feet against the river, and +earnestly resolved never, never again to have anything to do with +it (in the heroic way) lower down than Henley.</p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="9">THE SINGLE-BARREL GUN</a></h3> +<p>The single-barrel gun has passed out of modern sport; but I +remember mine with regret, and think I shall some day buy another. +I still find that the best double-barrel seems top-heavy in +comparison; in poising it the barrels have a tendency to droop. +Guns, of course, are built to balance and lie level in the hand, so +as to almost aim themselves as they come to the shoulder; and those +who have always shot with a double-barrel are probably quite +satisfied with the gun on that score. To me there seems too much +weight in the left hand and towards the end of the gun. Quickness +of firing keeps the double-barrel to the front; but suppose a +repeater were to be invented, some day, capable of discharging two +cartridges in immediate succession? And if two cartridges, why not +three? An easy thought, but a very difficult one to realise. +Something in the <i>power</i> of the double-barrel—the +overwhelming odds it affords the sportsman over bird and +animal—pleases. A man feels master of the copse with a +double-barrel; and such a sense of power, though only over feeble +creatures, is fascinating. Besides, there is the delight of effect; +for a clever right and left is sure of applause and makes the +gunner feel "good" in himself. Doubtless, if three barrels could be +managed, three barrels would be more saleable than doubles. One +gun-maker has a four-barrel gun, quite a light weight too, which +would be a tremendous success if the creatures would obligingly run +and fly a little slower, so that all four cartridges could be got +in. But that they will not do. For the present, the double-barrel +is the gun of the time.</p> +<p>Still I mean some day to buy a single-barrel, and wander with it +as of old along the hedges, aware that if I am not skilful enough +to bring down with the first shot I shall lose my game. It is +surprising how confident of that one shot you may get after a +while. On the one hand, it is necessary to be extremely keen; on +the other, to be sure of your own self-control, not to fire +uselessly. The bramble-bushes on the shore of the ditch ahead might +cover a hare. Through the dank and dark-green aftermath a rabbit +might suddenly come bounding, disturbed from the furrow where he +had been feeding. On the sandy paths which the rabbits have made +aslant up the mound, and on their terraces, where they sit and look +out from under the boughs, acorns have dropped ripe from the tree. +Where there are acorns there may be pheasants; they may crouch in +the fern and dry grey grass of the hedge thinking you do not see +them, or else rush through and take wing on the opposite side. The +only chance of a shot is as the bird passes a gap—visible +while flying a yard—just time to pull the trigger. But I +would rather have that chance than have to fire between the bars of +a gate; for the horizontal lines cause an optical illusion, making +the object appear in a different position from what it really is +in, and half the pellets are sure to be buried in the rails. +Wood-pigeons, when eagerly stuffing their crops with acorns, +sometimes forget their usual caution; and, walking slowly, I have +often got right underneath one—as unconscious of his presence +as he was of mine, till a sudden dashing of wings against boughs +and leaves announced his departure. This he always makes on the +opposite side of the oak, so as to have the screen of the thick +branches between himself and the gunner. The wood-pigeon, starting +like this from a tree, usually descends in the first part of his +flight, a gentle downward curve followed by an upward rise, and +thus comes into view at the lower part of the curve. He still seems +within shot, and to afford a good mark; and yet experience has +taught me that it is generally in vain to fire. His stout quills +protect him at the full range of the gun. Besides, a wasted shot +alarms everything within several hundred yards; and in stalking +with a single-barrel it needs as much knowledge to choose when not +to fire as when you may.</p> +<p>The most exciting work with the single-barrel was woodcock +shooting; woodcock being by virtue of rarity a sort of royal game, +and a miss at a woodcock a terrible disappointment. They have a +trick of skimming along the very summit of a hedge, and looking so +easy to kill; but, as they fly, the tops of tall briers here, +willow-rods next, or an ash-pole often intervene, and the result is +apt to be a bough cut off and nothing more. Snipes, on the +contrary, I felt sure of with the single-barrel, and never could +hit them so well with a double. Either at starting, before the +snipe got into his twist, or waiting till he had finished that +uncertain movement, the single-barrel seemed to drop the shot with +certainty. This was probably because of its perfect natural +balance, so that it moved as if on a pivot. With the single I had +nothing to manage but my own arms; with the other I was conscious +that I had a gun also. With the single I could kill farther, no +matter what it was. The single was quicker at short +shots—snap-shots, as at rabbits darting across a narrow lane; +and surer at long shots, as at a hare put out a good way ahead by +the dog.</p> +<p>For everything but the multiplication of slaughter I liked the +single best; I had more of the sense of woodcraft with it. When we +consider how helpless a partridge is, for instance, before the +fierce blow of shot, it does seem fairer that the gunner should +have but one chance at the bird. Partridges at least might be kept +for single-barrels: great bags of partridges never seemed to be +quite right. Somehow it seems to me that to take so much advantage +as the double-barrel confers is not altogether in the spirit of +sport. The double-barrel gives no "law." At least to those who love +the fields, the streams, and woods for their own sake, the +single-barrel will fill the bag sufficiently, and will permit them +to enjoy something of the zest men knew before the invention of +weapons not only of precision but of repetition: inventions that +rendered them too absolute masters of the situation. A +single-barrel will soon make a sportsman the keenest of shots. The +gun itself can be built to an exquisite perfection—lightness, +handiness, workmanship, and performance of the very best. It is +said that you can change from a single-barrel shot-gun to a +sporting rifle and shoot with the rifle almost at once; while many +who have been used to the slap-dash double cannot do anything for +some time with a rifle. More than one African explorer has found +his single-barrel smooth-bore the most useful of all the pieces in +his battery; though, of course, of much larger calibre than +required in our fields.</p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="10">THE HAUNT OF THE HARE</a></h3> +<p>It is never so much winter in the country as it is in the town. +The trees are still there, and in and about them birds remain. +"Quip! whip!" sounds from the elms; "Whip! quip!" Redwing thrushes +threaten with the "whip" those who advance towards them; they spend +much of the day in the elm-tops. Thick tussocks of old grass are +conspicuous at the skirt of a hedge; half green, half grey, they +contrast with the bare thorn. From behind one of these tussocks a +hare starts, his black-tipped ears erect, his long hinder limbs +throwing him almost like a grasshopper over the sward—no +creature looks so handsome or startling, and it is always a +pleasant surprise to see him. Pheasant or partridge do not surprise +in the least—they are no more than any other bird; but a hare +causes quite a different feeling. He is perfectly wild, unfed, +untended, and then he is the largest animal to be shot in the +fields. A rabbit slips along the mound, under bushes and behind +stoles, but a hare bolts for the open, and hopes in his speed. He +leaves the straining spaniel behind, and the distance between them +increases as they go. The spaniel's broad hind paws are thrown wide +apart as he runs, striking outwards as well as backwards, and his +large ears are lifted by the wind of his progress. Overtaken by the +cartridge, still the hare, as he lies in the dewy grass, is +handsome; lift him up and his fur is full of colour, there are +layers of tint, shadings of brown within it, one under the other, +and the surface is exquisitely clean. The colours are not really +bright, at least not separately; but they are so clean and so clear +that they give an impression of warmth and brightness. Even in the +excitement of sport regret cannot but be felt at the sight of those +few drops of blood about the mouth which indicate that all this +beautiful workmanship must now cease to be. Had he escaped the +sportsman would not have been displeased.</p> +<p>The black bud-sheaths of the ash may furnish a comparison for +his ear-tips; the brown brake in October might give one hue for his +fur; the yellow or buff bryony leaf perhaps another; the clematis +is not whiter than the white part. His colours, as those of so many +of our native wild creatures, appear selected from the woods, as if +they had been gathered and skilfully mingled together. They can be +traced or paralleled in the trees, the bushes, grasses, or flowers, +as if extracted from them by a secret alchemy. In the plumage of +the partridge there are tints that may be compared with the brown +corn, the brown ripe grains rubbed from the ear; it is in the +corn-fields that the partridge delights. There the young brood are +sheltered, there they feed and grow plump. The red tips of other +feathers are reflections of the red sorrel of the meadows. The grey +fur of the rabbit resembles the grey ash hue of the underwood in +which he hides.</p> +<p>A common plant in moist places, the figwort, bears small velvety +flowers, much the colour of the red velvet topknot of the +goldfinch, the yellow on whose wings is like the yellow bloom of +the furze which he frequents in the winter, perching cleverly on +its prickly extremities. In the woods, in the bark of the trees, +the varied shades of the branches as their size diminishes, the +adhering lichens, the stems of the underwood, now grey, now green; +the dry stalks of plants, brown, white, or dark, all the +innumerable minor hues that cross and interlace, there is suggested +the woven texture of tints found on the wings of birds. For +brighter tones the autumn leaves can be resorted to, and in summer +the finches rising from the grass spring upwards from among flowers +that could supply them with all their colours. But it is not so +much the brighter as the undertones that seem to have been drawn +from the woodlands or fields. Although no such influence has really +been exerted by the trees and plants upon the living creatures, yet +it is pleasant to trace the analogy. Those who would convert it +into a scientific fact are met with a dilemma to which they are +usually oblivious, <i>i.e.</i> that most birds migrate, and the +very tints which in this country might perhaps, by a stretch of +argument, be supposed to conceal them, in a distant climate with a +different foliage, or none, would render them conspicuous. Yet it +is these analogies and imaginative comparisons which make the +country so delightful.</p> +<p>One day in autumn, after toiling with their guns, which are +heavy in the September heats, across the fields and over the hills, +the hospitable owner of the place suddenly asked his weary and +thirsty friend which he would have, champagne, ale, or spirits. +They were just then in the midst of a cover, the trees kept off the +wind, the afternoon sun was warm, and thirst very natural. They had +not been shooting in the cover, but had to pass through to other +cornfields. It seemed a sorry jest to ask which would be preferred +in that lonely and deserted spot, miles from home or any house +whence refreshment could be obtained—wine, spirits, or +ale?—an absurd question, and irritating under the +circumstances. As it was repeated persistently, however, the reply +was at length given, in no very good humour, and wine chosen. +Forthwith putting down his gun, the interrogator pushed in among +the underwood, and from a cavity concealed beneath some bushes drew +forth a bottle of champagne. He had several of these stores hidden +in various parts of the domain, ready whichever way the chance of +sport should direct their footsteps.</p> +<p>Now the dry wild parsnip, or "gicks," five feet high, stands +dead and dry, its jointed tube of dark stem surmounted with +circular frills or umbels; the teazle heads are brown, the great +burdocks leafless, and their burs, still adhering, are withered; +the ground, almost free of obstruction, is comparatively easy to +search over, but the old sportsman is too cunning to bury his wine +twice in the same place, and it is no use to look about. No birds +in last year's nests—the winds have torn and upset the mossy +structures in the bushes; no champagne in last year's cover. The +driest place is under the firs, where the needles have fallen and +strew the surface thickly. Outside the wood, in the waggon-track, +the beech leaves lie on the side of the mound, dry and shrivelled +at the top, but stir them, and under the top layer they still +retain the clear brown of autumn.</p> +<p>The ivy trailing on the bank is moist and freshly green. There +are two tints of moss; one light, the other deeper—both very +pleasant and restful to the eye. These beds of moss are the +greenest and brightest of the winter's colours. Besides these there +are ale-hoof, or ground-ivy leaves (not the ivy that climbs trees), +violet leaves, celandine mars, primrose mars, foxglove mars, teazle +mars, and barren strawberry leaves, all green in the midst of +winter. One tiny white flower of barren strawberry has ventured to +bloom. Round about the lower end of each maple stick, just at the +ground, is a green wrap of moss. Though leafless above, it is green +at the foot. At the verge of the ploughed field below, exposed as +it is, chickweed, groundsel, and shepherd's-purse are flowering. +About a little thorn there hang withered red berries of bryony, as +if the bare thorn bore fruit; the bine of the climbing plant clings +to it still; there are traces of "old man's beard," the white +fluffy relics of clematis bloom, stained brown by the weather; +green catkins droop thickly on the hazel. Every step presents some +item of interest, and thus it is that it is never so much winter in +the country. Where fodder has been thrown down in a pasture field +for horses, a black congregation of rooks has crowded together in a +ring. A solitary pole for trapping hawks stands on the sloping +ground outside the cover. These poles are visited every morning +when the trap is there, and the captured creature put out of pain. +Of the cruelty of the trap itself there can be no doubt; but it is +very unjust to assume that therefore those connected with sport are +personally cruel. In a farmhouse much frequented by rats, and from +which they cannot be driven out, these animals are said to have +discovered a means of defying the gin set for them. One such gin +was placed in the cheese-room, near a hole from which they issued, +but they dragged together pieces of straw, little fragments of +wood, and various odds and ends, and so covered the pan that the +trap could not spring. They formed, in fact, a bridge over it.</p> +<p>Red and yellow fungi mark decaying places on the trunks and +branches of the trees; their colour is brightest when the boughs +are bare. By a streamlet wandering into the osier beds the winter +gnats dance in the sunshine, round about an old post covered with +ivy, on which green berries are thick. The warm sunshine gladdens +the hearts of the moorhens floating on the water yonder by the +bushes, and their singular note, "coorg-coorg," is uttered at +intervals. In the plantation close to the house a fox resides as +safe as King Louis in "Quentin Durward," surrounded with his guards +and archers and fortified towers, though tokens of his midnight +rambles, in the shape of bones, strew the front of his castle. He +crosses the lawn in sight of the windows occasionally, as if he +really knew and understood that his life is absolutely safe at +ordinary times, and that he need beware of nothing but the +hounds.</p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="11">THE BATHING SEASON</a></h3> +<p>Most people who go on the West Pier at Brighton walk at once +straight to the farthest part. This is the order and custom of pier +promenading; you are to stalk along the deck till you reach the +end, and there go round and round the band in a circle like a horse +tethered to an iron pin, or else sit down and admire those who do +go round and round. No one looks back at the gradually extending +beach and the fine curve of the shore. No one lingers where the +surf breaks—immediately above it—listening to the +remorseful sigh of the dying wave as it sobs back to the sea. +There, looking downwards, the white edge of the surf recedes in +hollow crescents, curve after curve for a mile or more, one +succeeding before the first can disappear and be replaced by a +fresh wave. A faint mistiness hangs above the beach at some +distance, formed of the salt particles dashed into the air and +suspended. At night, if the tide chances to be up, the white surf +rushing in and returning immediately beneath has a strange effect, +especially in its pitiless regularity. If one wave seems to break a +little higher it is only in appearance, and because you have not +watched long enough. In a certain number of times another will +break there again; presently one will encroach the merest trifle; +after a while another encroaches again, and the apparent +irregularity is really sternly regular. The free wave has no +liberty—it does not act for itself,—no real generous +wildness. "Thus far and no farther," is not a merciful saying. Cold +and dread and pitiless, the wave claims its due—it stretches +its arms to the fullest length, and does not pause or hearken to +the desire of any human heart. Hopeless to appeal to is the unseen +force that sends the white surge underneath to darken the pebbles +to a certain line. The wetted pebbles are darker than the dry; even +in the dusk they are easily distinguished. Something merciless is +there not in this conjunction of restriction and impetus? Something +outside human hope and thought—indifferent—cold?</p> +<p>Considering in this way, I wandered about fifty yards along the +pier, and sat down in an abstracted way on the seat on the right +side. Beneath, the clear green sea rolled in crestless waves +towards the shore—they were moving "without the animation of +the wind," which had deserted them two days ago, and a hundred +miles out at sea. Slower and slower, with an indolent undulation, +rising and sinking of mere weight and devoid of impetus, the waves +passed on, scarcely seeming to break the smoothness of the surface. +At a little distance it seemed level; yet the boats every now and +then sank deeply into the trough, and even a large fishing-smack +rolled heavily. For it is the nature of a groundswell to be +exceedingly deceptive. Sometimes the waves are so far apart that +the sea actually is level—smooth as the surface of a polished +dining-table—till presently there appears a darker line +slowly approaching, and a wave of considerable size comes in, +advancing exactly like the crease in the cloth which the housemaid +spreads on the table—the air rolling along underneath it +forms a linen imitation of the groundswell. These unexpected +rollers are capital at upsetting boats just touching the beach; the +boat is broadside on and the occupants in the water in a second. +To-day the groundswell was more active, the waves closer together, +not having had time to forget the force of the extinct gale. Yet +the sea looked calm as a millpond—just the morning for a +bath.</p> +<p>Along the yellow line where sand and pebbles meet there stood a +gallant band, in gay uniforms, facing the water. Like the imperial +legions who were ordered to charge the ocean, and gather the shells +as spoils of war, the cohorts gleaming in purple and gold extended +their front rank—their fighting line one to a +yard—along the strand. Some tall and stately; some tall and +slender; some well developed and firm on their limbs; some gentle +in attitude, even in their war dress; some defiant; perhaps forty +or fifty, perhaps more, ladies; a splendid display of womanhood in +the bright sunlight. Blue dresses, pink dresses, purple dresses, +trimmings of every colour; a gallant show. The eye had but just +time to receive these impressions as it were with a blow of the +camera—instantaneous photography—when, boom! the +groundswell was on them, and, heavens, what a change! They +disappeared. An arm projected here, possibly a foot yonder, tresses +floated on the surface like seaweed, but bodily they were gone. The +whole rank from end to end was overthrown—more than that, +overwhelmed, buried, interred in water like Pharaoh's army in the +Red Sea. Crush! It had come on them like a mountain. The wave so +clear, so beautifully coloured, so cool and refreshing, had struck +their delicate bodies with the force of a ton weight. Crestless and +smooth to look at, in reality that treacherous roller weighed at +least a ton to a yard.</p> +<p>Down went each fair bather as if hit with shot from a Gatling +gun. Down she went, frantically, and vainly grasping at a useless +rope; down with water driven into her nostrils, with a fragment, a +tiny blade, of seaweed forced into her throat, choking her; crush +on the hard pebbles, no feather bed, with the pressure of a ton of +water overhead, and the strange rushing roar it makes in the ears. +Down she went, and at the same time was dragged head foremost, +sideways, anyhow, but dragged—<i>ground</i> along on the +bitter pebbles some yards higher up the beach, each pebble leaving +its own particular bruise, and the suspended sand filling the eyes. +Then the wave left her, and she awoke from the watery nightmare to +the bright sunlight, and the hissing foam as it subsided, prone at +full length, high and dry like a stranded wreck. Perhaps her head +had tapped the wheel of the machine in a friendly way—a sort +of genial battering ram. The defeat was a perfect rout; yet they +recovered position immediately. I fancy I did see one slip limply +to cover; but the main body rose manfully, and picked their way +with delicate feet on the hard, hard stones back again to the +water, again to meet their inevitable fate.</p> +<p>The white ankles of the blonde gleaming in the sunshine were +distinguishable, even at that distance, from the flesh tint of the +brunette beside her, and these again from the swarthiness of still +darker ankles, which did not gleam, but had a subdued colour like +dead gold. The foam of a lesser wave ran up and touched their feet +submissively. Three young girls in pink clustered together; one +crouched with her back to the sea and glanced over her timorous +shoulder. Another lesser wave ran up and left a fringe of foam +before them. I looked for a moment out to sea and saw the smack +roll heavily, the big wave was coming. By now the bathers had +gathered confidence, and stepped, a little way at a time, closer +and closer down to the water. Some even stood where each lesser +wave rose to their knees. Suddenly a few leant forwards, pulling +their ropes taut, and others turned sideways; these were the more +experienced or observant. Boom! The big roller broke near the pier +and then ran along the shore; it did not strike the whole length at +once, it came in aslant and rushed sideways. The three in pink went +first—they were not far enough from their machine to receive +its full force, it barely reached to the waist, and really I think +it was worse for them. They were lifted off their feet and shot +forward with their heads under water; one appeared to be under the +two others, a confused mass of pink. Their white feet emerged +behind the roller, and as it sank it drew them back, grinding them +over the pebbles: every one knows how pebbles grate and grind their +teeth as a wave subsides. Left lying on their faces, I guessed from +their attitudes that they had dug their finger-nails into the +pebbles in an effort to seize something that would hold. Somehow +they got on their knees and crept up the slope of the beach. Beyond +these three some had been standing about up to their knees; these +were simply buried as before—quite concealed and thrown like +beams of timber, head first, feet first, high up on shore. Group +after group went down as the roller reached them, and the sea was +dyed for a minute with blue dresses, purple dresses, pink dresses; +they coloured the wave which submerged them. From end to end the +whole rank was again overwhelmed, nor did any position prove of +advantage; those who sprang up as the wave came were simply turned +over and carried on their backs, those who tried to dive under were +swept back by the tremendous under-rush. Sitting on the beach, +lying at full length, on hands and knees, lying on this side or +that, doubled up—there they were, as the roller receded, in +every disconsolate attitude imaginable; the curtain rose and +disclosed the stage in disorder. Again I thought I saw one or two +limp to their machines, but the main body adjusted themselves and +faced the sea.