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diff --git a/old/61076-0.txt b/old/61076-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index baa8775..0000000 --- a/old/61076-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7424 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of On Everything, by Hilaire Belloc - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: On Everything - -Author: Hilaire Belloc - -Release Date: January 2, 2020 [EBook #61076] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON EVERYTHING *** - - - - -Produced by Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - - - - -ON EVERYTHING - - - - -BY THE SAME AUTHOR - - - PARIS - HILLS AND THE SEA - EMMANUEL BURDEN, MERCHANT - A CHANGE IN THE CABINET - ON NOTHING AND KINDRED SUBJECTS - THE PYRENEES - MARIE ANTOINETTE - - - - - ON EVERYTHING - - BY - - H. BELLOC - - SECOND EDITION - - METHUEN & CO. - 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. - LONDON - - - - - _First Published_ _November 4th 1909_ - _Second Edition_ _1910_ - - - - - _To - Madame Antoine Pescatore_ - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - ON SONG 1 - - ON AN EMPTY HOUSE 7 - - THE LANDFALL 16 - - THE LITTLE OLD MAN 22 - - THE LONG MARCH 29 - - ON SATURNALIA 38 - - A LITTLE CONVERSATION IN HEREFORDSHIRE 45 - - ON THE RIGHTS OF PROPERTY 53 - - THE ECONOMIST 60 - - A LITTLE CONVERSATION IN CARTHAGE 68 - - THE STRANGE COMPANION 74 - - THE VISITOR 81 - - A RECONSTRUCTION OF THE PAST 90 - - THE REASONABLE PRESS 97 - - ASMODEUS 104 - - THE DEATH OF THE COMIC AUTHOR 113 - - ON CERTAIN MANNERS AND CUSTOMS 121 - - THE STATESMAN 130 - - THE DUEL 138 - - ON A BATTLE, OR “JOURNALISM,” OR “POINTS OF VIEW” 148 - - A DESCENDANT OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 159 - - ON THE APPROACH TO WESTERN ENGLAND 167 - - THE WEALD 174 - - ON LONDON AND THE HOUSES IN IT 180 - - ON OLD TOWNS 187 - - A CROSSING OF THE HILLS 194 - - THE BARBER 201 - - ON HIGH PLACES 209 - - ON SOME LITTLE HORSES 217 - - ON STREAMS AND RIVERS 223 - - ON TWO MANUALS 230 - - ON FANTASTIC BOOKS 238 - - THE UNFORTUNATE MAN 244 - - THE CONTENTED MAN 253 - - THE MISSIONER 261 - - THE DREAM 270 - - THE SILENCE OF THE BATTLEFIELDS 276 - - NOVISSIMA HORA 283 - - ON REST 289 - - - - -These essays appeared for the most part in _The Morning Post_, and are -here reprinted by the courtesy of the Editor. - - - - -ON EVERYTHING - - - - -On Song - - -Some say that when that box was opened wherein lay ready the evils of -the world (and a woman opened it) Hope flew out at last. - -That is a Pagan thing to say and a hopeless one, for the true comfort -that remained for men, and that embodied and gave reality to their -conquering struggle against every despair, was surely Song. - -If you would ask what society is imperilled of death, go to one -in which song is extinguished. If you would ask in what society a -permanent sickness oppresses all, and the wealthy alone are permitted -to make the laws, go to one in which song is a fine art and treated -with criticism and used charily, and ceases to be a human thing. But if -you would discover where men are men, take for your test whether songs -are always and loudly sung. - -Sailors sing. They have a song for work and songs for every part of -their work, and they have songs of reminiscence and of tragedy, and -many farcical songs; some brutal songs, songs of repose, and songs in -which is packed the desire for a distant home. - -Soldiers also sing, at least in those Armies where soldiers are still -soldiers. And the Line, which is the core and body of any army, is the -most singing of them all. The Cavalry hardly sing, at least until they -get indoors, for it would be a bumping sort of singing, and gunners -cannot sing for noise, while the drivers are busy riding and leading -as well. But the Line sings; and if you will consider quickly, all -the great armies of the world, and consider them justly, not as the -pedants do, but as men do who really feel the past, you would hear -mounting from them always continual song. Those men who marched behind -Cæsar in his triumph sang a song, and the words of it still remain (so -I am told); the armies of Louis XIV and of Napoleon, of the Republic, -and even of Algiers, made songs of their own which have passed into -the great treasury of European letters. And though it is difficult to -believe it, it is true, the little troops of the Parliament marching -down the river made a song about Mother Bunch, coupled with the name of -the Dorchester Hills; but I may be wrong. I was told it by a friend; he -may have been a false friend. - -They sang in the Barons’ wars; they sang on the way to Lewes. They sang -in that march which led men to the assault at Hastings, for it was -written by those who saw the column of knights advancing to the foot of -the hill that Taillefer was chosen for his great voice and rode before -the host, tossing his sword into the air and catching it again by the -hilt (a difficult thing to do), and singing of Charlemagne and of the -vassals who had died under Roncesvalles. - -Song also illuminates and strengthens and vivifies all common life, and -on this account what is left of our peasantry have harvest songs, and -there are songs for mowing and songs for the midwinter rest, and there -is even a song in the south of England for the gathering of honey, -which song, if you have not heard it, though it is commonly known, runs -thus:-- - - _Bees of bees of Paradise, - Do the work of Jesus Christ, - Do the work which no man can. - God made man, and man made money, - God made bees and bees made honey. - God made big men to plough, to reap, and to sow, - God made little boys to keep off the rook and the crow._ - -This song is sung for pleasure, and, by the way of singing it, it is -made to scan. - -Indeed, all men sing at their labour, or would so sing did not dead -convention forbid them. You will say there are exceptions, as lawyers, -usurers, and others; but there are no exceptions to this rule where all -the man is working and is working well, and is producing and is not -ashamed. - -Rowers sing, and their song is called a Barcarolle; and even men -holding the tiller who have nothing to do but hold it tend to sing a -song. And I will swear to this that I have heard stokers when they -were hard pressed starting a sort of crooning chorus together, which -shows that there is hope for us all. - -The great Poets who are chiefly this, men capable of perfect expression -(though of no more feeling than any other of their kind), are dignified -by Song, much more than by any others of their forms of power. Consider -that song of Du Bellay’s which he translated out of the Italian, and in -which he has the winnower singing as he turns the winnowing fan. That -is great expression, because no man can read it without feeling that if -ever he had to do the hard work of winnowing this is the song he would -like to sing. - -Song also is the mistress of memory, and though a scent is more -powerful, a song is more general, as an instrument for the resurrection -of lost things. Thus exiles who of all men on earth suffer most deeply, -most permanently, and most fruitfully, are great makers of songs. The -chief character in songs--that almost any man can write them, that any -man at all can sing them, and that the greatest are anonymous--is never -better proved than in this quality of the songs of exiles. There is a -Highland song of which I have been told, written in the Celtic dialect -and translated again into English by I know not whom, which, for all -its unknown authorship (and I believe its authorship to be unknown) -enshrines that radiantly beautiful line: - - And we in dreams behold the Hebrides. - -The last anonymous piece of silver that was struck in the mint of the -Roman language has that same poignant quality. - - Exul quid vis canere? - -All the songs that men make (and they are powerful ones) regretting -youth are songs of exile, and in a sense (it is a high and true sense) -the mighty hymns are songs of exile also. - - Qui vitam sine termino - Nobis donet in patria, - -that