</p> +<p>Was there ever such courage? National untaught +courage—inbred, and not built of gradual instruction as it +were in hardihood. Yet some people hesitate to give women the +franchise! actually, a miserable privilege which any poor fool of a +man may exercise.</p> +<p>I was philosophising admirably in this strain when first a +shadow came and then the substance, that is, a gentleman sat down +by me and wished me good morning, in a slightly different accent to +that we usually hear. I looked wistfully at the immense length of +empty seats; on both sides of the pier for two hundred yards or +more there extended an endless empty seat. Why could not he have +chosen a spot to himself? Why must he place himself just here, so +close as to touch me? Four hundred yards of vacant seats, and he +could not find room for himself.</p> +<p>It is a remarkable fact in natural history that one's elbow is +sure to be jogged. It does not matter what you do; suppose you +paint in the most secluded spot, and insert yourself, moreover, in +the most inconspicuous part of that spot, some vacant physiognomy +is certain to intrude, glaring at you with glassy eye. Suppose you +do nothing (like myself), no matter where you do it some inane +humanity obtrudes itself. I took out my note-book once in a great +open space at the Tower of London, a sort of court or place of +arms, quite open and a gunshot across; there was no one in sight, +and if there had been half a regiment they could have passed (and +would have passed) without interference. I had scarcely written +three lines when the pencil flew up the page, some hulking lout +having brushed against me. He could not find room for himself. A +hundred yards of width was not room enough for him to go by. He +meant no harm; it did not occur to him that he could be otherwise +than welcome. He was the sort of man who calmly sleeps on your +shoulder in a train, and merely replaces his head if you wake him +twenty times. The very same thing has happened to me in the parks, +and in country fields; particularly it happens at the British +Museum and the picture galleries, there is room sufficient in all +conscience; but if you try to make a note or a rough memorandum +sketch you get a jog. There is a jogger everywhere, just as there +is a buzzing fly everywhere in summer. The jogger travels, too.</p> +<p>One day, while studying in the Louvre, I am certain three or +four hundred French people went by me, mostly provincials I fancy, +country-folks, in short, from their dress, which was not Parisian, +and their accent, which was not of the Boulevards. Of all these not +one interfered with me; they did not approach within four or five +feet. How grateful I felt towards them! One man and his sweetheart, +a fine southern girl with dark eyes and sun-browned cheeks, sat +down near me on one of the scanty seats provided. The man put his +umbrella and his hat on the seat beside him. What could be more +natural? No one else was there, and there was room for three more +couples. Instantly an official—an authority!—stepped +hastily forward from the shadow of some sculpture (beasts of prey +abide in darkness), snatched up the umbrella and hat, and rudely +dashed them on the floor. In a flow of speech he explained that +nothing must be placed on the seats. The man, who had his +handkerchief in his hand, quietly dropped it into his hat on the +floor, and replied nothing. This was an official "jogger." I felt +indignant to see and hear people treated in this rough manner; but +the provincial was used to the jogger system and heeded it not. My +own jogger was coming. Three to four hundred country-folk had gone +by gently and in a gentlemanly way. Then came an English gentleman, +middle-aged, florid, not much tinctured with art or letters, but +garnished with huge gold watchchain and with wealth as it were +bulging out of his waistcoat pocket. This gentleman positively +walked into me, pushed me-literally pushed me aside and took my +place, a place valuable to me at that moment for one special +aspect, and having shoved me aside, gazed about him through his +eyeglass, I suppose to discover what it was interested me. He was a +genuine, thoroughbred jogger. The vast galleries of the Louvre had +not room enough for him. He was one of the most successful joggers +in the world, I feel sure; any family might be proud of him. While +I am thus digressing, the bathers have gone over thrice.</p> +<p>The individual who had sat himself down by me produced a little +box and offered me a lozenge. I did not accept it; he took one +himself in token that they were harmless. Then he took a second, +and a third, and began to tell me of their virtues; they cured this +and they alleviated that, they were the greatest discovery of the +age; this universal lozenge was health in the waistcoat pocket, a +medicine-chest between finger and thumb; the secret had been +extracted at last, and nature had given up the ghost as it were of +her hidden physic. His eloquence conjured up in my mind a vision of +the rocks beside the Hudson river papered over with acres of +advertising posters. But no; by his further conversation I found +that I had mentally slandered him; he was not a proprietor of +patent medicine; he was a man of education and private means; he +belonged to a much higher profession, in fact he was a "jogger" +travelling about from place to place—"globetrotting" from +capital city to watering-place—all over the world in the +exercise of his function. I had wondered if his accent was American +(petroleum-American), or German, or Italian, or Russian, or what. +Now I wondered no longer, for the jogger is cosmopolitan. When he +had exhausted his lozenge he told me how many times the screw of +the steamer revolved while carrying him across the Pacific from +Yokohama to San Francisco. I nearly suggested that it was about +equal to the number of times his tongue had vibrated in the last +ten minutes. The bathers went over twice more. I was anxious to +take note of their bravery, and turned aside, leaning over the iron +back of the seat. He went on just the same; a hint was no more to +him than a feather bed to an ironclad.</p> +<p>My rigid silence was of no avail; so long as my ears were open +he did not care. He was a very energetic jogger. However, it +occurred to me to try another plan: I turned towards him (he would +much rather have had my back) and began to talk in the most +strident tones I could command. I pointed out to him that the pier +was decked like a vessel, that the cliffs were white, that a lady +passing had a dark blue dress on, which did not suit with the green +sea, not because it was blue, but because it was the wrong tint of +blue. I informed him that the Pavilion was once the residence of +royalty, and similar novelties; all in a string without a +semicolon. His eyes opened; he fumbled with his lozenge-box, said +"Good morning," and went on up the pier. I watched him +go—English-Americano- +Germano-Franco-Prussian-Russian-Chinese-New Zealander that he was. +But he was not a man of genius; you could choke him off by talking. +Still he had effectually jogged me and spoiled my contemplative +enjoyment of the bathers' courage; upon the whole I thought I would +go down on the beach now and see them a little closer. The truth +is, I suppose, that it is people like myself who are in the wrong, +or are in the way. What business had I to make a note in the Tower +yard, or study in the Louvre? what business have I to think, or +indulge myself in an idea? What business has any man to paint, or +sketch, or do anything of the sort? I suppose the joggers are in +the right.</p> +<p>Dawdling down Whitehall one day a jogger nailed me—they +come to me like flies to honey—and got me to look at his +pamphlet. He went about, he said, all his time distributing them as +a duty for the safety of the nation. The pamphlet was printed in +the smallest type, and consisted of extracts from various +prophetical authors, pointing out the enormity of the Babylonian +Woman, of the City of Scarlet, or some such thing; the gist being +the bitterest—almost scurrilous—attack on the Church of +Rome. The jogger told me, with tears of pride in his eyes and a +glorified countenance, that only a few days before, in the +waiting-room of a railway station, he had the pleasure to present +his pamphlet to Cardinal Manning. And the Cardinal bowed and put it +in his pocket.</p> +<p>Just as everybody walks on the sunny side of Regent-street, so +there are certain spots on the beach where people crowd together. +This is one of them; just west of the West Pier there is a fair +between eleven and one every bright morning. Everybody goes because +everybody else does. Mamma goes down to bathe with her daughters +and the little ones; they take two machines at least; the pater +comes to smoke his cigar; the young fellows of the family-party +come to look at "the women," as they irreverently speak of the sex. +So the story runs on <i>ad infinitum</i>, down to the shoeless ones +that turn up everywhere. Every seat is occupied; the boats and +small yachts are filled; some of the children pour pebbles into the +boats, some carefully throw them out; wooden spades are busy; +sometimes they knock each other on the head with them, sometimes +they empty pails of sea-water on a sister's frock. There is a +squealing, squalling, screaming, shouting, singing, bawling, +howling, whistling, tin-trumpeting, and every luxury of noise. Two +or three bands work away; niggers clatter their bones; a conjurer +in red throws his heels in the air; several harps strum merrily +different strains; fruit-sellers push baskets into folks' faces; +sellers of wretched needlework and singular baskets coated with +shells thrust their rubbish into people's laps. These shell baskets +date from George IV. The gingerbeer men and the newsboys cease not +from troubling. Such a volume of uproar, such a complete organ of +discord I mean a whole organful cannot be found anywhere else on +the face of the earth in so comparatively small a space. It is a +sort of triangular plot of beach crammed with everything that +ordinarily annoys the ears and offends the sight.</p> +<p>Yet you hear nothing and see nothing; it is perfectly +comfortable, perfectly jolly and exhilarating, a preferable spot to +any other. A sparkle of sunshine on the breakers, a dazzling gleam +from the white foam, a warm sweet air, light and brightness and +champagniness; altogether lovely. The way in which people lie about +on the beach, their legs this way, and their arms that, their hats +over their eyes, their utter give-themselves-up expression of +attitude is enough in itself to make a reasonable being contented. +Nobody cares for anybody; they drowned Mrs. Grundy long ago. The +ancient philosopher (who had a mind to eat a fig) held that a nail +driven into wood could only support a certain weight. After that +weight was exceeded either the wood must break or the nail come +out. Yonder is a wooden seat put together with nails—a flimsy +contrivance, which defies all rules of gravity and adhesion. One +leg leans one way, the other in the opposite direction; very lame +legs indeed. Careful folk would warn you not to sit on it lest it +should come to pieces. The music, I suppose, charms it, for it +holds together in the most marvellous manner. Four people are +sitting on it, four big ones, middle-aged, careful people; every +moment the legs gape wide apart, the structure visibly stretches +and yields and sinks in the pebbles, yet it does not come down. The +stoutest of all sits actually over the lame legs, reading his paper +quite oblivious of the odd angle his plump person makes, quite +unconscious of the threatened crack—crash! It does not +happen. A sort of magnetism sticks it together; it is in the air; +it makes things go right that ought to go wrong. Awfully naughty +place; no sort of idea of rightness here. Humming and strumming, +and singing and smoking, splashing, and sparkling; a buzz of voices +and booming of sea! If they could only be happy like this +always!</p> +<p>Mamma has a tremendous fight over the bathing-dresses, her own, +of course; the bathing woman cannot find them, and denies that she +had them, and by-and-by, after half an hour's exploration, finds +them all right, and claims commendation for having put them away so +safely. Then there is the battle for a machine. The nurse has been +keeping guard on the steps, to seize it the instant the occupant +comes out. At last they get it, and the wonder is how they pack +themselves in it. Boom! The bathers have gone over again, I know. +The rope stretches as the men at the capstan go round, and heave up +the machines one by one before the devouring tide.</p> +<p>As it is not at all rude, but the proper thing to do, I thought +I would venture a little nearer (not too obtrusively near) and see +closer at hand how brave womanhood faced the rollers. There was a +young girl lying at full length at the edge of the foam. She +reclined parallel to the beach, not with her feet towards the sea, +but so that it came to her side. She was clad in some material of a +gauzy and yet opaque texture, permitting the full outline and the +least movement to be seen. The colour I do not exactly know how to +name; they could tell you at the Magasin du Louvre, where men +understand the hues of garments as well as women. I presume it was +one of the many tints that are called at large "creamy." It suited +her perfectly. Her complexion was in the faintest degree swarthy, +and yet not in the least like what a lady would associate with that +word. The difficulty in describing a colour is that different +people take different views of the terms employed; ladies have one +scale founded a good deal on dress, men another, and painters have +a special (and accurate) gamut which they use in the studio. This +was a clear swarthiness a translucent swarthiness clear as the most +delicate white. There was something in the hue of her neck as +freely shown by the loose bathing dress, of her bare arms and feet, +somewhat recalling to mind the kind of beauty attributed to the +Queen of Egypt. But it was more delicate. Her form was almost fully +developed, more so than usual at her age. Again and again the foam +rushed up deep enough to cover her limbs, but not sufficiently so +to hide her chest, as she was partly raised on one arm. Washed thus +with the purest whiteness of the sparkling foam, her beauty +gathered increase from the touch of the sea. She swayed slightly as +the water reached her, she was luxuriously recked to and fro. The +waves, toyed with her; they came and retired, happy in her +presence; the breeze and the sunshine were there.</p> +<p>Standing somewhat back, the machines hid the waves from me till +they reached the shore, so that I did not observe the heavy roller +till it came and broke. A ton of water fell on her, crush! The edge +of the wave curled and dropped over her, the arch bowed itself +above her, the keystone of the wave fell in. She was under the +surge while it rushed up and while it rushed back; it carried her +up to the steps of the machine and back again to her original +position. When it subsided she simply shook her head, raised +herself on one arm, and adjusted herself parallel to the beach as +before.</p> +<p>Let any one try this, let any one lie for a few minutes just +where the surge bursts, and he will understand what it means. Men +go out to the length of their ropes—past and outside the line +of the breakers, or they swim still farther out and ride at ease +where the wave, however large, merely lifts them pleasantly as it +rolls under. But the smashing force of the wave is where it curls +and breaks, and it is there that the ladies wait for it. It is +these breakers in a gale that tear to pieces and destroy the +best-built ships once they touch the shore, scattering their +timbers as the wind scatters leaves. The courage and the endurance +women must possess to face a groundswell like this! All the year +they live in luxury and ease, and are shielded from everything that +could hurt. A bruise—a lady to receive a bruise; it is not be +to thought of! If a ruffian struck a lady in Hyde Park the world +would rise from its armchair in a fury of indignation. These waves +and pebbles bruise them as they list. They do not even flinch. +There must, then, be a natural power of endurance in them.</p> +<p>It is unnecessary, and yet I was proud to see it. An English +lady could do it; but could any other?—unless, indeed, an +American of English descent. Still, it is a barbarous thing, for +bathing could be easily rendered pleasant. The cruel roller +receded, the soft breeze blew, the sunshine sparkled, the gleaming +foam rushed up and gently rocked her. The Infanta Cleopatra lifted +her arm gleaming wet with spray, and extended it indolently; the +sun had only given her a more seductive loveliness. How much more +enjoyable the sea and breeze and sunshine when one is gazing at +something so beautiful. That arm, rounded and +soft——</p> +<p>"Excuse me, sir, but your immortal soul"—a hand was placed +on my elbow. I turned, and saw a beaming face; a young lady, +elegantly dressed, placed a fly-sheet of good intentions in my +fingers. The fair jogger beamed yet more sweetly as I took it, and +went on among the crowd. When I looked back the Infanta Cleopatra +had ascended into her machine. I had lost the last few moments of +loveliness.</p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="12">UNDER THE ACORNS</a></h3> +<p>Coming along a woodland lane, a small round and glittering +object in the brushwood caught my attention. The ground was but +just hidden in that part of the wood with a thin growth of +brambles, low, and more like creepers than anything else. These +scarcely hid the surface, which was brown with the remnants of +oak-leaves; there seemed so little cover, indeed, that a mouse +might have been seen. But at that spot some great spurge-plants +hung this way and that, leaning aside, as if the sterns were too +weak to uphold the heads of dark-green leaves. Thin grasses, +perfectly white, bleached by the sun and dew, stood in a bunch by +the spurge; their seeds had fallen, the last dregs of sap had dried +within them, there was nothing left but the bare stalks. A creeper +of bramble fenced round one side of the spurge and white grass +bunch, and brown leaves were visible on the surface of the ground +through the interstices of the spray. It was in the midst of this +little thicket that a small, dark, and glittering object caught my +attention. I knew it was the eye of some creature at once, but, +supposing it nothing more than a young rabbit, was passing on, +thinking of other matters, when it occurred to me, before I could +finish the step I had taken, so quick is thought, that the eye was +not large enough to be that of a rabbit. I stopped; the black +glittering eye had gone—the creature had lowered its neck, +but immediately noticing that I was looking in that direction, it +cautiously raised itself a little, and I saw at once that the eye +was the eye of a bird. This I knew first by its size, and next by +its position in relation to the head, which was invisible—for +had it been a rabbit or hare, its ears would have projected. The +moment after, the eye itself confirmed this—the nictitating +membrane was rapidly drawn over it, and as rapidly removed. This +membrane is the distinguishing mark of a bird's eye. But what bird? +Although I was within two yards, I could not even see its head, +nothing but the glittering eyeball, on which the light of the sun +glinted. The sunbeams came over my shoulder straight into the +bird's face.</p> +<p>Without moving—which I did not wish to do, as it would +disturb the bird—I could not see its plumage; the bramble +spray in front, the spurge behind, and the bleached grasses at the +side, perfectly concealed it. Only two birds I considered would be +likely to squat and remain quiescent like this—partridge or +pheasant; but I could not contrive to view the least portion of the +neck. A moment afterwards the eye came up again, and the bird +slightly moved its head, when I saw its beak, and knew it was a +pheasant immediately. I then stepped forward—almost on the +bird—and a young pheasant rose, and flew between the +tree-trunks to a deep dry watercourse, where it disappeared under +some withering yellow-ferns.</p> +<p>Of course I could easily have solved the problem long before, +merely by startling the bird; but what would have been the pleasure +of that? Any plough-lad could have forced the bird to rise, and +would have recognised it as a pheasant; to me, the pleasure +consisted in discovering it under every difficulty. That was +woodcraft; to kick the bird up would have been simply nothing at +all. Now I found why I could not see the pheasant's neck or body; +it was not really concealed, but shaded out by the mingled hues of +white grasses, the brown leaves of the surface, and the general +grey-brown tints. Now it was gone, there was a vacant space its +plumage had filled up that vacant space with hues so similar, that, +at no farther distance than two yards, I did not recognise it by +colour. Had the bird fully carried out its instinct of concealment, +and kept its head down as well as its body, I should have passed +it. Nor should I have seen its head if it had looked the other way; +the eye betrayed its presence. The dark glittering eye, which the +sunlight touched, caught my attention instantly. There is nothing +like an eye in inanimate nature; no flower, no speck on a bough, no +gleaming stone wet with dew, nothing, indeed, to which it can be +compared. The eye betrayed it; I could not overlook an eye. Neither +nature nor inherited experience had taught the pheasant to hide its +eye; the bird not only wished to conceal itself, but to watch my +motions and, looking up from its cover, was immediately +observed.</p> +<p>At a turn of the lane there was a great heap of oak "chumps," +crooked logs, sawn in lengths, and piled together. They were so +crooked, it was difficult to find a seat, till I hit on one larger +than the rest. The pile of "chunks" rose halfway up the stem of an +oak tree, and formed a wall of wood at my back; the oak-boughs +reached over and made a pleasant shade. The sun was warm enough, to +render resting in the open air delicious, the wind cool enough to +prevent the heat becoming too great; the pile of timber kept off +the draught, so that I could stay and listen to the gentle "hush, +rush" of the breeze in the oak above me; "hush" as it came slowly, +"rush" as it came fast, and a low undertone as it nearly ceased. So +thick were the haws on a bush of thorn opposite, that they tinted +the hedge a red colour among the yellowing hawthorn-leaves. To this +red hue the blackberries that were not ripe, the thick dry red +sorrel stalks, a bright canker on a brier almost as bright as a +rose, added their colours. Already the foliage of the bushes had +been thinned, and it was possible to see through the upper parts of +the boughs. The sunlight, therefore, not only touched their outer +surfaces, but passed through and lit up the branches within, and +the wild-fruit upon them. Though the sky was clear and blue between +the clouds, that is, without mist or haze, the sunbeams were +coloured the faintest yellow, as they always are on a ripe autumn +day. This yellow shone back from grass and leaves, from bough and +tree-trunk, and seemed to stain the ground. It is very pleasant to +the eyes, a soft, delicate light, that gives another beauty to the +atmosphere. Some roan cows were wandering down the lane, feeding on +the herbage at the side; their colour, too, was lit up by the +peculiar light, which gave a singular softness to the large shadows +of the trees upon the sward. In a meadow by the wood the oaks cast +broad shadows on the short velvety sward, not so sharp and definite +as those of summer, but tender, and, as it were, drawn with a +loving hand. They were large shadows, though it was mid-day—a +sign that the sun was no longer at his greatest height, but +declining. In July, they would scarcely have extended beyond the +rim of the boughs; the rays would have dropped perpendicularly, now +they slanted. Pleasant as it was, there was regret in the thought +that the summer was going fast. Another sign—the grass by the +gateway, an acre of it, was brightly yellow with hawkweeds, and +under these were the last faded brown heads of meadow clover; the +brown, the bright yellow disks, the green grass, the tinted +sunlight falling upon it, caused a wavering colour that fleeted +before the glance.</p> +<p>All things brown, and yellow, and red, are brought out by the +autumn sun; the brown furrows freshly turned where the stubble was +yesterday, the brown bark of trees, the brown fallen leaves, the +brown stalks of plants; the red haws, the red unripe blackberries, +red bryony berries, reddish-yellow fungi, yellow hawkweed, yellow +ragwort, yellow hazel-leaves, elms, spots in lime or beech; not a +speck of yellow, red, or brown the yellow sunlight does not find +out. And these make autumn, with the caw of rooks, the peculiar +autumn caw of laziness and full feeding, the sky blue as March +between the great masses of dry cloud floating over, the mist in +the distant valleys, the tinkle of traces as the plough turns and +the silence of the woodland birds. The lark calls as he rises from +the earth, the swallows still wheeling call as they go over, but +the woodland birds are mostly still and the restless sparrows gone +forth in a cloud to the stubble. Dry clouds, because they evidently +contain no moisture that will fall as rain here; thick mists, +condensed haze only, floating on before the wind. The oaks were not +yet yellow, their leaves were half green, half brown; Time had +begun to invade them, but had not yet indented his full mark.</p> +<p>Of the year there are two most pleasurable seasons: the spring, +when the oak-leaves come russet-brown on the great oaks; the +autumn, when the oak-leaves begin to turn. At the one, I enjoy the +summer that is coming; at the other, the summer that is going. At +either, there is a freshness in the atmosphere, a colour +everywhere, a depth of blue in the sky, a welcome in the woods. The +redwings had not yet come; the acorns were full, but still green; +the greedy rooks longed to see them riper. They were very numerous, +the oaks covered with them, a crop for the greedy rooks, the +greedier pigeons, the pheasants, and the jays.</p> +<p>One thing I missed—the corn. So quickly was the harvest +gathered, that those who delight in the colour of the wheat had no +time to enjoy it. If any painter had been looking forward to August +to enable him to paint the corn, he must have been disappointed. +There was no time; the sun came, saw, and conquered, and the +sheaves were swept from the field. Before yet the reapers had +entered one field of ripe wheat, I did indeed for a brief evening +obtain a glimpse of the richness and still beauty of an English +harvest. The sun was down, and in the west a pearly grey light +spread widely, with a little scarlet drawn along its lower border. +Heavy shadows hung in the foliage of the elms, the clover had +closed, and the quiet moths had taken the place of the humming +bees. Southwards, the full moon, a red-yellow disk, shone over the +wheat, which appeared the finest pale amber. A quiver of +colour—an undulation—seemed to stay in the air, left +from the heated day; the sunset hues and those of the red-tinted +moon fell as it were into the remnant of day, and filled the wheat; +they were poured into it, so that it grew in their colours. Still +heavier the shadows deepened in the elms; all was silence, save for +the sound of the reapers on the other side of the hedge, +slash—rustle, slash—rustle, and the drowsy night came +down as softly as an eyelid.</p> +<p>While I sat on the log under the oak, every now and then wasps +came to the crooked pieces of sawn timber, which had been barked. +They did not appear to be biting it—they can easily snip off +fragments of the hardest oak,—they merely alighted and +examined it, and went on again. Looking at them, I did not notice +the lane till something moved, and two young pheasants ran by along +the middle of the track and into the cover at the side. The grass +at the edge which they pushed through closed behind them, and +feeble as it was—grass only—it shut off the interior of +the cover as firmly as iron bars. The pheasant is a strong lock +upon the woods; like one of Chubb's patent locks, he closes the +woods as firmly as an iron safe can be shut. Wherever the pheasant +is artificially reared, and a great "head" kept up for +battue-shooting, there the woods are sealed. No matter if the +wanderer approach with the most harmless of intentions, it is +exactly the same as if he were a species of burglar. The botanist, +the painter, the student of nature, all are met with the +high-barred gate and the throat of law. Of course, the +pheasant-lock can be opened by the silver key; still, there is the +fact, that since pheasants have been bred on so large a scale, half +the beautiful woodlands of England have been fastened up. Where +there is no artificial rearing there is much more freedom; those +who love the forest can roam at their pleasure, for it is not the +fear of damage that locks the gate, but the pheasant. In every +sense, the so-called sport of battue-shooting is +injurious—injurious to the sportsman, to the poorer class, to +the community. Every true sportsman should discourage it, and +indeed does. I was talking with a thorough sportsman recently, who +told me, to my delight, that he never reared birds by hand; yet he +had a fair supply, and could always give a good day's sport, judged +as any reasonable man would judge sport. Nothing must enter the +domains of the hand-reared pheasant; even the nightingale is not +safe. A naturalist has recorded that in a district he visited, the +nightingales were always shot by the keepers and their eggs +smashed, because the singing of these birds at night disturbed the +repose of the pheasants! They also always stepped on the eggs of +the fern-owl, which are laid on the ground, and shot the bird if +they saw it, for the same reason, as it makes a jarring sound at +dusk. The fern-owl, or goatsucker, is one of the most harmless of +birds—a sort of evening swallow—living on moths, +chafers, and similar night-flying insects.</p> +<p>Continuing my walk, still under the oaks and green acorns, I +wondered why I did not meet any one. There was a man cutting fern +in the wood—a labourer—and another cutting up thistles +in a field; but with the exception of men actually employed and +paid, I did not meet a single person, though the lane I was +following is close to several well-to-do places. I call that a +well-to-do place where there are hundreds of large villas inhabited +by wealthy people. It is true that the great majority of persons +have to attend to business, even if they enjoy a good income; +still, making every allowance for such a necessity, it is singular +how few, how very few, seem to appreciate the quiet beauty of this +lovely country. Somehow, they do not seem to see it—to look +over it; there is no excitement in it, for one thing. They can see +a great deal in Paris, but nothing in an English meadow. I have +often wondered at the rarity of meeting any one in the fields, and +yet—curious anomaly—if you point out anything—or +describe it, the interest exhibited is marked. Every one takes an +interest, but no one goes to see for himself. For instance, since +the natural history collection was removed from the British Museum +to a separate building at South Kensington, it is stated that the +visitors to the Museum have fallen from an average of twenty-five +hundred a day to one thousand; the inference is, that out of every +twenty-five, fifteen came to see the natural history cases. Indeed, +it is difficult to find a person who does not take an interest in +some department of natural history, and yet I scarcely ever meet +any one in the fields. You may meet many in the autumn far away in +places famous for scenery, but almost none in the meadows at +home.</p> +<p>I stayed by a large pond to look at the shadows of the trees on +the green surface of duckweed. The soft green of the smooth weed +received the shadows as if specially prepared to show them to +advantage. The more the tree was divided—the more interlaced +its branches and less laden with foliage, the more it "came out" on +the green surface; each slender twig was reproduced, and sometimes +even the leaves. From an oak, and from a lime, leaves had fallen, +and remained on the green weed; the flags by the shore were turning +brown; a tint of yellow was creeping up the rashes, and the great +trunk of a fir shone reddish brown in the sunlight. There was +colour even about the still pool, where the weeds grew so thickly +that the moorhens could scarcely swim through them.</p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="13">DOWNS</a></h3> +<p>A good road is recognised as the groundwork of civilisation. So +long as there is a firm and artificial track under his feet the +traveller may be said to be in contact with city and town, no +matter how far they may be distant. A yard or two outside the +railway in America the primeval forest or prairie often remains +untouched, and much in the same way, though in a less striking +degree at first sight, some of our own highways winding through +Down districts are bounded by undisturbed soil. Such a road wears +for itself a hollow, and the bank at the top is fringed with long +rough grass hanging over the crumbling chalk. Broad discs of +greater knapweed with stalks like wire, and yellow toad-flax with +spotted lip grow among it. Grasping this tough grass as a handle to +climb up by, the explorer finds a rising slope of sward, and having +walked over the first ridge, shutting off the road behind him, is +at once out of civilisation. There is no noise. Wherever there are +men there is a hum, even in the harvest-field; and in the road +below, though lonely, there is sometimes the sharp clatter of hoofs +or the grating of wheels on flints. But here the long, long slopes, +the endless ridges, the gaps between, hazy and indistinct, are +absolutely without noise. In the sunny autumn day the peace of the +sky overhead is reflected in the silent earth. Looking out over the +steep hills, the first impression is of an immense void like the +sea; but there are sounds in detail, the twitter of passing +swallows, the restless buzz of bees at the thyme, the rush of the +air beaten by a ringdove's wings. These only increase the sense of +silent peace, for in themselves they soothe; and how minute the bee +beside this hill, and the dove to the breadth of the sky! A white +speck of thistledown comes upon a current too light to swing a +harebell or be felt by the cheek. The furze-bushes are lined with +thistledown, blown there by a breeze now still; it is glossy in the +sunbeams, and the yellow hawkweeds cluster beneath. The sweet, +clear air, though motionless at this height, cools the rays; but +the sun seems to pause and neither to rise higher nor decline. It +is the space open to the eye which apparently arrests his movement. +There is no noise, and there are no men.</p> +<p>Glance along the slope, up the ridge, across to the next, +endeavour to penetrate the hazy gap, but no one is visible. In +reality it is not quite so vacant; there may, perhaps, be four or +five men between this spot and the gap, which would be a pass if +the Downs were high enough. One is not far distant; he is digging +flints over the ridge, and, perhaps, at this moment rubbing the +earth from a corroded Roman coin which he has found in the pit. +Another is thatching, for there are three detached wheat-ricks +round a spur of the Down a mile away, where the plain is arable, +and there, too, a plough is at work. A shepherd is asleep on his +back behind the furze a mile in the other direction. The fifth is a +lad trudging with a message; he is in the nut-copse, over the next +hill, very happy. By walking a mile the explorer may, perhaps, +sight one of these, if they have not moved by then and disappeared +in another hollow. And when you have walked the mile—knowing +the distance by the time occupied in traversing it—if you +look back you will sigh at the hopelessness of getting over the +hills. The mile is such a little way, only just along one slope and +down into the narrow valley strewn with flints and small boulders. +If that is a mile, it must be another up to the white chalk quarry +yonder, another to the copse on the ridge; and how far is the hazy +horizon where the ridges crowd on and hide each other? Like rowing +at sea, you row and row and row, and seem where you +started—waves in front and waves behind; so you may walk and +walk and walk, and still there is the intrenchment on the summit, +at the foot of which, well in sight, you were resting some hours +ago.</p> +<p>Rest again by the furze, and some goldfinches come calling +shrilly and feasting undisturbed upon the seeds of thistles and +other plants. The bird-catcher does not venture so far; he would if +there was a rail near; but he is a lazy fellow, fortunately, and +likes not the weight of his own nets. When the stubbles are +ploughed there will be troops of finches and linnets up here, +leaving the hedgerows of the valley almost deserted. Shortly the +fieldfares will come, but not generally till the redwings have +appeared below in the valleys; while the fieldfares go upon the +hills, the green plovers, as autumn comes on, gather in flocks and +go down to the plains. Hawks regularly beat along the furze, +darting on a finch now and then, and owls pass by at night. +Nightjars, too, are down-land birds, staying in woods or fern by +day, and swooping on the moths which flutter about the furze in the +evening. Crows are too common, and work on late into the shadows. +Sometimes, in getting over the low hedges which divide the +uncultivated sward from the ploughed lands, you almost step on a +crow, and it is difficult to guess what he can have been about so +earnestly, for search reveals nothing—no dead lamb, hare, or +carrion, or anything else is visible. Rooks, of course, are seen, +and larks, and once or twice in a morning a magpie, seldom seen in +the cultivated and preserved valley. There are more partridges than +rigid game preservers would deem possible where the overlooking, if +done at all, is done so carelessly. Partridges will never cease out +of the land while there are untouched downs. Of all southern inland +game, they afford the finest sport; for spoil in its genuine sense +cannot be had without labour, and those who would get partridges on +the hills must work for them. Shot down, coursed, poached, killed +before maturity in the corn, still hares are fairly plentiful, and +couch in the furze and coarse grasses. Rabbits have much decreased; +still there are some. But the larger fir copses, when they are +enclosed, are the resort of all kinds of birds of prey yet left in +the south, and, perhaps, more rare visitors are found there than +anywhere else. Isolated on the open hills, such a copse to birds is +like an island in the sea. Only a very few pheasants frequent it, +and little effort is made to exterminate the wilder creatures, +while they are continually replenished by fresh arrivals. Even +ocean birds driven inland by stress of weather seem to prefer the +downs to rest on, and feel safer there.</p> +<p>The sward is the original sward, untouched, unploughed, +centuries old. It is that which was formed when the woods that +covered the hills were cleared, whether by British tribes whose +markings are still to be found, by Roman smiths working the +ironstone (slag is sometimes discovered), by Saxon settlers, or +however it came about in the process of the years. Probably the +trees would grow again were it not for sheep and horses, but these +preserve the sward. The plough has nibbled at it and gnawed away +great slices, but it extends mile after mile; these are mere +touches on its breadth. It is as wild as wild can be without deer +or savage beasts. The bees like it, and the finches come. It is +silent and peaceful like the sky above. By night the stars shine, +not only overhead and in a narrow circle round the zenith, but down +to the horizon; the walls of the sky are built up of them as well +as the roof. The sliding meteors go silently over the gleaming +surface; silently the planets rise; silently the earth moves to the +unfolding east. Sometimes a lunar rainbow appears; a strange scene +at midnight, arching over almost from the zenith down into the dark +hollow of the valley. At the first glance it seems white, but +presently faint prismatic colours are discerned.</p> +<p>Already as the summer changes into autumn there are orange +specks on the beeches in the copses, and the firs will presently be +leafless. Then those who live in the farmsteads placed at long +intervals begin to prepare for the possibilities of the winter. +There must be a good store of fuel and provisions, for it will be +difficult to go down to the villages. The ladies had best add as +many new volumes as they can to the bookshelf, for they may be +practically imprisoned for weeks together. Wind and rain are very +different here from what they are where the bulwark of the houses +shelters one side of the street, or the thick hedge protects half +the road. The fury of the storm is unchecked, and nothing can keep +out the raindrops which come with the velocity of shot. If snow +falls, as it does frequently, it does not need much to obscure the +path; at all times the path is merely a track, and the ruts worn +down to the white chalk and the white snow confuse the eyes. Flecks +of snow catch against the bunches of grass, against the +furze-bushes, and boulders; if there is a ploughed field, against +every clod, and the result is bewildering. There is nothing to +guide the steps, nothing to give the general direction, and once +off the track, unless well accustomed to the district, the +traveller may wander in vain. After a few inches have fallen the +roads are usually blocked, for all the flakes on miles of hills are +swept along and deposited into hollows where the highways run. To +be dug out now and then in the winter is a contingency the +mail-driver reckons as part of his daily life, and the waggons +going to and fro frequently pass between high walls of frozen snow. +In these wild places, which can scarcely be said to be populated at +all, a snow-storm, however, does not block the King's highways and +paralyse traffic as London permits itself to be paralysed under +similar circumstances. Men are set to work and cut a way through in +a very short time, and no one makes the least difficulty about it. +But with the tracks that lead to isolated farmsteads it is +different; there is not enough traffic to require the removal of +the obstruction, and the drifts occasionally accumulate to twenty +feet deep. The ladies are imprisoned, and must be thankful if they +have got down a box of new novels.</p> +<p>The dread snow-tempest of 1880-81 swept over these places with +tremendous fury, and the most experienced shepherds, whose whole +lives had been spent going to and fro on the downs, frequently lost +their way. There is a story of a waggoner and his lad going slowly +along the road after the thaw, and noticing an odd-looking +scarecrow in a field. They went to it, and found it was a man, +dead, and still standing as he had stiffened in the snow, the +clothes hanging on his withered body, and the eyes gone from the +sockets, picked out by the crows. It is only one of many similar +accounts, and it is thought between twenty and thirty unfortunate +persons perished. Such miserable events are of rare occurrence, but +show how open, wild, and succourless the country still remains. In +ordinary winters it is only strangers who need be cautious, and +strangers seldom appear. Even in summer time, however, a stranger, +if he stays till dusk, may easily wander for hours. Once off the +highway, all the ridges and slopes seem alike, and there is no end +to them.</p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="14">FOREST</a></h3> +<p>The beechnuts are already falling in the forest, and the swine +are beginning to search for them while yet the harvest lingers. The +nuts are formed by midsummer, and now, the husk opening, the brown +angular kernel drops out. Many of the husks fall, too; others +remain on the branches till next spring. Under the beeches the +ground is strewn with the mast as hard almost to walk on as +pebbles. Rude and uncouth as swine are in themselves, somehow they +look different under trees. The brown leaves amid which they rout, +and the brown-tinted fern behind lend something of their colour and +smooth away their ungainliness. Snorting as they work with very +eagerness of appetite, they are almost wild, approaching in a +measure to their ancestors, the savage boars. Under the trees the +imagination plays unchecked, and calls up the past as if yew bow +and broad arrow were still in the hunter's hands. So little is +changed since then. The deer are here still. Sit down on the root +of this oak (thinly covered with moss), and on that very spot it is +quite possible a knight fresh home from the Crusades may have +rested and feasted his eyes on the lovely green glades of his own +unsurpassed England. The oak was there then, young and strong; it +is here now, ancient, but sturdy. Rarely do you see an oak fall of +itself. It decays to the last stump; it does not fall. The sounds +are the same—the tap as a ripe acorn drops, the rustle of a +leaf which comes down slowly, the quick rushes of mice playing in +the fern. A movement at one side attracts the glance, and there is +a squirrel darting about. There is another at the very top of the +beech yonder out on the boughs, nibbling the nuts. A brown spot a +long distance down the glade suddenly moves, and thereby shows +itself to be a rabbit. The bellowing sound that comes now and then +is from the stags, which are preparing to fight. The swine snort, +and the mast and leaves rustle as they thrust them aside. So little +is changed: these are the same sounds and the same movements, just +as in the olden time.</p> +<p>The soft autumn sunshine, shorn of summer glare, lights up with +colour the fern, the fronds of which are yellow and brown, the +leaves, the grey grass, and hawthorn sprays already turned. It +seems as if the early morning's mists have the power of tinting +leaf and fern, for so soon as they commence the green hues begin to +disappear. There are swathes of fern yonder, cut down like grass or +corn, the harvest of the forest. It will be used for litter and for +thatching sheds. The yellow stalks—the stubble—will +turn brown and wither through the winter, till the strong spring +shoot conies up and the anemones flower. Though the sunbeams reach +the ground here, half the green glade is in shadow, and for one +step that you walk in sunlight ten are in shade. Thus, partly +concealed in full day, the forest always contains a mystery. The +idea that there may be something in the dim arches held up by the +round columns of the beeches lures the footsteps onwards. Something +must have been lately in the circle under the oak where the fern +and bushes remain at a distance and wall in a lawn of green. There +is nothing on the grass but the upheld leaves that have dropped, no +mark of any creature, but this is not decisive; if there are no +physical signs, there is a feeling that the shadow is not vacant. +In the thickets, perhaps—the shadowy thickets with front of +thorn—it has taken refuge and eluded us. Still onward the +shadows lead us in vain but pleasant chase.</p> +<p>These endless trees are a city to the tree-building birds. The +round knot-holes in the beeches, the holes in the elms and oaks; +they find them all out. From these issue the immense flocks of +starlings which, when they alight on an isolated elm in winter, +make it suddenly black. From these, too, come forth the tits, not +so welcome to the farmer, as he considers they reduce his fruit +crop; and in these the gaudy woodpeckers breed. With starlings, +wood-pigeons, and rooks the forest is crowded like a city in +spring, but now in autumn it is comparatively deserted. The birds +are away in the fields, some at the grain, others watching the +plough, and following it so soon as a furrow is opened. But the +stoats are busy—they have not left, nor the weasels; and so +eager are they that, though they hide in the fern at first, in a +minute or two they come out again, and so get shot.</p> +<p>Like the fields, which can only support a certain proportion of +cattle, the forest, wide as it seems, can only maintain a certain +number of deer. Carrying the same thought further, it will be +obvious that the forest, or England in a natural state, could only +support a limited human population. Is this why the inhabitants of +countries like France, where they cultivate every rood and try to +really keep a man to a rood, do not increase in number? Certainly +there is a limit in nature which can only be overcome by artificial +aid. After wandering for some time in a forest like this, the +impression arises that the fauna is not now large enough to be in +thorough keeping with the trees—their age and size and +number. The breadth of the arboreal landscape requires a longer +list of living creatures, and creatures of greater bulk. The stoat +and weasel are lost in bramble and fern, the squirrels in the +branches; the fox is concealed, and the badger; the rabbit, too, is +small. There are only the deer, and there is a wide gap between +them and the hares. Even the few cattle which are permitted to +graze are better than nothing; though not wild, yet standing in +fern to their shoulders and browsing on the lower branches, they +are, at all events, animals for the time in nearly a natural state. +By watching them it is apparent how well the original wild cattle +agreed with the original scenery of the island. One almost regrets +the marten and polecat, though both small creatures, and wishes +that the fox would come forth more by day. These acres of bracken +and impenetrable thickets need more inhabitants; how well they are +fitted for the wild boar! Such thoughts are, of course, only +thoughts, and we must be thankful that we have as many wild +creatures left as we have.</p> +<p>Looking at the soil as we walk, where it is exposed by the roots +of a fallen tree, or where there is an old gravel pit, the question +occurs whether forests, managed as they are in old countries, ever +really increase the fertility of the earth? That decaying +vegetation produces a fine mould cannot be disputed; but it seems +here that there is no more decaying vegetation than is required for +the support of the trees themselves. The leaves that fall—the +million million leaves—blown to and fro, at last disappear, +absorbed into the ground. So with quantities of the lesser twigs +and branches; but these together do not supply more material to the +soil than is annually abstracted by the extensive roots of trees, +of bushes, and by the fern. If timber is felled, it is removed, and +the bark and boughs with it; the stump, too, is grubbed and split +for firewood. If a tree dies it is presently sawn off and cut up +for some secondary use or other. The great branches which +occasionally fall are some one's perquisite. When the thickets are +thinned out, the fagots are carted away, and much of the fern is +also removed. How, then, can there be any accumulation of +fertilising material? Rather the reverse; it is, if anything, taken +away, and the soil must be less rich now than it was in bygone +centuries. Left to itself the process would be the reverse, every +tree as it fell slowly enriching the spot where it mouldered, and +all the bulk of the timber converted into fertile earth. It was in +this way that the American forests laid the foundation of the +inexhaustible wheat-lands there. But the modern management of a +forest tends in the opposite direction—too much is removed; +for if it is wished to improve a soil by the growth of timber, +something must be left in it besides the mere roots. The leaves, +even, are not all left; they have a value for gardening purposes: +though, of course, the few cartloads collected make no appreciable +difference. There is always something going on in the forest; and +more men are employed than would be supposed. In the winter the +selected elms are thrown and the ash poles cut; in the spring the +oak timber comes down and is barked; in the autumn the fern is cut. +Splitting up wood goes on nearly all the year round, so that you +may always hear the axe. No charcoal-burning is practised, but the +mere maintenance of the fences, as, for instance, round the +pheasant enclosures, gives much to do. Deer need attention in +winter, like cattle; the game has its watchers; and ferreting lasts +for months. So that the forest is not altogether useless from the +point of view of work. But in so many hundred acres of trees these +labourers are lost to sight, and do not in the least detract from +its wild appearance. Indeed, the occasional ring of the axe or the +smoke rising from the woodman's fire accentuates the fact that it +is a forest. The oaks keep a circle round their base and stand at a +majestic distance from each other, so that the wind and the +sunshine enter, and their precincts are sweet and pleasant. The +elms gather together, rubbing their branches in the gale till the +bark is worn off and the boughs die; the shadow is deep under them, +and moist, favourable to rank grass and coarse mushrooms. Beneath +the ashes, after the first frost, the air is full of the bitterness +of their blackened leaves, which have all come down at once. By the +beeches there is little underwood, and the hollows are filled +ankle-deep with their leaves. From the pines comes a fragrant +odour, and thus the character of each group dominates the +surrounding ground. The shade is too much for many flowers, which +prefer the nooks of hedgerows. If there is no scope for the use of +"express" rifles, this southern forest really is a forest and not +an open hillside. It is a forest of trees, and there are no +woodlands so beautiful and enjoyable as these, where it is possible +to be lost a while without fear of serious consequences; where you +can walk without stepping up to the waist in a decayed tree-trunk, +or floundering in a bog; where neither venomous snake not torturing +mosquito causes constant apprehensions and constant irritation. To +the eye there is nothing but beauty; to the imagination pleasant +pageants of old time; to the ear the soothing cadence of the leaves +as the gentle breeze goes over. The beeches rear their Gothic +architecture, the oaks are planted firm like castles, unassailable. +Quick squirrels climb and dart hither and thither, deer cross the +distant glade, and, occasionally, a hawk passes like thought.</p> +<p>The something that may be in the shadow or the thicket, the +vain, pleasant chase that beckons us on, still leads the footsteps +from tree to tree, till by-and-by a lark sings, and, going to look +for it, we find the stubble outside the forest—stubble still +bright with the blue and white flowers of grey speedwell. One of +the earliest to bloom in the spring, it continues till the plough +comes again in autumn. Now looking back from the open stubble on +the high wall of trees, the touch of autumn here and there is the +more visible—oaks dotted with brown, horse chestnuts yellow, +maples orange, and the bushes beneath red with haws.</p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="15">BEAUTY IN THE COUNTRY</a></h3> +<h4 align="center">I—THE MAKING OF BEAUTY</h4> +<p>It takes a hundred and fifty years to make a beauty—a +hundred and fifty years out-of-doors. Open air, hard manual labour +or continuous exercise, good food, good clothing, some degree of +comfort, all of these, but most especially open air, must play +their part for five generations before a beautiful woman can +appear. These conditions can only be found in the country, and +consequently all beautiful women come from the country. Though the +accident of birth may cause their register to be signed in town, +they are always of country extraction.</p> +<p>Let us glance back a hundred and fifty years, say to 1735, and +suppose a yeoman to have a son about that time. That son would be +bred upon the hardest fare, but, though hard, it would be plentiful +and of honest sort. The bread would be home-baked, the beef salted +at home, the ale home-brewed. He would work all day in the fields +with the labourers, but he would have three great advantages over +them—in good and plentiful food, in good clothing, and in +home comforts. He would ride, and join all the athletic sports of +the time. Mere manual labour stiffens the limbs, gymnastic +exercises render them supple. Thus he would obtain immense strength +from simple hard work, and agility from exercise. Here, then, is a +sound constitution, a powerful frame, well knit, hardened—an +almost perfect physical existence.</p> +<p>He would marry, if fortunate, at thirty or thirty-five, +naturally choosing the most charming of his acquaintances. She +would be equally healthy and proportionally as strong, for the +ladies of those days were accustomed to work from childhood. By +custom soon after marriage she would work harder than before, +notwithstanding her husband's fair store of guineas in the +iron-bound box. The house, the dairy, the cheese-loft, would keep +her arms in training. Even since I recollect, the work done by +ladies in country houses was something astonishing, ladies by right +of well-to-do parents, by right of education and manners. Really, +it seems that there is no work a woman cannot do with the best +results for herself, always provided that it does not throw a +strain upon the loins. Healthy children sprung from such parents, +while continuing the general type, usually tend towards a +refinement of the features. Under such natural and healthy +conditions, if the mother have a good shape, the daughter is finer; +if the father be of good height, the son is taller. These children +in their turn go through the same open-air training. In course of +years, the family guineas increasing, home comforts increase, and +manners are polished. Another generation sees the cast of +countenance smoothed of its original ruggedness, while preserving +its good proportion. The hard chin becomes rounded and not too +prominent, the cheek-bones sink, the ears are smaller, a softness +spreads itself over the whole face. That which was only honest now +grows tender. Again another generation, and it is a settled axiom +that the family are handsome. The country-side, as it gossips, +agrees that the family are marked out as good-looking. Like seeks +like, as we know; the handsome intermarry with the handsome. Still, +the beauty has not arrived yet, nor is it possible to tell whether +she will appear from the female or male branches. But in the fifth +generation appear she does, with the original features so moulded +and softened by time, so worked and refined and sweetened, so +delicate and yet so rich in blood, that she seems like a new +creation that has suddenly started into being. No one has watched +and recorded the slow process which has thus finally resulted. No +one could do so, because it has spread over a century and a half. +If any one will consider, they will agree that the sentiment at the +sight of a perfect beauty is as much amazement as admiration. It is +so astounding, so outside ordinary experience, that it wears the +aspect of magic.</p> +<p>A stationary home preserves the family intact, so that the +influences already described have time to produce their effect. +There is nothing uncommon in a yeoman's family continuing a hundred +and fifty years in the same homestead. Instances are known of such +occupation extending for over two hundred years; cases of three +hundred years may be found: now and then one is known to exceed +that, and there is said to be one that has not moved for six +hundred. Granting the stock in its origin to have been fairly well +proportioned, and to have been subject for such a lapse of time to +favourable conditions, the rise of beauty becomes intelligible.</p> +<p>Cities labour under every disadvantage. First, families have no +stationary home, but constantly move, so that it is rare to find +one occupying a house fifty years, and will probably become much +rarer in the future. Secondly, the absence of fresh air, and that +volatile essence, as it were, of woods, and fields, and hills, +which can be felt but not fixed. Thirdly, the sedentary employment. +Let a family be never so robust, these must ultimately affect the +constitution. If beauty appears it is too often of the unhealthy +order; there is no physique, no vigour, no richness of blood. +Beauty of the highest order is inseparable from health; it is the +outcome of health—centuries of health—and a really +beautiful woman is, in proportion, stronger than a man. It is +astonishing with what persistence a type of beauty once established +in the country will struggle to perpetuate itself against all the +drawbacks of town life after the family has removed thither.</p> +<p>When such results are produced under favourable conditions at +the yeoman's homestead, no difficulty arises in explaining why +loveliness so frequently appears in the houses of landed +proprietors. Entailed estates fix the family in one spot, and tend, +by inter-marriage, to deepen any original physical excellence. +Constant out-of-door exercise, riding, hunting, shooting, takes the +place of manual labour. All the refinements that money can +purchase, travel, education, are here at work. That the culture of +the mind can alter the expression of the individual is certain; if +continued for many generations, possibly it may leave its mark upon +the actual bodily frame. Selection exerts a most powerful influence +in these cases. The rich and titled have so wide a range to choose +from. Consider these things working through centuries, perhaps in a +more or less direct manner, since the Norman Conquest. The fame of +some such families for handsome features and well-proportioned +frames is widely spread, so much so that a descendant not handsome +is hardly regarded by the outside world as legitimate. But even +with all these advantages beauty in the fullest sense does not +appear regularly. Few indeed are those families that can boast of +more than one. It is the best of all boasts; it is almost as if the +Immortals had especially favoured their house. Beauty has no +period; it comes at intervals, unexpected! it cannot be fixed. No +wonder the earth is at its feet.</p> +<p>The fisherman's daughter ere now has reached very high in the +scale of beauty. Hardihood is the fisherman's talent by which he +wins his living from the sea. Tribal in his ways, his settlements +are almost exclusive, and his descent pure. The wind washed by the +sea enriches his blood, and of labour he has enough. Here are the +same constant factors; the stationary home keeping the family +intact, the out-door life, the air, the sea, the sun. Refinement is +absent, but these alone are so powerful that now and then beauty +appears. The lovely Irish girls, again: their forefathers have +dwelt on the mountainside since the days of Fingal, and all the +hardships of their lot cannot destroy the natural tendency to shape +and enchanting feature. Without those constant factors beauty +cannot be, but yet they will not alone produce it. There must be +something in the blood which these influences gradually ripen. If +it is not there centuries are in vain; but if it is there then it +needs these conditions. Erratic, meteor-like beauty! for how many +thousand years has man been your slave! Let me repeat, the +sentiment at the sight of a perfect beauty is as much amazement as +admiration. It so draws the heart out of itself as to seem like +magic.</p> +<p>She walks, and the very earth smiles beneath her feet. Something +comes with her that is more than mortal; witness the yearning +welcome that stretches towards her from all. As the sunshine lights +up the aspect of things, so her presence sweetens the very flowers +like dew. But the yearning welcome is, I think, the most remarkable +of the evidence that may be accumulated about it. So deep, so +earnest, so forgetful of the rest the passion of beauty is almost +sad in its intense abstraction. It is a passion, this yearning. She +walks in the glory of young life; she is really centuries old.</p> +<p>A hundred and fifty years at the least—more probably twice +that—have passed away, while from all enchanted things of +earth and air this preciousness has been drawn. From the south wind +that breathed a century and a half ago over the green wheat. From +the perfume of the growing grasses waving over honey-laden clover +and laughing veronica, hiding the greenfinches, baffling the bee. +From rose-loved hedges, woodbine, and cornflower azure-blue, where +yellowing wheat-stalks crowd up under the shadow of green firs. All +the devious brooklet's sweetness where the iris stays the sunlight; +all the wild woods hold the beauty; all the broad hill's thyme and +freedom: thrice a hundred years repeated. A hundred years of +cowslips, blue-bells, violets; purple spring and golden autumn; +sunshine, shower, and dewy mornings; the night immortal; all the +rhythm of Time unrolling. A chronicle unwritten and past all power +of writing: who shall preserve a record of the petals that fell +from the roses a century ago? The swallows to the housetops three +hundred times—think a moment of that. Thence she sprang, and +the world yearns towards her beauty as to flowers that are past. +The loveliness of seventeen is centuries old. Is this why passion +is almost sad?</p> +<h4 align="center">II—THE FORCE OF FORM</h4> +<p>Her shoulders were broad, but not too broad—just enough to +accentuate the waist, and to give a pleasant sense of ease and +power. She was strong, upright, self-reliant, finished in herself. +Her bust was full, but not too prominent—more after nature +than the dressmaker. There was something, though, of the +corset-maker in her waist, it appeared naturally fine, and had been +assisted to be finer. But it was in the hips that the woman was +perfect:—fulness without coarseness; large but not big: in a +word, nobly proportioned. Now imagine a black dress adhering to +this form. From the shoulders to the ankles it fitted "like a +glove." There was not a wrinkle, a fold, a crease, smooth as if +cast in a mould, and yet so managed that she moved without effort. +Every undulation of her figure, as she stepped lightly forward +flowed to the surface. The slight sway of the hip as the foot was +lifted, the upward and <i>inward</i> movement of the limb as the +knee was raised, the straightening as the instep felt her weight, +each change as the limb described the curves of walking was +repeated in her dress. At every change of position she was as +gracefully draped as before. All was revealed, yet all concealed. +As she passed there was the sense of a presence—the presence +of perfect form. She was lifted as she moved above the ground by +the curves of beauty as rapid revolution in a curve suspends the +down-dragging of gravity. A force went by—the force of +animated perfect form.</p> +<p>Merely as an animal, how grand and beautiful is a perfect woman! +Simply as a living, breathing creature, can anything imaginable +come near her?</p> +<p>There is such strength in shape—such force in form. +Without muscular development shape conveys the impression of the +greatest of all strength—that is, of completeness in itself. +The ancient philosophy regarded a globe as the most perfect of all +bodies, because it was the same—that is, it was perfect and +complete in itself—from whatever point it was contemplated. +Such is woman's form when nature's intent is fulfilled in beauty, +and that beauty gives the idea of self-contained power.</p> +<p>A full-grown woman is, too, physically stronger than a man. Her +physique excels man's. Look at her torso, at the size, the fulness, +the rounded firmness, the depth of the chest. There is a nobleness +about it. Shoulders, arms, limbs, all reach a breadth of make +seldom seen in man. There is more than merely +sufficient—there is a luxuriance indicating a surpassing +vigour. And this occurs without effort. She needs no long manual +labour, no exhaustive gymnastic exercise, nor any special care in +food or training. It is difficult not to envy the superb physique +and beautiful carriage of some women. They are so strong without +effort.</p> +<h4 align="center">III—AN ARM</h4> +<p>A large white arm, bare, in the sunshine, to the shoulder, +carelessly leant against a low red wall, lingers in my memory. +There was a house roofed with old grey stone slates in the +background, and peaches trained up by the window. The low garden +wall of red brick—ancient red brick, not the pale, dusty +blocks of these days—was streaked with dry mosses hiding the +mortar. Clear and brilliant, the gaudy sun of morning shone down +upon her as she stood in the gateway, resting her arm on the red +wall, and pressing on the mosses which the heat had dried. Her face +I do not remember, only the arm. She had come out from dairy work, +which needs bare arms, and stood facing the bold sun. It was very +large—some might have called it immense—and yet natural +and justly proportioned to the woman, her work, and her physique. +So immense an arm was like a revelation of the vast physical +proportions which our race is capable of attaining under favourable +conditions. Perfectly white—white as the milk in which it was +often plunged—smooth and pleasant in the texture of the skin, +it was entirely removed from coarseness. The might of its size was +chiefly by the shoulder; the wrist was not large, nor the hand. +Colossal, white, sunlit, bare—among the trees and the meads +around it was a living embodiment of the limbs we attribute to the +first dwellers on earth.</p> +<h4 align="center">IV—LIPS</h4> +<p>The mouth is the centre of woman's beauty. To the lips the +glance is attracted the moment she approaches, and their shape +remains in the memory longest. Curve, colour, and substance are the +three essentials of the lips, but these are nothing without +mobility, the soul of the mouth. If neither sculpture, nor the +palette with its varied resources, can convey the spell of perfect +lips, how can it be done in black letters of ink only? Nothing is +so difficult, nothing so beautiful. There are lips which have an +elongated curve (of the upper one), ending with a slight curl, like +a ringlet at the end of a tress, like those tiny wavelets on a +level sand which float in before the tide, or like a frond of fern +unrolling. In this curl there lurks a smile, so that she can +scarcely open her mouth without a laugh, or the look of one. These +upper lips are drawn with parallel lines, the verge is defined by +two lines near together, enclosing the narrowest space possible, +which is ever so faintly less coloured than the substance of the +lip. This makes the mouth appear larger than it really is; the bow, +too, is more flattened than in the pure Greek lip. It is beautiful, +but not perfect, tempting, mischievous, not retiring, and belongs +to a woman who is never long alone. To describe it first is +natural, because this mouth is itself the face, and the rest of the +features are grouped to it. If you think of her you think of her +mouth only—the face appears as memory acts, but the mouth is +distinct, the remainder uncertain. She laughs and the curl runs +upwards, so that you must laugh too, you cannot help it. Had the +curl gone downwards, as with habitually melancholy people, you +might have withstood her smile. The room is never dull where she +is, for there is a distinct character in it—a woman—and +not a mere living creature, and it is noticeable that if there are +five or six or more present, somehow the conversation centres round +her.</p> +<p>There was a lady I knew who had lips like these. Of the kind +they were perfect. Though she was barely fourteen she was +<i>the</i> woman of that circle by the magnetism of her mouth. When +we all met together in the evening all that went on in some way or +other centred about her. By consent the choice of what game should +be played was left to her to decide. She was asked if it was not +time for some one to sing, and the very mistress of the household +referred to her whether we should have another round or go in to +supper. Of course, she always decided as she supposed the hostess +wished. At supper, if there was a delicacy on the table it was +invariably offered to her. The eagerness of the elderly gentlemen, +who presumed on their grey locks and conventional harmlessness to +press their attentions upon her, showed who was the most attractive +person in the room. Younger men feel a certain reserve, and do not +reveal their inclinations before a crowd, but the harmless old +gentleman makes no secret of his admiration. She managed them all, +old and young, with unconscious tact, and never left the ranks of +the other ladies as a crude flirt would have done. This tact and +way of modestly holding back when so many would have pushed her too +much to the front retained for her the good word of her own sex. If +a dance was proposed it was left to her to say yes or no, and if it +was not too late the answer was usually in the affirmative. So in +the morning, should we make an excursion to some view or pleasant +wood, all eyes rested upon her, and if she thought it fine enough +away we went.</p> +<p>Her features were rather fine, but not especially so; her +complexion a little dusky, eyes grey, and dark hair; her figure +moderately tall, slender but shapely. She was always dressed well; +a certain taste marked her in everything. Upon introduction no one +would have thought anything of her; they would have said, +"insignificant—plain;" in half an hour, "different to most +girls;" in an hour, "extremely pleasant;" in a day, "a singularly +attractive girl;" and so on, till her empire was established. It +was not the features—it was the mouth, the curling lips, the +vivacity and life that sparkled in them. There is wine, +deep-coloured, strong, but smooth at the surface. There is +champagne with its richness continually rushing to the rim. Her +lips flowed with champagne. It requires a clever man indeed to +judge of men; now how could so young and inexperienced a creature +distinguish the best from so many suitors?</p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="16">OUT OF DOORS IN FEBRUARY</a></h3> +<p>The cawing of the rooks in February shows that the time is +coming when their nests will be re-occupied. They resort to the +trees, and perch above the old nests to indicate their rights; for +in the rookery possession is the law, and not nine-tenths of it +only. In the slow dull cold of winter even these noisy birds are +quiet, and as the vast flocks pass over, night and morning, to and +from the woods in which they roost, there is scarcely a sound. +Through the mist their black wings advance in silence, the jackdaws +with them are chilled into unwonted quiet, and unless you chance to +look up the crowd may go over unnoticed. But so soon as the waters +begin to make a sound in February, running in the ditches and +splashing over stones, the rooks commence the speeches and +conversations which will continue till late into the following +autumn.</p> +<p>The general idea is that they pair in February, but there are +some reasons for thinking that the rooks, in fact, choose their +males at the end of the preceding summer. They are then in large +flocks, and if only casually glanced at appear mixed together +without any order or arrangement. They move on the ground and fly +in the air so close, one beside the other, that at the first glance +or so you cannot distinguish them apart. Yet if you should be +lingering along the by-ways of the fields as the acorns fall, and +the leaves come rustling down in the warm sunny autumn afternoons, +and keep an observant eye upon the rooks in the trees, or on the +fresh-turned furrows, they will be seen to act in couples. On the +ground couples alight near each other, on the trees they perch near +each other, and in the air fly side by side. Like soldiers each has +his comrade. Wedged in the ranks every man looks like his fellow, +and there seems no tie between them but a common discipline. +Intimate acquaintance with barrack or camp life would show that +every one had his friend. There is also the mess, or companionship +of half a dozen, or dozen, or more, and something like this exists +part of the year in the armies of the rooks. After the nest time is +over they flock together, and each family of three or four flies in +concert. Later on they apparently choose their own particular +friends, that is the young birds do so. All through the winter +after, say October, these pairs keep together, though lost in the +general mass to the passing spectator. If you alarm them while +feeding on the ground in winter, supposing you have not got a gun, +they merely rise up to the nearest tree, and it may then be +observed that they do this in pairs. One perches on a branch and a +second comes to him. When February arrives, and they resort to the +nests to look after or seize on the property there, they are in +fact already paired, though the almanacs put down St. Valentine's +day as the date of courtship.</p> +<p>There is very often a warm interval in February, sometimes a few +days earlier and sometimes later, but as a rule it happens that a +week or so of mild sunny weather occurs about this time. Released +from the grip of the frost, the streams trickle forth from the +fields and pour into the ditches, so that while walking along the +footpath there is a murmur all around coming from the rush of +water. The murmur of the poets is indeed louder in February than in +the more pleasant days of summer, for then the growth of aquatic +grasses checks the flow and stills it, whilst in February every +stone, or flint, or lump of chalk divides the current and causes a +vibration, With this murmur of water, and mild time, the rooks caw +incessantly, and the birds at large essay to utter their welcome of +the sun. The wet furrows reflect the rays so that the dark earth +gleams, and in the slight mist that stays farther away the light +pauses and fills the vapour with radiance. Through this luminous +mist the larks race after each other twittering, and as they turn +aside, swerving in their swift flight, their white breasts appear +for a moment. As while standing by a pool the fishes came into +sight, emerging as they swim round from the shadow of the deeper +water, so the larks dart over the low edge, and through the mist, +and pass before you, and are gone again. All at once one checks his +pursuit, forgets the immediate object, and rises, singing as he +soars. The notes fall from the air over the dark wet earth, over +the dank grass, and broken withered fern of the hedge, and +listening to them it seems for a moment spring. There is sunshine +in the song; the lark and the light are one. He gives us a few +minutes of summer in February days. In May he rises before as yet +the dawn is come, and the sunrise flows down to us under through +his notes. On his breast, high above the earth, the first rays fall +as the rim of the sun edges up at the eastward hill. The lark and +the light are as one, and wherever he glides over the wet furrows +the glint of the sun goes with him. Anon alighting he runs between +the lines of the green corn. In hot summer, when the open hillside +is burned with bright light, the larks are then singing and +soaring. Stepping up the hill laboriously, suddenly a lark starts +into the light and pours forth a rain of unwearied notes overhead. +With bright light, and sunshine, and sunrise, and blue skies the +bird is so associated in the mind, that even to see him in the +frosty days of wjnter, at least assures us that summer will +certainly return.</p> +<p>Ought not winter, in allegorical designs, the rather to be +represented with such things that might suggest hope than such as +convey a cold and grim despair? The withered leaf, the snowflake, +the hedging bill that cuts and destroys, why these? Why not rather +the dear larks for one? They fly in flocks, and amid the white +expanse of snow (in the south) their pleasant twitter or call is +heard as they sweep along seeking some grassy spot cleared by the +wind. The lark, the bird of the light, is there in the bitter short +days. Put the lark then for winter, a sign of hope, a certainty of +summer. Put, too, the sheathed bud, for if you search the hedge you +will find the buds there, on tree and bush, carefully wrapped +around with the case which protects them as a cloak. Put, too, the +sharp needles of the green corn; let the wind clear it of snow a +little way, and show that under cold clod and colder snow the green +thing pushes up, knowing that summer must come. Nothing despairs +but man. Set the sharp curve of the white new moon in the sky: she +is white in true frost, and yellow a little if it is devising +change. Set the new moon as something that symbols an increase. Set +the shepherd's crook in a corner as a token that the flocks are +already enlarged in number. The shepherd is the symbolic man of the +hardest winter time. His work is never more important than then. +Those that only roam the fields when they are pleasant in May, see +the lambs at play in the meadow, and naturally think of lambs and +May flowers. But the lamb was born in the adversity of snow. Or you +might set the morning star, for it burns and burns and glitters in +the winter dawn, and throws forth beams like those of metal +consumed in oxygen. There is nought that I know by comparison with +which I might indicate the glory of the morning star, while yet the +dark night hides in the hollows. The lamb is born in the fold. The +morning star glitters in the sky. The bud is alive in its sheath; +the green corn under the snow; the lark twitters as he passes. Now +these to me are the allegory of winter.</p> +<p>These mild hours in February check the hold which winter has +been gaining, and as it were, tear his claws out of the earth, +their prey. If it has not been so bitter previously, when this Gulf +stream or current of warmer air enters the expanse it may bring +forth a butterfly and tenderly woo the first violet into flower. +But this depends on its having been only moderately cold before, +and also upon the stratum, whether it is backward clay, or forward +gravel and sand. Spring dates are quite different according to the +locality, and when violets may be found in one district, in another +there is hardly a woodbine-leaf out. The border line may be traced, +and is occasionally so narrow, one may cross over it almost at a +step. It would sometimes seem as if even the nut-tree bushes bore +larger and finer nuts on the warmer soil, and that they ripened +quicker. Any curious in the first of things, whether it be a leaf, +or flower, or a bird, should bear this in mind, and not be +discouraged because he hears some one else has already discovered +or heard something.</p> +<p>A little note taken now at this bare time of the kind of earth +may lead to an understanding of the district. It is plain where the +plough has turned it, where the rabbits have burrowed and thrown it +out, where a tree has been felled by the gales, by the brook where +the bank is worn away, or by the sediment at the shallow places. +Before the grass and weeds, and corn and flowers have hidden it, +the character of the soil is evident at these natural sections +without the aid of a spade. Going slowly along the +footpath—indeed you cannot go fast in moist February—it +is a good time to select the places and map them out where herbs +and flowers will most likely come first. All the autumn lies prone +on the ground. Dead dark leaves, some washed to their woody frames, +short grey stalks, some few decayed hulls of hedge fruit, and among +these the mars or stocks of the plants that do not die away, but +lie as it were on the surface waiting. Here the strong teazle will +presently stand high; here the ground-ivy will dot the mound with +bluish-purple. But it will be necessary to walk slowly to find the +ground-ivy flowers under the cover of the briers. These bushes will +be a likely place for a blackbird's nest; this thick close hawthorn +for a bullfinch; these bramble thickets with remnants of old nettle +stalks will be frequented by the whitethroat after a while. The +hedge is now but a lattice-work which will before long be hung with +green. Now it can be seen through, and now is the time to arrange +for future discovery. In May everything will be hidden, and unless +the most promising places are selected beforehand, it will not be +easy to search them out. The broad ditch will be arched over, the +plants rising on the mound will meet the green boughs drooping, and +all the vacancy will be filled. But having observed the spot in +winter you can almost make certain of success in spring.</p> +<p>It is this previous knowledge which invests those who are always +on the spot, those who work much in the fields or have the care of +woods, with their apparent prescience. They lead the new comer to a +hedge, or the corner of a copse, or a bend of the brook, announcing +beforehand that they feel assured something will be found there; +and so it is. This, too, is one reason why a fixed observer usually +sees more than one who rambles a great deal and covers ten times +the space. The fixed observer who hardly goes a mile from home is +like the man who sits still by the edge of a crowd, and by-and-by +his lost companion returns to him. To walk about in search of +persons in a crowd is well known to be the worst way of recovering +them. Sit still and they will often come by. In a far more certain +manner this is the case with birds and animals. They all come back. +During a twelvemonth probably every creature would pass over a +given locality: every creature that is not confined to certain +places. The whole army of the woods and hedges marches across a +single farm in twelve months. A single tree—especially an old +tree—is visited by four-fifths of the birds that ever perch +in the course of that period. Every year, too, brings something +fresh, and adds new visitors to the list. Even the wild sea birds +are found inland, and some that scarce seem able to fly at all are +cast far ashore by the gales. It is difficult to believe that one +would not see more by extending the journey, but, in fact, +experience proves that the longer a single locality is studied the +more is found in it. But you should know the places in winter as +well as in tempting summer, when song and shade and colour attract +every one to the field. You should face the mire and slippery path. +Nature yields nothing to the sybarite. The meadow glows with +buttercups in spring, the hedges are green, the woods lovely; but +these are not to be enjoyed in their full significance unless you +have traversed the same places when bare, and have watched the slow +fulfilment of the flowers.</p> +<p>The moist leaves that remain upon the mounds do not rustle, and +the thrush moves among them unheard. The sunshine may bring out a +rabbit, feeding along the slope of the mound, following the paths +or runs. He picks his way, he does not like wet. Though out at +night in the dewy grass of summer, in the rain-soaked grass of +winter, and living all his life in the earth, often damp nearly to +his burrows, no time, and no succession of generations can make him +like wet. He endures it, but he picks his way round the dead fern +and the decayed leaves. He sits in the bunches of long grass, but +he does not like the drops of dew on it to touch him. Water lays +his fur close, and mats it, instead of running off and leaving him +sleek. As he hops a little way at a time on the mound he chooses +his route almost as we pick ours in the mud and pools of February. +By the shore of the ditch there still stand a few dry, dead dock +stems, with some dry reddish-brown seed adhering. Some dry brown +nettle stalks remain; some grey and broken thistles; some teazles +leaning on the bushes. The power of winter has reached its utmost +now, and can go no farther. These bines which still hang in the +bushes are those of the greater bindweed, and will be used in a +month or so by many birds as conveniently curved to fit about their +nests. The stem of wild clematis, grey and bowed, could scarcely +look more dead. Fibres are peeling from it, they come off at the +touch of the fingers. The few brown feathers that perhaps still +adhere where the flowers once were are stained and discoloured by +the beating of the rain. It is not dead: it will flourish again ere +long. It is the sturdiest of creepers, facing the ferocious winds +of the hills, the tremendous rains that blow up from the sea, and +bitter frost, if only it can get its roots into soil that suits it. +In some places it takes the place of the hedge proper and becomes +itself the hedge. Many of the trunks of the elms are swathed in +minute green vegetation which has flourished in the winter, as the +clematis will in in the summer. Of all, the brambles bear the wild +works of winter best. Given only a little shelter, in the corner of +the hedges or under trees and copses they retain green leaves till +the buds burst again. The frosts tint them in autumn with crimson, +but not all turn colour or fall. The brambles are the bowers of the +birds; in these still leafy bowers they do the courting of the +spring, and under the brambles the earliest arum, and cleaver, or +avens, push up. Round about them the first white nettle flowers, +not long now; latest too, in the autumn. The white nettle sometimes +blooms so soon (always according to locality), and again so late, +that there seems but a brief interval between, as if it flowered +nearly all the year round. So the berries on the holly if let alone +often stay till summer is in, and new berries begin to appear +shortly afterwards. The ivy, too, bears its berries far into the +summer. Perhaps if the country be taken at large there is never a +time when there is not a flower of some kind out, in this or that +warm southern nook. The sun never sets, nor do the flowers ever +die. There is life always, even in the dry fir-cone that looks so +brown and sapless.</p> +<p>The path crosses the uplands where the lapwings stand on the +parallel ridges of the ploughed field like a drilled company; if +they rise they wheel as one, and in the twilight move across the +fields in bands invisible as they sweep near the ground, but seen +against the sky in rising over the trees and the hedges. There is a +plantation of fir and ash on the slope, and a narrow waggon-way +enters it, and seems to lose itself in the wood. Always approach +this spot quietly, for whatever is in the wood is sure at some time +or other to come to the open space of the track. Wood-pigeons, +pheasants, squirrels, magpies, hares, everything feathered or +furred, down to the mole, is sure to seek the open way. Butterflies +flutter through the copse by it in summer, just as you or I might +use the passage between the trees. Towards the evening the +partridges may run through to join their friends before roost-time +on the ground. Or you may see a covey there now and then, creeping +slowly with humped backs, and at a distance not unlike hedgehogs in +their motions. The spot therefore should be approached with care; +if it is only a thrush out it is a pleasure to see him at his ease +and, as he deems, unobserved. If a bird or animal thinks itself +noticed it seldom does much, some will cease singing immediately +they are looked at. The day is perceptibly longer already. As the +sun goes down, the western sky often takes a lovely green tint in +this month, and one stays to look at it, forgetting the dark and +miry way homewards. I think the moments when we forget the mire of +the world are the most precious. After a while the green corn rises +higher out of the rude earth.</p> +<p>Pure colour almost always gives the idea of fire, or rather it +is perhaps as if a light shone through as well as colour itself. +The fresh green blade of corn is like this, so pellucid, so clear +and pure in its green as to seem to shine with colour. It is not +brilliant—not a surface gleam or an enamel,—it is +stained through. Beside the moist clods the slender flags arise +filled with the sweetness of the earth. Out of the darkness +under—that darkness which knows no day save when the +ploughshare opens its chinks—they have come to the light. To +the light they have brought a colour which will attract the +sunbeams from now till harvest. They fall more pleasantly on the +corn, toned, as if they mingled with it. Seldom do we realise that +the world is practically no thicker to us than the print of our +footsteps on the path. Upon that surface we walk and act our comedy +of life, and what is beneath is nothing to us. But it is out from +that under-world, from the dead and the unknown, from the cold +moist ground, that these green blades have sprung. Yonder a +steam-plough pants up the hill, groaning with its own strength, yet +all that strength and might of wheels, and piston, and chains, +cannot drag from the earth one single blade like these. Force +cannot make it; it must grow—an easy word to speak or write, +in fact full of potency. It is this mystery of growth and life, of +beauty, and sweetness, and colour, starting forth from the clods +that gives the corn its power over me. Somehow I identify myself +with it; I live again as I see it. Year by year it is the same, and +when I see it I feel that I have once more entered on a new life. +And I think the spring, with its green corn, its violets, and +hawthorn-leaves, and increasing song, grows yearly dearer and more +dear to this our ancient earth. So many centuries have flown! Now +it is the manner with all natural things to gather as it were by +smallest particles. The merest grain of sand drifts unseen into a +crevice, and by-and-by another; after a while there is a heap; a +century and it is a mound, and then every one observes and comments +on it. Time itself has gone on like this; the years have +accumulated, first in drifts, then in heaps, and now a vast mound, +to which the mountains are knolls, rises up and overshadows us. +Time lies heavy on the world. The old, old earth is glad to turn +from the cark and care of drifted centuries to the first sweet +blades of green.</p> +<p>There is sunshine to-day after rain, and every lark is singing. +Across the vale a broad cloud-shadow descends the hillside, is lost +in the hollow, and presently, without warning, slips over the edge, +coming swiftly along the green tips. The sunshine follows—the +warmer for its momentary absence. Far, far down in a grassy coomb +stands a solitary cornrick, conical roofed, casting a lonely +shadow—marked because so solitary, and beyond it on the +rising slope is a brown copse. The leafless branches take a brown +tint in the sunlight; on the summit above there is furze; then more +hill lines drawn against the sky. In the tops of the dark pines at +the corner of the copse, could the glance sustain itself to see +them, there are finches warming themselves in the sunbeams. The +thick needles shelter them, from the current of air, and the sky is +bluer above the pines. Their hearts are full already of the happy +days to come, when the moss yonder by the beech, and the lichen on +the fir-trunk, and the loose fibres caught in the fork of an +unbending bough, shall furnish forth a sufficient mansion for their +young. Another broad cloud-shadow, and another warm embrace of +sunlight. All the serried ranks of the green corn bow at the word +of command as the wind rushes over them.</p> +<p>There is largeness and freedom here. Broad as the down and free +as the wind, the thought can roam high over the narrow roofs in the +vale. Nature has affixed no bounds to thought. All the palings, and +walls, and crooked fences deep down yonder are artificial. The +fetters and traditions, the routine, the dull roundabout which +deadens the spirit like the cold moist earth, are the merest +nothings. Here it is easy with the physical eye to look over the +highest roof. The moment the eye of the mind is filled with the +beauty of things natural an equal freedom and width of view come to +it. Step aside from the trodden footpath of personal experience, +throwing away the petty cynicism born of petty hopes disappointed. +Step out upon the broad down beside the green corn, and let its +freshness become part of life.</p> +<p>The wind passes, and it bends—let the wind, too, pass over +the spirit. From the cloud-shadow it emerges to the +sunshine—let the heart come out from the shadow of roofs to +the open glow of the sky. High above, the songs of the larks fall +as rain—receive it with open hands. Pure is the colour of the +green flags, the slender-pointed blades—let the thought be +pure as the light that shines through that colour. Broad are the +downs and open the aspect—gather the breadth and largeness of +view. Never can that view be wide enough and large enough, there +will always be room to aim higher. As the air of the hills enriches +the blood, so let the presence of these beautiful things enrich the +inner sense. One memory of the green corn, fresh beneath the sun +and wind, will lift up the heart from the clods.</p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="17">HAUNTS OF THE LAPWING</a></h3> +<h4 align="center">I—WINTER</h4> +<p>Coming like a white wall the rain reaches me, and in an instant +everything is gone from sight that is more than ten yards distant. +The narrow upland road is beaten to a darker hue, and two runnels +of water rush along at the sides, where, when the chalk-laden +streamlets dry, blue splinters of flint will be exposed in the +channels. For a moment the air seems driven away by the sudden +pressure, and I catch my breath and stand still with one shoulder +forward to receive the blow. Hiss, the land shudders under the cold +onslaught; hiss, and on the blast goes, and the sound with it, for +the very fury of the rain, after the first second, drowns its own +noise. There is not a single creature visible, the low and stunted +hedgerows, bare of leaf, could conceal nothing; the rain passes +straight through to the ground. Crooked and gnarled, the bushes are +locked together as if in no other way could they hold themselves +against the gales. Such little grass as there is on the mounds is +thin and short, and could not hide a mouse. There is no finch, +sparrow, thrush, blackbird. As the wave of rain passes over and +leaves a hollow between the waters, that which has gone and that to +come, the ploughed lands on either side are seen to be equally +bare. In furrows full of water, a hare would not sit, nor partridge +run; the larks, the patient larks which endure almost everything, +even they have gone. Furrow on furrow with flints dotted on their +slopes, and chalk lumps, that is all. The cold earth gives no sweet +petal of flower, nor can any bud of thought or bloom of imagination +start forth in the mind. But step by step, forcing a way through +the rain and over the ridge, I find a small and stunted copse down +in the next hollow. It is rather a wide hedge than a copse, and +stands by the road in the corner of a field. The boughs are bare; +still they break the storm, and it is a relief to wait a while +there and rest. After a minute or so the eye gets accustomed to the +branches and finds a line of sight through the narrow end of the +copse. Within twenty yards—just outside the copse—there +are a number of lapwings, dispersed about the furrows. One runs a +few feet forward and picks something from the ground; another runs +in the same manner to one side; a third rushes in still a third +direction. Their crests, their green-tinted wings, and white +breasts are not disarranged by the torrent. Something in the style +of the birds recalls the wagtail, though they are so much larger. +Beyond these are half a dozen more, and in a straggling line others +extend out into the field. They have found some slight shelter here +from the sweeping of the rain and wind, and are not obliged to face +it as in the open. Minutely searching every clod they gather their +food in imperceptible items from the surface.</p> +<p>Sodden leaves lie in the furrows along the side of the copse; +broken and decaying burdocks still uphold their jagged stems, but +will be soaked away by degrees; dank grasses droop outwards! the +red seed of a dock is all that remains of the berries and fruit, +the seeds and grain of autumn. Like the hedge, the copse is vacant. +Nothing moves within, watch as carefully as I may. The boughs are +blackened by wet and would touch cold. From the grasses to the +branches there is nothing any one would like to handle, and I stand +apart even from the bush that keeps away the rain. The green +plovers are the only things of life that save the earth from utter +loneliness. Heavily as the rain may fall, cold as the saturated +wind may blow, the plovers remind us of the beauty of shape, +colour, and animation. They seem too slender to withstand the +blast—they should have gone with the swallows—too +delicate for these rude hours; yet they alone face them.</p> +<p>Once more the wave of rain has passed, and yonder the hills +appear; these are but uplands. The nearest and highest has a green +rampart, visible for a moment against the dark sky, and then again +wrapped in a toga of misty cloud. So the chilled Roman drew his +toga around him in ancient days as from that spot he looked +wistfully southwards and thought of Italy. Wee-ah-wee! Some chance +movement has been noticed by the nearest bird, and away they go at +once as if with the same wings, sweeping overhead, then to the +right, then to the left, and then back again, till at last lost in +the coming shower. After they have thus vibrated to and fro long +enough, like a pendulum coming to rest, they will alight in the +open field on the ridge behind. There in drilled ranks, well closed +together, all facing the same way, they will stand for hours. Let +us go also and let the shower conceal them. Another time my path +leads over the hills.</p> +<p>It is afternoon, which in winter is evening. The sward of the +down is dry under foot, but hard, and does not lift the instep with +the springy feel of summer. The sky is gone, it is not clouded, it +is swathed in gloom. Upwards the still air thickens, and there is +no arch or vault of heaven. Formless and vague, it seems some vast +shadow descending. The sun has disappeared, and the light there +still is, is left in the atmosphere enclosed by the gloomy mist as +pools are left by a receding tide. Through the sand the water +slips, and through the mist the light glides away. Nearer comes the +formless shadow and the visible earth grows smaller. The path has +faded, and there are no means on the open downs of knowing whether +the direction pursued is right or wrong, till a boulder (which is a +landmark) is perceived. Thence the way is down the slope, the last +and limit of the hills there. It is a rough descent, the paths worn +by sheep may at any moment cause a stumble. At the foot is a +waggon-track beside a low hedge, enclosing the first arable field. +The hedge is a guide, but the ruts are deep, and it still needs +slow and careful walking. Wee-ah-wee! Up from the dusky surface of +the arable field springs a plover, and the notes are immediately +repeated by another. They can just be seen as darker bodies against +the shadow as they fly overhead. Wee-ah-wee! The sound grows +fainter as they fetch a longer circle in the gloom.</p> +<p>There is another winter resort of plovers in the valley where a +barren waste was ploughed some years ago. A few furze bushes still +stand in the hedges about it, and the corners are full of rushes. +Not all the grubbing of furze and bushes, the deep ploughing and +draining, has succeeded in rendering the place fertile like the +adjacent fields. The character of a marsh adheres to it still. So +long as there is a crop, the lapwings keep away, but as soon as the +ploughs turn up the ground in autumn they return. The place lies +low, and level with the waters in the ponds and streamlets. A mist +hangs about it in the evening, and even when there is none, there +is a distinct difference in the atmosphere while passing it. From +their hereditary home the lapwings cannot be entirely driven away. +Out of the mist comes their plaintive cry; they are hidden, and +their exact locality is not to be discovered. Where winter rules +most ruthlessly, where darkness is deepest in daylight, there the +slender plovers stay undaunted.</p> +<h4 align="center">II—SPRING</h4> +<p>A soft sound of water moving among thousands of +grass-blades—to the hearing it is as the sweetness of spring +air to the scent. It is so faint and so diffused that the exact +spot whence it issues cannot be discerned, yet it is distinct, and +my footsteps are slower as I listen. Yonder, in the corners of the +mead, the atmosphere is full of some ethereal vapour. The sunshine +stays in the air there, as if the green hedges held the wind from +brushing it away. Low and plaintive come the notes of a lapwing; +the same notes, but tender with love.</p> +<p>On this side, by the hedge, the ground is a little higher and +dry, hung over with the lengthy boughs of an oak, which give some +shade. I always feel a sense of regret when I see a seedling oak in +the grass. The two green leaves—the little stem so upright +and confident, and, though but a few inches high, already so +completely a tree—are in themselves beautiful. Power, +endurance, grandeur are there; you can grasp all with your hand, +and take a ship between the finger and thumb. Time, that sweeps +away everything, is for a while repelled; the oak will grow when +the time we know is forgotten, and when felled will be the mainstay +and safety of a generation in a future century. That the plant +should start among the grass, to be severed by the scythe or +crushed by cattle, is very pitiful; I cannot help wishing that it +could be transplanted and protected. Of the countless acorns that +drop in autumn not one in a million is permitted to become a +tree—a vast waste of strength and beauty. From the bushes by +the stile on the left hand, which I have just passed, follows the +long whistle of a nightingale. His nest is near; he sings night and +day. Had I waited on the stile, in a few minutes, becoming used to +my presence, he would have made the hawthorn vibrate, so powerful +in his voice when heard close at hand. There is not another +nightingale along this path for at least a mile, though it crosses +meadows and runs by hedges to all appearance equally suitable; but +nightingales will not pass their limits; they seem to have a +marked-out range as strictly defined as the lines of a geological +map. They will not go over to the next hedge—hardly into the +field on one side of a favourite spot, nor a yard farther along the +mound, Opposite the oak is a low fence of serrated green. Just +projecting above the edge of a brook, fast-growing flags have +thrust up their bayonet-tips. Beneath their stalks are so thick in +the shallow places that a pike can scarcely push a way between +them. Over the brook stand some high maple trees; to their thick +foliage wood-pigeons come. The entrance to a coomb, the widening +mouth of a valley, is beyond, with copses on the slopes.</p> +<p>Again the plover's notes; this time in the field immediately +behind; repeated, too, in the field on the right hand. One comes +over, and as he flies he jerks a wing upwards and partly turns on +his side in the air, rolling like a vessel in a swell. He seems to +beat the air sideways, as if against a wall, not downwards. This +habit makes his course appear so uncertain; he may go there, or +yonder, or in a third direction, more undecided than a startled +snipe. Is there a little vanity in that wanton flight? Is there a +little consciousness of the spring-freshened colours of his +plumage, and pride in the dainty touch of his wings on the sweet +wind? His love is watching his wayward course. He prolongs it. He +has but a few yards to fly to reach the well-known feeding-ground +by the brook where the grass is short; perhaps it has been eaten +off by sheep. It is a straight and easy line as a starling would +fly. The plover thinks nothing of a straight line; he winds first +with the course of the hedge, then rises aslant, uttering his cry, +wheels, and returns; now this way, direct at me, as if his object +was to display his snowy breast; suddenly rising aslant again, he +wheels once more, and goes right away from his object over above +the field whence he came. Another moment and he returns; and so to +and fro, and round and round, till with a sidelong, unexpected +sweep he alights by the brook. He stands a minute, then utters his +cry, and runs a yard or so forward. In a little while a second +plover arrives from the field behind. He too dances a maze in the +air before he settles. Soon a third joins them. They are visible at +that spot because the grass is short, elsewhere they would be +hidden. If one of these rises and flies to and fro almost instantly +another follows, and then it is, indeed, a dance before they +alight. The wheeling, maze-tracing, devious windings continue till +the eye wearies and rests with pleasure on a passing butterfly. +These birds have nests in the meadows adjoining; they meet here as +a common feeding-ground. Presently they will disperse, each +returning to his mate at the nest. Half an hour afterwards they +will meet once more, either here or on the wing.</p> +<p>In this manner they spend their time from dawn through the +flower-growing day till dusk. When the sun arises over the hill +into the sky already blue the plovers have been up a long while. +All the busy morning they go to and fro—the busy morning, +when the wood-pigeons cannot rest in the copses on the coomb-side, +but continually fly in and out; when the blackbirds whistle in the +oaks, when the bluebells gleam with purplish lustre. At noontide, +in the dry heat, it is pleasant to listen to the sound of water +moving among the thousand thousand grass-blades of the mead. The +flower-growing day lengthens out beyond the sunset, and till the +hedges are dim the lapwings do not cease.</p> +<p>Leaving now the shade of the oak, I follow the path into the +meadow on the right, stepping by the way over a streamlet, which +diffuses its rapid current broadcast over the sward till it +collects again and pours into the brook. This next meadow is +somewhat more raised, and not watered; the grass is high and full +of buttercups. Before I have gone twenty yards a lapwing rises out +in the field, rushes towards me through the air, and circles round +my head, making as if to dash at me, and uttering shrill cries. +Immediately another comes from the mead behind the oak; then a +third from over the hedge, and all those that have been feeding by +the brook, till I am encircled with them. They wheel round, dive, +rise aslant, cry, and wheel again, always close over me, till I +have walked some distance, when, one by one, they fall off, and, +still uttering threats, retire. There is a nest in this meadow, +and, although it is, no doubt, a long way from the path, my +presence even in the field, large as it is, is resented. The couple +who imagine their possessions threatened are quickly joined by +their friends, and there is no rest till I have left their +treasures far behind.</p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="18">OUTSIDE LONDON</a></h3> +<h4 align="center">I</h4> +<p>There was something dark on the grass under an elm in the field +by the barn. It rose and fell; and we saw that it was a +wing—a single black wing, striking the ground instead of the +air; indeed, it seemed to come out of the earth itself, the body of +the bird being hidden by the grass. This black wing flapped and +flapped, but could not lift itself—a single wing of course +could not fly. A rook had dropped out of the elm and was lying +helpless at the foot of the tree—it is a favourite tree with +rooks; they build in it, and at that moment there were twenty or +more perched aloft, cawing and conversing comfortably, without the +least thought of their dying comrade. Not one of all the number +descended to see what was the matter, nor even fluttered half-way +down. This elm is their clubhouse, where they meet every afternoon +as the sun gets low to discuss the scandals of the day, before +retiring to roost in the avenues and tree-groups of the park +adjacent. While we looked, a peacock came round the corner of the +barn; he had caught sight of the flapping wing, and approached with +long deliberate steps and outstretched neck. "Ee-aw! Ee-aw! What's +this? What's this?" he inquired in bird-language. "Ee-aw! Ee-aw! My +friends, see here!" Gravely, and step by step, he came nearer and +nearer, slowly, and not without some fear, till curiosity had +brought him within a yard. In a moment or two a peahen followed and +also stretched out her neck—the two long necks pointing at +the black flapping wing. A second peacock and peahen approached, +and the four great birds stretched out their necks towards the +dying rook—a "crowner's quest" upon the unfortunate +creature.</p> +<p>If any one had been at hand to sketch it, the scene would have +been very grotesque, and not without a ludicrous sadness. There was +the tall elm tinted with yellow, the black rooks high above flying +in and out, yellow leaves twirling down, the blue peacocks with +their crests, the red barn behind, the golden sun afar shining low +through the trees of the park, the brown autumn sward, a grey +horse, orange maple bushes. There was the quiet tone of the coming +evening—the early evening of October—such an evening as +the rook had seen many a time from the tops of the trees. A man +dies, and the crowd goes on passing under the window along the +street without a thought. The rook died, and his friends, who had +that day been with him in the oaks feasting on acorns, who had been +with him in the fresh-turned furrows, born perhaps in the same +nest, utterly forgot him before he was dead. With a great common +caw—a common shout—they suddenly left the tree in a +bevy and flew towards the park. The peacocks having brought in +their verdict, departed, and the dead bird was left alone.</p> +<p>In falling out of the elm, the rook had alighted partly on his +side and partly on his back, so that he could only flutter one +wing, the other being held down by his own weight. He had probably +died from picking up poisoned grain somewhere, or from a parasite. +The weather had been open, and he could not have been starved. At a +distance, the rook's plumage appears black; but close at hand it +will be found a fine blue-black, glossy, and handsome.</p> +<p>These peacocks are the best "rain-makers" in the place; whenever +they cry much, it is sure to rain; and if they persist day after +day, the rain is equally continuous. From the wall by the barn, or +the elm-branch above, their cry resounds like the wail of a +gigantic cat, and is audible half a mile or more. In the summer, I +found one of them, a peacock in the fall brilliance of his colours, +on a rail in the hedge under a spreading maple bush. His rich-hued +neck, the bright light and shadow, the tall green meadow grass, +brought together the finest colours. It is curious that a bird so +distinctly foreign, plumed for the Asiatic sun, should fit so well +with English meads. His splendid neck immediately pleases, pleases +the first time it is seen, and on the fiftieth occasion. I see +these every day, and always stop to look at them; the colour +excites the sense of beauty in the eye, and the shape satisfies the +idea of form. The undulating curve of the neck is at once approved +by the intuitive judgment of the mind, and it is a pleasure to the +mind to reiterate that judgment frequently. It needs no teaching to +see its beauty—the feeling comes of itself.</p> +<p>How different with the turkey-cock which struts round the same +barn! A fine big bird he is, no doubt; but there is no intrinsic +beauty about him; on the contrary, there is something fantastic in +his style and plumage. He has a way of drooping his wings as if +they were armour-plates to shield him from a shot. The ornaments +upon his head and beak are in the most awkward position. He was put +together in a dream, of uneven and odd pieces that live and move, +but do not fit. Ponderously gawky, he steps as if the world was +his, like a "motley" crowned in sport. He is good eating, but he is +not beautiful. After the eye has been accustomed to him for some +time—after you have fed him every day and come to take an +interest in him—after you have seen a hundred turkey-cocks, +then he may become passable, or, if you have the fancier's taste, +exquisite. Education is requisite first; you do not fall in love at +first sight. The same applies to fancy-pigeons, and indeed many pet +animals, as pugs, which come in time to be animated with a soul in +some people's eyes. Compare a pug with a greyhound straining at the +leash. Instantly he is slipped he is gone as a wave let loose. His +flexible back bends and undulates, arches and unarches, rises and +falls as a wave rises and rolls on. His pliant ribs open; his whole +frame "gives" and stretches, and closing again in a curve, springs +forward. Movement is as easy to him as to the wave, which melting, +is remoulded, and sways onward. The curve of the greyhound is not +only the line of beauty, but a line which suggests motion; and it +is the idea of motion, I think, which so strongly appeals to the +mind.</p> +<p>We are often scornfully treated as a nation by people who write +about art, because they say we have no taste; we cannot make art +jugs for the mantelpiece, crockery for the bracket, screens for the +fire; we cannot even decorate the wall of a room as it should be +done. If these are the standards by which a sense of art is to be +tried, their scorn is to a certain degree just. But suppose we try +another standard. Let us put aside the altogether false opinion +that art consists alone in something actually made, or painted, or +decorated, in carvings, colourings, touches of brush or chisel. Let +us look at our lives. I mean to say that there is no nation so +thoroughly and earnestly artistic as the English in their lives, +their joys, their thoughts, their hopes. Who loves nature like an +Englishman? Do Italians care for their pale skies? I never heard +so. We go all over the world in search of beauty—to the keen +north, to the cape whence the midnight sun is visible, to the +extreme south, to the interior of Africa, gazing at the vast +expanse of Tanganyika or the marvellous falls of the Zambesi. We +admire the temples and tombs and palaces of India; we speak of the +Alhambra of Spain almost in whispers, so deep is our reverent +admiration; we visit the Parthenon. There is not a picture or a +statue in Europe we have not sought. We climb the mountains for +their views and the sense of grandeur they inspire; we roam over +the wide ocean to the coral islands of the far Pacific; we go deep +into the woods of the West; and we stand dreamily under the +Pyramids of the East. What part is there of the English year which +has not been sung by the poets? all of whom are full of its +loveliness; and our greatest of all, Shakespeare, carries, as it +were, armfuls of violets, and scatters roses and golden wheat +across his pages, which are simply fields written with human +life.</p> +<p>This is art indeed—art in the mind and soul, infinitely +deeper, surely, than the construction of crockery, jugs for the +mantelpiece, dados, or even of paintings. The lover of nature has +the highest art in his soul. So, I think, the bluff English farmer +who takes such pride and delight in his dogs and horses, is a much +greater man of art than any Frenchman preparing with cynical +dexterity of hand some coloured presentment of flashy beauty for +the <i>salon</i>. The English girl who loves her horse—and +English girls <i>do</i> love their horses most intensely—is +infinitely more artistic in that fact than the cleverest painter on +enamel. They who love nature are the real artists; the "artists" +are copyists, St. John the naturalist, when exploring the recesses +of the Highlands, relates how he frequently came in contact with +men living in the rude Highland way—forty years since, no +education then—whom at first you would suppose to be morose, +unobservant, almost stupid. But when they found out that their +visitor would stay for hours gazing in admiration at their glens +and mountains, their demeanour changed. Then the truth appeared: +they were fonder than he was himself of the beauties of their hills +and lakes; they could see the art <i>there</i>, though perhaps they +had never seen a picture in their lives, certainly not any +blue-and-white crockery. The Frenchman flings his fingers +dexterously over the canvas, but he has never had that in his heart +which the rude Highlander had.</p> +<p>The path across the arable field was covered with a design of +bird's feet. The reversed broad arrow of the fore-claws, and the +straight line of the hinder claw, trailed all over it in curving +lines. In the dry dust, their feet were marked as clearly as a seal +on wax—their trails wound this way and that, and crossed as +their quick eyes had led them to turn to find something. For fifty +or sixty yards the path was worked with an inextricable design; it +was a pity to step on it and blot out the traces of those little +feet. Their hearts so happy, their eyes so observant, the earth so +bountiful to them with its supply of food, and the late warmth of +the autumn sun lighting up their life. They know and feel the +different loveliness of the seasons as much as we do. Every one +must have noticed their joyousness in spring; they are quiet, but +so very, very busy in the height of summer; as autumn comes on they +obviously delight in the occasional hours of warmth. The marks of +their little feet are almost sacred—a joyous life has been +there—do not obliterate it. It is so delightful to know that +something is happy.</p> +<p>The hawthorn hedge that goes down the slope is more coloured +than the hedges in the sheltered plain. Yonder, a low bush on the +brow is a deep crimson; the hedge as it descends varies from brown +to yellow, dotted with red haws, and by the gateway has another +spot of crimson. The lime trees turn yellow from top to bottom, all +the leaves together; the elms by one or two branches at a time. A +lime tree thus entirely coloured stands side by side with an elm, +their boughs intermingling; the elm is green except a line at the +outer extremity of its branches. A red light as of fire plays in +the beeches, so deep is their orange tint in which the sunlight is +caught. An oak is dotted with buff, while yet the main body of the +foliage is untouched. With these tints and sunlight, nature gives +us so much more than the tree gives. A tree is nothing but a tree +in itself: but with light and shadow, green leaves moving, a bird +singing, another moving to and fro—in autumn with +colour—the boughs are filled with imagination. There then +seems so much more than the mere tree; the timber of the trunk, the +mere sticks of the branches, the wooden framework is animated with +a life. High above, a lark sings, not for so long as in +spring—the October song is shorter—but still he sings. +If you love colour, plant maple; maple bushes colour a whole hedge. +Upon the bank of a pond, the brown oak-leaves which have fallen are +reflected in the still deep water.</p> +<p>It is from the hedges that taste must be learned. A garden abuts +on these fields, and being on slightly rising ground, the maple +bushes, the brown and yellow and crimson hawthorn, the limes and +elms, are all visible from it; yet it is surrounded by stiff, +straight iron railings, unconcealed even by the grasses, which are +carefully cut down with the docks and nettles, that do their best, +three or four times in the summer, to hide the blank iron. Within +these iron railings stands a row of <i>arbor vitæ</i>, +upright, and stiff likewise, and among them a few other evergreens; +and that is all the shelter the lawn and flower-beds have from the +east wind, blowing for miles over open country, or from the glowing +sun of August. This garden belongs to a gentleman who would +certainly spare no moderate expense to improve it, and yet there it +remains, the blankest, barest, most miserable-looking square of +ground the eye can find; the only piece of ground from which the +eye turns away; for even the potato-field close by, the common +potato-field, had its colour in bright poppies, and there were +partridges in it, and at the edges, fine growths of mallow and its +mauve flowers. Wild parsley, still green in the shelter of the +hazel stoles, is there now on the bank, a thousand times sweeter to +the eye than bare iron and cold evergreens. Along that hedge, the +white bryony wound itself in the most beautiful manner, completely +covering the upper part of the thick brambles, a robe thrown over +the bushes; its deep cut leaves, its countless tendrils, its +flowers, and presently the berries, giving pleasure every time one +passed it. Indeed, you could not pass without stopping to look at +it, and wondering if any one ever so skilful, even those +sure-handed Florentines Mr. Ruskin thinks so much of, could ever +draw that intertangled mass of lines. Nor could you easily draw the +leaves and head of the great parsley—commonest of +hedge-plants—the deep indented leaves, and the shadow by +which to express them. There was work enough in that short piece of +hedge by the potato-field for a good pencil every day the whole +summer. And when done, you would not have been satisfied with it, +but only have learned how complex and how thoughtful and far +reaching Nature is in the simplest of things. But with a +straight-edge or ruler, any one could draw the iron railings in +half an hour, and a surveyor's pupil could make them look as well +as Millais himself. Stupidity to stupidity, genius to genius; any +hard fist can manage iron railings; a hedge is a task for the +greatest.</p> +<p>Those, therefore, who really wish their gardens or grounds, or +any place, beautiful, must get that greatest of geniuses, Nature, +to help them, and give their artist freedom to paint to fancy, for +it is Nature's imagination which delights us—as I tried to +explain about the tree, the imagination, and not the fact of the +timber and sticks. For those white bryony leaves and slender +spirals and exquisitely defined flowers are full of imagination, +products of a sunny dream, and tinted so tastefully, that although +they are green, and all about them is green too, yet the plant is +quite distinct, and in no degree confused or lost in the mass of +leaves under and by it. It stands out, and yet without violent +contrast. All these beauties of form and colour surround the place, +and try, as it were, to march in and take possession, but are shut +out by straight iron railings. Wonderful it is that education +should make folk tasteless! Such, certainly, seems to be the case +in a great measure, and not in our own country only, for those who +know Italy tell us that the fine old gardens there, dating back to +the days of the Medici, are being despoiled of ilex and made formal +and straight. Is all the world to be Versaillised?</p> +<p>Scarcely two hundred yards from these cold iron railings, which +even nettles and docks would hide if they could, and thistles +strive to conceal, but are not permitted, there is an old cottage +by the roadside. The roof is of old tile, once red, now dull from +weather; the walls some tone of yellow; the folk are poor. Against +it there grows a vigorous plant of jessamine, a still finer rose, a +vine covers the lean-to at one end, and tea-plant the corner of the +wall; beside these, there is a yellow-flowering plant, the name of +which I forget at the moment, also trained to the walls; and ivy. +Altogether, six plants grow up the walls of the cottage; and over +the wicket-gate there is a rude arch—a framework of tall +sticks—from which droop thick bunches of hops. It is a very +commonplace sort of cottage; nothing artistically picturesque about +it, no effect of gable or timber-work; it stands by the roadside in +the most commonplace way, and yet it pleases. They have called in +Nature, that great genius, and let the artist have his own way. In +Italy, the art-country, they cut down the ilex trees, and get the +surveyor's pupil with straight-edge and ruler to put it right and +square for them. Our over-educated and well-to-do people set iron +railings round about their blank pleasure-grounds, which the +potato-field laughs at in bright poppies; and actually one who has +some fine park-grounds has lifted up on high a mast and +weather-vane! a thing useful on the sea-board at coastguard +stations for signalling, but oh! how repellent and straight and +stupid among clumps of graceful elms!</p> +<h4 align="center">II</h4> +<p>The dismal pits in a disused brickfield, unsightly square holes +in a waste, are full in the shallow places of an aquatic grass, +Reed Canary Grass, I think, which at this time of mists stretches +forth sharp-pointed tongues over the stagnant water. These +sharp-pointed leaf-tongues are all on one side of the stalks, so +that the most advanced project across the surface, as if the water +were the canvas, and the leaves drawn on it. For water seems always +to rise away from you—to slope slightly upwards; even a pool +has that appearance, and therefore anything standing in it is drawn +on it as you might sketch on this paper. You see the water beyond +and above the top of the plant, and the smooth surface gives the +leaf and stalk a sharp, clear definition. But the mass of the tall +grass crowds together, every leaf painted yellow by the autumn, a +thick cover at the pit-side. This tall grass always awakes my +fancy, its shape partly, partly its thickness, perhaps; and yet +these feelings are not to be analysed. I like to look at it; I like +to stand or move among it on the bank of a brook, to feel it touch +and rustle against me. A sense of wildness comes with its touch, +and I feel a little as I might feel if there was a vast forest +round about. As a few strokes from a loving hand will soothe a +weary forehead, so the gentle pressure of the wild grass soothes +and strokes away the nervous tension born of civilised life.</p> +<p>I could write a whole history of it; the time when the leaves +were fresh and green, and the sedge-birds frequented it; the time +when the moorhen's young crept after their mother through its +recesses; from the singing of the cuckoo by the river, till now +brown and yellow leaves strew the water. They strew, too, the dry +brown grass of the land, thick tuffets, and lie even among the +rushes, blown hither from the distant trees. The wind works its +full will over the exposed waste, and drives through the +reed-grass, scattering the stalks aside, and scarce giving them +time to spring together again, when the following blast a second +time divides them.</p> +<p>A cruder piece of ground, ruder and more dismal in its unsightly +holes, could not be found; and yet, because of the reed-grass, it +is made as it were full of thought. I wonder the painters, of whom +there are so many nowadays, armies of amateurs, do not sometimes +take these scraps of earth and render into them the idea which +fills a clod with beauty. In one such dismal pit—not +here—I remember there grew a great quantity of bulrushes. +Another was surrounded with such masses of swamp-foliage that it +reminded those who saw it of the creeks in semi-tropical countries. +But somehow they do not seem to see these things, but go on the old +mill-round of scenery, exhausted many a year since. They do not see +them, perhaps, because most of those who have educated themselves +in the technique of painting are city-bred, and can never have the +<i>feeling</i> of the country, however fond they may be of it.</p> +<p>In those fields of which I was writing the other day, I found an +artist at work at his easel; and a pleasant nook be had chosen. His +brush did its work with a steady and sure stroke that indicated +command of his materials. He could delineate whatever he selected +with technical skill at all events. He had pitched his easel where +two hedges formed an angle, and one of them was full of oak-trees. +The hedge was singularly full of "bits"—bryony, tangles of +grasses, berries, boughs half-tinted and boughs green, hung as it +were with pictures like the wall of a room. Standing as near as I +could without disturbing him, I found that the subject of his +canvas was none of these. It was that old stale and dull device of +a rustic bridge spanning a shallow stream crossing a lane. Some +figure stood on the bridge—the old, old trick. He was filling +up the hedge of the lane with trees from the hedge, and they were +cleverly executed. But why drag them into this fusty scheme, which +has appeared in every child's sketch-book for fifty years? Why not +have simply painted the beautiful hedge at hand, purely and simply, +a hedge hung with pictures for any one to copy? The field in which +he had pitched his easel is full of fine trees and good "effects." +But no; we must have the ancient and effete old story. This is not +all the artist's fault, because he must in many cases paint what he +can sell; and if his public will only buy effete old stories, he +cannot help it. Still, I think if a painter <i>did</i> paint that +hedge in its fulness of beauty, just simply as it stands in the +mellow autumn light, it would win approval of the best people, and +that ultimately, a succession of such work would pay.</p> +<p>The clover was dying down, and the plough would soon be among +it—the earth was visible in patches. Out in one of these bare +patches there was a young mouse, so chilled by the past night that +his dull senses did not appear conscious of my presence. He had +crept out on the bare earth evidently to feel the warmth of the +sun, almost the last hour he would enjoy. He looked about for food, +but found none; his short span of life was drawing to a close; even +when at last he saw me, he could only run a few inches under cover +of a dead clover-plant. Thousands upon thousands of mice perish +like this as the winter draws on, born too late in the year to grow +strong enough or clever enough to prepare a store. Other kinds of +mice perish like leaves at the first blast of cold air. Though but +a mouse, to me it was very wretched to see the chilled creature, so +benumbed as to have almost lost its sense of danger. There is +something so ghastly in birth that immediately leads to death; a +sentient creature born only to wither. The earth offered it no +help, nor the declining sun; all things organised seem to depend so +much on circumstances. Nothing but pity can be felt for thousands +upon thousands of such organisms. But thus, too, many a miserable +human being has perished in the great Metropolis, dying, chilled +and benumbed, of starvation, and finding the hearts of +fellow-creatures as bare and cold as the earth of the +clover-field.</p> +<p>In these fields outside London the flowers are peculiarly rich +in colour. The common mallow, whose flower is usually a light +mauve, has here a deep, almost purple bloom; the bird's-foot lotus +is a deep orange. The fig-wort, which is generally two or three +feet high, stands in one ditch fully eight feet, and the stem is +more than half an inch square. A fertile soil has doubtless +something to do with this colour and vigour. The red admiral +butterflies, too, seemed in the summer more brilliant than usual. +One very fine one, whose broad wings stretched out like fans, +looked simply splendid floating round and round the willows which +marked the margin of a dry pool. His blue markings were really +blue—blue velvet—his red, and the white stroke shone as +if sunbeams were in his wings. I wish there were more of these +butterflies; in summer, dry summer, when the flowers seem gone and +the grass is not so dear to us, and the leaves are dull with heat, +a little colour is so pleasant. To me, colour is a sort of food; +every spot of colour is a drop of wine to the spirit. I used to +take my folding-stool on those long, heated days, which made the +summer of 1884 so conspicuous among summers, down to the shadow of +a row of elms by a common cabbage-field. Their shadow was nearly as +hot as the open sunshine; the dry leaves did not absorb the heat +that entered them, and the dry hedge and dry earth poured heat up +as the sun poured it down. Dry, dead leaves—dead with heat, +as with frost—strewed the grass, dry, too, and withered at my +feet. But among the cabbages, which were very small, there grew +thousands of poppies, fifty times more poppies than cabbage, so +that the pale green of the cabbage-leaves was hidden by the scarlet +petals falling wide open to the dry air. There was a broad band of +scarlet colour all along the side of the field, and it was this +which brought me to the shade of those particular elms. The use of +the cabbages was in this way: they fetched for me all the white +butterflies of the neighbourhood, and they fluttered, hundreds and +hundreds of white butterflies, a constant stream and flow of them +over the broad band of scarlet. Humble-bees came too; bur-bur-bur; +and the buzz, and the flutter of the white wings over those fixed +red butterflies the poppies, the flutter and sound and colour +pleased me in the dry heat of the day. Sometimes I set my +camp-stool by a humble-bees' nest. I like to see and hear them go +in and out, so happy, busy, and wild; the humble-bee is a +favourite. That summer their nests were very plentiful; but +although the heat might have seemed so favourable to them, the +flies were not at all numerous, I mean out-of-doors. Wasps, on the +contrary, flourished to an extraordinary degree. One willow tree +particularly took their fancy; there was a swarm in the tree for +weeks, attracted by some secretion; the boughs and leaves were +yellow with wasps. But it seemed curious that flies should not be +more numerous than usual; they are dying now fast enough, except a +few of the large ones, that still find some sugar in the flowers of +the ivy. The finest show of ivy flower is among some yew trees; the +dark ivy has filled the dark yew tree, and brought out its pale +yellow-green flowers in the sombre boughs. Last night, a great fly, +the last in the house, buzzed into my candle. I detest flies, but I +was sorry for his scorched wings; the fly itself hateful, its wings +so beautifully made. I have sometimes picked a feather from the +dirt of the road and placed it on the grass. It is contrary to +one's feelings to see so beautiful a thing lying in the mud. +Towards my window now, as I write, there comes suddenly a shower of +yellow leaves, wrested out by main force from the high elms; the +blue sky behind them, they droop slowly, borne onward, twirling, +fluttering towards me—a cloud of autumn butterflies.</p> +<p>A spring rises on the summit of a green brow that overlooks the +meadows for miles. The spot is not really very high, still it is +the highest ground in that direction for a long distance, and it +seems singular to find water on the top of the hill, a thing common +enough, but still sufficiently opposed to general impressions to +appear remarkable. In this shallow water, says a faint +story—far off, faint and uncertain, like the murmur of a +distant cascade—two ladies and some soldiers lost their +lives. The brow is defended by thick bramble-bushes, which bore a +fine crop of blackberries that autumn, to the delight of the boys; +and these bushes partly conceal the sharpness of the short descent. +But once your attention is drawn to it, you see that it has all the +appearance of having been artificially sloped, like a rampart, or +rather a glacis. The grass is green and the sward soft, being +moistened by the spring, except in one spot, where the grass is +burnt up under the heat of the summer sun, indicating the existence +of foundations beneath.</p> +<p>There is a beautiful view from this spot; but leaving that now, +and wandering on among the fields, presently you may find a meadow +of peculiar shape, extremely long and narrow, half a mile long, +perhaps; and this the folk will tell you was the King's Drive, or +ride. Stories there are, too, of subterranean passages—there +are always such stories in the neighbourhood of ancient +buildings—I remember one, said to be three miles long; it led +to an abbey. The lane leads on, bordered with high hawthorn hedges, +and occasionally a stout hawthorn tree, hardy and twisted by the +strong hands of the passing years; thick now with red haws, and the +haunt of the redwings, whose "chuck-chuck" is heard every minute; +but the birds themselves always perch on the outer side of the +hedge. They are not far ahead, but they always keep on the safe +side, flying on twenty yards or so, but never coming to my +side.</p> +<p>The little pond, which in summer was green with weed, is now +yellow with the fallen hawthorn-leaves; the pond is choked with +them. The lane has been slowly descending; and now, on looking +through a gateway, an ancient building stands up on the hill, +sharply defined against the sky. It is the banqueting hall of a +palace of old times, in which kings and princes once sat at their +meat after the chase. This is the centre of those dim stories which +float like haze over the meadows around. Many a wild red stag has +been carried thither after the hunt, and many a wild boar slain in +the glades of the forest.</p> +<p>The acorns are dropping now as they dropped five centuries +since, in the days when the wild boars fed so greedily upon them; +the oaks are broadly touched with brown; the bramble thickets in +which the boars hid, green, but strewn with the leaves that have +fallen from the lofty trees. Though meadow, arable, and hop-fields +hold now the place of the forest, a goodly remnant remains, for +every hedge is full of oak and elm and ash; maple too, and the +lesser bushes. At a little distance, so thick are the trees, the +whole country appears a wood, and it is easy to see what a forest +it must have been centuries ago.</p> +<p>The Prince leaving the grim walls of the Tower of London by the +Water-gate, and dropping but a short way down with the tide, could +mount his horse on the opposite bank, and reach his palace here, in +the midst of the thickest woods and wildest country, in half an +hour. Thence every morning setting forth upon the chase, he could +pass the day in joyous labours, and the evening in feasting, still +within call—almost within sound of horn—of the Tower, +if any weighty matter demanded his presence.</p> +<p>In our time, the great city has widened out, and comes at this +day down to within three miles of the hunting-palace. There still +intervenes a narrow space between the last house of London and the +ancient Forest Hall, a space of corn-field and meadow; the last +house, for although not nominally London, there is no break of +continuity in the bricks and mortar thence to London Bridge. London +is within a stone's-throw, as it were, and yet, to this day the +forest lingers, and it is country. The very atmosphere is +different. That smoky thickness characteristic of the suburbs +ceases as you ascend the gradual rise, and leave the outpost of +bricks and mortar behind. The air becomes clear and strong, till on +the brow by the spring on a windy day it is almost like sea-air. It +comes over the trees, over the hills, and is sweet with the touch +of grass and leaf. There is no gas, no sulphurous acid in that. As +the Edwards and Henries breathed it centuries since, so it can be +inhaled now. The sun that shone on the red deer is as bright now as +then; the berries are thick on the bushes; there is colour in the +leaf. The forest is gone; but the spirit of nature stays, and can +be found by those who search for it. Dearly as I love the open air, +I cannot regret the mediaeval days. I do not wish them back again, +I would sooner fight in the foremost ranks of Time. Nor do we need +them, for the spirit of nature stays, and will always be here, no +matter to how high a pinnacle of thought the human mind may attain; +still the sweet air, and the hills, and the sea, and the sun, will +always be with us.</p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="19">ON THE LONDON ROAD</a></h3> +<p>The road comes straight from London, which is but a very short +distance off, within a walk, yet the village it passes is +thoroughly a village, and not suburban, not in the least like +Sydenham, or Croydon, or Balham, or Norwood, as perfect a village +in every sense as if it stood fifty miles in the country. There is +one long street, just as would be found in the far west, with +fields at each end. But through this long street, and on and out +into the open, is continually pouring the human living undergrowth +of that vast forest of life, London. The nondescript inhabitants of +the thousand and one nameless streets of the unknown east are great +travellers, and come forth into the country by this main desert +route. For what end? Why this tramping and ceaseless movement? what +do they buy, what do they sell, how do they live? They pass through +the village street and out into the country in an endless stream on +the shutter on wheels. This is the true London vehicle, the +characteristic conveyance, as characteristic as the Russian +droshky, the gondola at Venice, or the caique at Stamboul. It is +the camel of the London desert routes; routes which run right +through civilisation, but of which daily paper civilisation is +ignorant. People who can pay for a daily paper are so far above it; +a daily paper is the mark of the man who is in civilisation.</p> +<p>Take an old-fashioned shutter and balance it on the axle of a +pair of low wheels, and you have the London camel in principle. To +complete it add shafts in front, and at the rear run a low +free-board, as a sailor would say, along the edge, that the cargo +may not be shaken off. All the skill of the fashionable +brougham-builders in Long Acre could not contrive a vehicle which +would meet the requirements of the case so well as this. On the +desert routes of Palestine a donkey becomes romantic; in a +coster-monger's barrow he is only an ass; the donkey himself +doesn't see the distinction. He draws a good deal of human nature +about in these barrows, and perhaps finds it very much the same in +Surrey and Syria. For if any one thinks the familiar barrow is +merely a truck for the conveyance of cabbages and carrots, and for +the exposure of the same to the choice of housewives in Bermondsey, +he is mistaken. Far beyond that, it is the symbol, the solid +expression, of life itself to the owner, his family, and circle of +connections, more so than even the ship to the sailor, as the +sailor, no matter how he may love his ship, longs for port, and the +joys of the shore, but the barrow folk are always at sea on land, +Such care has to be taken of the miserable pony or the shamefaced +jackass; he has to be groomed, and fed, and looked to in his shed, +and this occupies three or four of the family at least, lads and +strapping young girls, night and morning. Besides which, the circle +of connections look in to see how he is going on, and to hear the +story of the day's adventures, and what is proposed for to-morrow. +Perhaps one is invited to join the next excursion, and thinks as +much of it as others might do of an invitation for a cruise in the +Mediterranean. Any one who watches the succession of barrows +driving along through the village out into the fields of Kent can +easily see how they bear upon their wheels the fortunes of whole +families and of their hangers-on. Sometimes there is a load of +pathos, of which the race of the ass has carried a good deal in all +ages. More often it is a heavy lump of dull, evil, and exceedingly +stupid cunning. The wild evil of the Spanish contrabandistas seems +atoned by that wildness; but this dull wickedness has no flush of +colour, no poppy on its dirt heaps.</p> +<p>Over one barrow the sailors had fixed up a tent—canvas +stretched from corner poles, two fellows sat almost on the shafts +outside; they were well. Under the canvas there lay a young fellow +white and emaciated, whose face was drawn down with severe +suffering of some kind, and his dark eyes, enlarged and +accentuated, looked as if touched with belladonna. The family +council at home in the close and fetid court had resolved +themselves into a medical board and ordered him to the sunny +Riviera. The ship having been fitted up for the invalid, away they +sailed for the south, out from the ends of the earth of London into +the ocean of green fields and trees, thence past many an island +village, and so to the shores where the Kentish hops were yellowing +fast for the pickers. There, in the vintage days, doubtless he +found solace, and possibly recovery. To catch a glimpse of that +dark and cavernous eye under the shade of the travelling tent +reminded me of the eyes of the wounded in the ambulance-waggons +that came pouring into Brussels after Sedan. In the dusk of the +lovely September evenings—it was a beautiful September, the +lime-leaves were just tinted with orange—the waggons came in +a long string, the wounded and maimed lying in them, packed +carefully, and rolled round, as it were, with wadding to save them +from the jolts of the ruts and stones. It is fifteen years ago, and +yet I can still distinctly see the eyes of one soldier looking at +me from his berth in the waggon. The glow of intense pain—the +glow of long-continued agony—lit them up as coals that +smouldering are suddenly fanned. Pain brightens the eyes as much as +joy, there is a fire in the brain behind it; it is the flame in the +mind you see, and not the eyeball. A thought that might easily be +rendered romantic, but consider how these poor fellows appeared +afterwards. Bevies of them hopped about Brussels in their +red-and-blue uniforms, some on crutches, some with two sticks, some +with sleeves pinned to their breasts, looking exactly like a +company of dolls a cruel child had mutilated, snapping a foot off +here, tearing out a leg here, and battering the face of a third. +Little men most of them—the bowl of a German pipe inverted +would have covered them all, within which, like bees in a hive, +they might hum "Te Deum Bismarckum Laudamus." But the romantic +flame in the eye is not always so beautiful to feel as to read +about.</p> +<p>Another shutter on wheels went by one day with one little pony +in the shafts, and a second harnessed in some way at the side, so +as to assist in pulling, but without bearing any share of the load. +On this shutter eight men and boys balanced themselves; enough for +the Olympian height of a four-in-hand. Eight fellows perched round +the edge like shipwrecked mariners, clinging to one plank. They +were so balanced as to weigh chiefly on the axle, yet in front of +such a mountain of men, such a vast bundle of ragged clothes, the +ponies appeared like rats.</p> +<p>On a Sunday morning two fellows came along on their shutter: +they overtook a girl who was walking on the pavement, and one of +them, more sallow and cheeky than his companion, began to talk to +her. "That's a nice nosegay, now—give us a rose. Come and +ride—there's plenty of room. Won't speak? Now, you'll tell us +if this is the road to London Bridge." She nodded. She was dressed +in full satin for Sunday; her class think much of satin. She was +leading two children, one in each hand, clean and well-dressed. She +walked more lightly than a servant does, and evidently lived at +home; she did not go to service. Tossing her head, she looked the +other way, for you see the fellow on the shutter was dirty, not +"dressed" at all, though it was Sunday, poor folks' ball-day; a +dirty, rough fellow, with a short clay pipe in his mouth, a +chalky-white face—apparently from low dissipation—a +disreputable rascal, a monstrously impudent "chap," a true London +mongrel. He "cheeked" her; she tossed her head, and looked the +other way. But by-and-by she could not help a sly glance at him, +not an angry glance—a look as much as to say, "You're a man, +anyway, and you've the good taste to admire me, and the courage to +speak to me; you're dirty, but you're a man. If you were +well-dressed, or if it wasn't Sunday, or if it was dark, or nobody +about, I wouldn't mind; I'd let you 'cheek' me, though I have got +satin on." The fellow "cheeked" her again, told her she had a +pretty face, "cheeked" her right and left. She looked away, but +half smiled; she had to keep up her dignity, she did not feel it. +She would have liked to have joined company with him. His leer grew +leerier—the low, cunning leer, so peculiar to the London +mongrel, that seems to say, "I am so intensely knowing; I am so +very much all there;" and yet the leerer always remains in a dirty +dress, always smokes the coarsest tobacco in the nastiest of pipes, +and rides on a barrow to the end of his life. For his leery cunning +is so intensely stupid that, in fact, he is as "green" as grass; +his leer and his foul mouth keep him in the gutter to his very last +day. How much more successful plain, simple straightforwardness +would be! The pony went on a little, but they drew rein, and waited +for the girl again; and again he "cheeked" her. Still, she looked +away, but she did not make any attempt to escape by the side-path, +nor show resentment. No; her face began to glow, and once or twice +she answered him, but still she would not quite join company. If +only it had not been Sunday—if it had been a lonely road, and +not so near the village, if she had not had the two tell-tale +children with her—she would have been very good friends with +the dirty, chalky, ill-favoured, and ill-savoured wretch. At the +parting of the roads each went different ways, but she could not +help looking back.</p> +<p>He was a thorough specimen of the leery London mongrel. That +hideous leer is so repulsive—one cannot endure it—but +it is so common; you see it on the faces of four-fifths of the +ceaseless stream that runs out from the ends of the earth of London +into the green sea of the country. It disfigures the faces of the +carters who go with the waggons and other vehicles—not +nomads, but men in steady employ; it defaces—absolutely +defaces—the workmen who go forth with vans, with timber, with +carpenters' work, and the policeman standing at the corners, in +London itself particularly. The London leer hangs on their faces. +The Mosaic account of the Creation is discredited in these days, +the last revelation took place at Beckenham; the Beckenham +revelation is superior to Mount Sinai, yet the consideration of +that leer might suggest the idea of a fall of man even to an +Amoebist. The horribleness of it is in this way, it hints—it +does more than hint, it conveys the leerer's decided +opinion—that you, whether you may be man or woman, must +necessarily be as coarse as himself. Especially he wants to impress +that view upon every woman who chances to cross his glance. The +fist of Hercules is needed to dash it out of his face.</p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="20">RED ROOFS OF LONDON</a></h3> +<p>Tiles and tile roofs have a curious way of tumbling to pieces in +an irregular and eye-pleasing manner. The roof-tree bends, bows a +little under the weight, curves in, and yet preserves a sharpness +at each end. The Chinese exaggerate this curve of set purpose. Our +English curve is softer, being the product of time, which always +works in true taste. The mystery of tile-laying is not known to +every one; for to all appearance tiles seem to be put on over a +thin bed of hay or hay-like stuff. Lately they have begun to use +some sort of tarpaulin or a coarse material of that kind; but the +old tiles, I fancy, were comfortably placed on a shake-down of hay. +When one slips off, little bits of hay stick up; and to these the +sparrows come, removing it bit by bit to line their nests. If they +can find a gap they get in, and a fresh couple is started in life. +By-and-by a chimney is overthrown during a twist of the wind, and +half a dozen tiles are shattered. Time passes; and at last the +tiler arrives to mend the mischief. His labour leaves a light red +patch on the dark dull red of the breadth about it. After another +while the leaks along the ridge need plastering: mortar is laid on +to stay the inroad of wet, adding a dull white and forming a rough, +uncertain undulation along the general drooping curve. Yellow +edgings of straw project under the eaves—the work of the +sparrows. A cluster of blue-tinted pigeons gathers about the +chimney-side; the smoke that comes out of the stack droops and +floats sideways, downwards, as if the chimney enjoyed the smother +as a man enjoys his pipe. Shattered here and cracked yonder, some +missing, some overlapping in curves, the tiles have an aspect of +irregular existence. They are not fixed, like slates, as it were +for ever: they have a newness, and then a middle-age, and a time of +decay like human beings.</p> +<p>One roof is not much; but it is often a study. Put a thousand +roofs, say rather thousands of red-tiled roofs, and overlook +them—not at a great altitude but at a pleasant easy +angle—and then you have the groundwork of the first view of +London over Bermondsey from the railway. I say groundwork, because +the roofs seem the level and surface of the earth, while the +glimpses of streets are glimpses of catacombs. A city—as +something to look at—depends very much on its roofs. If a +city have no character in its roofs it stirs neither heart nor +thought. These red-tiled roofs of Bermondsey, stretching away mile +upon mile, and brought up at the extremity with thin masts rising +above the mist—these red-tiled roofs have a distinctiveness, +a character; they are something to think about. Nowhere else is +there an entrance to a city like this. The roads by which you +approach them give you distant aspects—minarets, perhaps, in +the East, domes in Italy; but, coming nearer, the highway somehow +plunges into houses, confounding you with façades, and the +real place is hidden. Here from the railway you see at once the +vastness of London. Roof-tree behind roof-tree, ridge behind ridge, +is drawn along in succession, line behind line till they become as +close together as the test-lines used for microscopes. Under this +surface of roofs what a profundity of life there is! Just as the +great horses in the waggons of London streets convey the idea of +strength, so the endlessness of the view conveys the idea of a mass +of life. Life converges from every quarter. The iron way has many +ruts: the rails are its ruts; and by each of these a ceaseless +stream of men and women pours over the tiled roofs into London. +They come from the populous suburbs, from far-away towns and quiet +villages, and from over sea.</p> +<p>Glance down as you pass into the excavations, the streets, +beneath the red surface: you catch a glimpse of men and women +hastening to and fro, of vehicles, of horses struggling with mighty +loads, of groups at the corners, and fragments, as it were, of +crowds. Busy life everywhere: no stillness, no quiet, no repose. +Life crowded and crushed together; life that has hardly room to +live. If the train slackens, look in at the open windows of the +houses level with the line—they are always open for air, +smoke-laden as it is—and see women and children with scarce +room to move, the bed and the dining-table in the same apartment. +For they dine and sleep and work and play all at the same time. A +man works at night and sleeps by day: he lies yonder as calmly as +if in a quiet country cottage. The children have no place to play +in but the living-room or the street. It is not squalor—it is +crowded life. The people are pushed together by the necessities of +existence. These people have no dislike to it at all: it is right +enough to them, and so long as business is brisk they are happy. +The man who lies sleeping so calmly seems to me to indicate the +immensity of the life around more than all the rest. He is +oblivious of it all; it does not make him nervous or wakeful; he is +so used to it, and bred to it, that it seems to him nothing. When +he is awake lie does not see it; now he sleeps he does not hear it. +It is only in great woods that you cannot see the trees. He is like +a leaf in a forest—he is not conscious of it. Long hours of +work have given him slumber; and as he sleeps he seems to express +by contrast the immensity and endlessness of the life around +him.</p> +<p>Sometimes a floating haze, now thicker here, and now lit up +yonder by the sunshine, brings out objects more distinctly than a +clear atmosphere. Away there tall thin masts stand out, rising +straight up above the red roofs. There is a faint colour on them; +the yards are dark—being inclined, they do not reflect the +light at an angle to reach us. Half-furled canvas droops in folds, +now swelling a little as the wind blows, now heavily sinking. One +white sail is set and gleams alone among the dusky folds; for the +canvas at large is dark with coal-dust, with smoke, with the grime +that settles everywhere where men labour with bare arms and chests. +Still and quiet as trees the masts rise into the hazy air; who +would think, merely to look at them, of the endless labour they +mean? The labour to load, and the labour to unload; the labour at +sea, and the long hours of ploughing the waves by night; the labour +at the warehouses; the labour in the fields, the mines, the +mountains; the labour in the factories. Ever and again the sunshine +gleams now on this group of masts, now on that; for they stand in +groups as trees often grow, a thicket here and a thicket yonder. +Labour to obtain the material, labour to bring it hither, labour to +force it into shape—work without end. Masts are always dreamy +to look at: they speak a romance of the sea; of unknown lands; of +distant forests aglow with tropical colours and abounding with +strange forms of life. In the hearts of most of us there is always +a desire for something beyond experience. Hardly any of us but have +thought, Some day I will go on a long voyage; but the years go by, +and still we have not sailed.</p> +<hr> +<h3 align="center"><a name="21">A WET NIGHT IN LONDON</a></h3> +<p>Opaque from rain drawn in slant streaks by wind and speed across +the pane, the window of the railway carriage lets nothing be seen +but stray flashes of red lights—the signals rapidly passed. +Wrapped in thick overcoat, collar turned up to his ears, warm +gloves on his hands, and a rug across his knees, the traveller may +well wonder how those red signals and the points are worked out in +the storms of wintry London, Rain blown in gusts through the misty +atmosphere, gas and smoke-laden, deepens the darkness; the howl of +the blast humming in the telegraph wires, hurtling round the +chimney-pots on a level with the line, rushing up from the +archways; steam from the engines, roar, and whistle, shrieking +brakes, and grinding wheels—how is the traffic worked at +night in safety over the inextricable windings of the iron roads +into the City? At London Bridge the door is opened by some one who +gets out, and the cold air comes in; there is a rush of people in +damp coats, with dripping umbrellas, and time enough to notice the +archaeologically interesting wooden beams which support the roof of +the South-Eastern station. Antique beams they are, good old Norman +oak, such as you may sometimes find in very old country churches +that have not been restored, such as yet exist in Westminster Hall, +temp. Rufus or Stephen, or so. Genuine old woodwork, worth your +while to go and see. Take a sketch-book and make much of the ties +and angles and bolts; ask Whistler or Macbeth, or some one to etch +them, get the Royal Antiquarian Society to pay a visit and issue a +pamphlet; gaze at them reverently and earnestly, for they are not +easily to be matched in London. Iron girders and spacious roofs are +the modern fashion; here we have the Middle Ages +well-preserved—slam! the door is banged-to, onwards, over the +invisible river, more red signals and rain, and finally the +terminus. Five hundred well-dressed and civilised savages, wet, +cross, weary, all anxious to get in—eager for home and +dinner; five hundred stiffened and cramped folk equally eager to +get out—mix on a narrow platform, with a train running off +one side, and a detached engine gliding gently after it. Push, +wriggle, wind in and out, bumps from portmanteaus, and so at last +out into the street.</p> +<p>Now, how are you going to get into an omnibus? The street is +"up," the traffic confined to half a narrow thoroughfare, the +little space available at the side crowded with newsvendors whose +contents bills are spotted and blotted with wet, crowded, too, with +young girls, bonnetless, with aprons over their heads, whose object +is simply to do nothing—just to stand in the rain and chaff; +the newsvendors yell their news in your ears, then, finding you +don't purchase, they "Yah!" at you; an aged crone begs you to buy +"lights"; a miserable young crone, with pinched face, offers +artificial flowers—oh, Naples! Rush comes the rain, and the +gas-lamps are dimmed; whoo-oo comes the wind like a smack; cold +drops get in the ears and eyes; clean wristbands are splotched; +greasy mud splashed over shining boots; some one knocks the +umbrella round, and the blast all but turns it. "Wake +up!"—"Now then—stop here all night?"—"Gone to +sleep?" They shout, they curse, they put their hands to their +mouths trumpet wise and bellow at each other, these cabbies, +vanmen, busmen, all angry at the block in the narrow way. The +'bus-driver, with London stout, and plenty of it, polishing his +round cheeks like the brasswork of a locomotive, his neck well +wound and buttressed with thick comforter and collar, heedeth not, +but goes on his round, now fast, now slow, always stolid and +rubicund, the rain running harmlessly from him as if he were oiled. +The conductor, perched like the showman's monkey behind, hops and +twists, and turns now on one foot and now on the other as if the +plate were red-hot; now holds on with one hand, and now dexterously +shifts his grasp; now shouts to the crowd and waves his hands +towards the pavement, and again looks round the edge of the 'bus +forwards and curses somebody vehemently. "Near side up! Look alive! +Full inside"—curses, curses, curses; rain, rain, rain, and no +one can tell which is most plentiful.</p> +<p>The cab-horse's head comes nearly inside the 'bus, the 'bus-pole +threatens to poke the hansom in front; the brougham would be +careful, for varnish sake, but is wedged and must take its chance; +van-wheels catch omnibus hubs; hurry, scurry, whip, and drive; +slip, slide, bump, rattle, jar, jostle, an endless stream +clattering on, in, out, and round. On, on—"Stanley, +on"—the first and last words of cabby's life; on, on, the one +law of existence in a London street—drive on, stumble or +stand, drive on—strain sinews, crack, splinter—drive +on; what a sight to watch as you wait amid the newsvendors and +bonnetless girls for the 'bus that will not come! Is it real? It +seems like a dream, those nightmare dreams in which you know that +you must run, and do run, and yet cannot lift the legs that are +heavy as lead, with the demon behind pursuing, the demon of +Drive-on. Move, or cease to be—pass out of Time or be +stirring quickly; if you stand you must suffer even here on the +pavement, splashed with greasy mud, shoved by coarse ruffianism, +however good your intentions—just dare to stand still! Ideas +here for moralising, but I can't preach with the roar and the din +and the wet in my ears, and the flickering street lamps flaring. +That's the 'bus—no; the tarpaulin hangs down and obscures the +inscription; yes. Hi! No heed; how could you be so confiding as to +imagine conductor or driver would deign to see a signalling +passenger; the game is to drive on.</p> +<p>A gentleman makes a desperate rush and grabs the handrail; his +foot slips on the asphalt or wood, which is like oil, he slides, +his hat totters; happily he recovers himself and gets in. In the +block the 'bus is stayed a moment, and somehow we follow, and are +landed—"somehow" advisedly. For how do we get into a 'bus? +After the pavement, even this hard seat would be nearly an +easy-chair, were it not for the damp smell of soaked overcoats, the +ceaseless rumble, and the knockings overhead outside. The noise is +immensely worse than the shaking or the steamy atmosphere, the +noise ground into the ears, and wearying the mind to a state of +drowsy narcotism—you become chloroformed through the sense of +hearing, a condition of dreary resignation and uncomfortable ease. +The illuminated shops seem to pass like an endless window without +division of doors; there are groups of people staring in at them in +spite of the rain; ill-clad, half-starving people for the most +part; the well-dressed hurry onwards; they have homes. A dull +feeling of satisfaction creeps over you that you are at least in +shelter; the rumble is a little better than the wind and the rain +and the puddles. If the Greek sculptors were to come to life again +and cut us out in bas-relief for another Parthenon, they would have +to represent us shuffling along, heads down and coat-tails flying, +splash-splosh—a nation of umbrellas.</p> +<p>Under a broad archway, gaily lighted, the broad and happy way to +a theatre, there is a small crowd waiting, and among them two +ladies, with their backs to the photographs and bills, looking out +into the street. They stand side by side, evidently quite oblivious +and indifferent to the motley folk about them, chatting and +laughing, taking the wet and windy wretchedness of the night as a +joke. They are both plump and rosy-cheeked, dark eyes gleaming and +red lips parted; both decidedly good-looking, much too rosy and +full-faced, too well fed and comfortable to take a prize from +Burne-Jones, very worldly people in the roast-beef sense. Their +faces glow in the bright light—merry sea coal-fire faces; +they have never turned their backs on the good things of this life. +"Never shut the door on good fortune," as Queen Isabella of Spain +says. Wind and rain may howl and splash, but here are two faces +they never have touched—rags and battered shoes drift along +the pavement—no wet feet or cold necks here. Best of all they +glow with good spirits, they laugh, they chat; they are full of +enjoyment, clothed thickly with health and happiness, as their +shoulders—good wide shoulders—are thickly wrapped in +warmest furs. The 'bus goes on, and they are lost to view; if you +came back in an hour you would find them still there without +doubt—still jolly, chatting, smiling, waiting perhaps for the +stage, but anyhow far removed, like the goddesses on Olympus, from +the splash and misery of London. Drive on.</p> +<p>The head of a great grey horse in a van drawn up by the +pavement, the head and neck stand out and conquer the rain and +misty dinginess by sheer force of beauty, sheer strength of +character. He turns his head—his neck forms a fine curve, his +face is full of intelligence, in spite of the half dim light and +the driving rain, of the thick atmosphere, and the black hollow of +the covered van behind, his head and neck stand out, just as in old +portraits the face is still bright, though surrounded with crusted +varnish. It would be a glory to any man to paint him. Drive on.</p> +<p>How strange the dim, uncertain faces of the crowd, half-seen, +seem in the hurry and rain; faces held downwards and muffled by the +darkness—not quite human in their eager and intensely +concentrated haste. No one thinks of or notices another—on, +on—splash, shove, and scramble; an intense selfishness, so +selfish as not to be selfish, if that can be understood, so +absorbed as to be past observing that any one lives but themselves. +Human beings reduced to mere hurrying machines, worked by wind and +rain, and stern necessities of life; driven on; something very hard +and unhappy in the thought of this. They seem reduced to the +condition of the wooden cabs—the mere vehicles—pulled +along by the irresistible horse Circumstance. They shut their eyes +mentally, wrap themselves in the overcoat of indifference, and +drive on, drive on. It is time to get out at last. The 'bus stops +on one side of the street, and you have to cross to the other. Look +up and down—lights are rushing each way, but for the moment +none are close. The gas-lamps shine in the puddles of thick greasy +water, and by their gleam you can guide yourself round them. Cab +coming! Surely he will give way a little and not force you into +that great puddle; no, he neither sees, nor cares, Drive on, drive +on. Quick! the shafts! Step in the puddle and save your life!</p> +<hr> +<h4 align="center">End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of The Open +Air</h4> +<BR> +<BR> +<BR> +<BR> +<PRE> +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE OPEN AIR *** + +This file should be named thpnr10h.htm or thpnr10h.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, thpnr11h.htm +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, thpnr10ah.htm + + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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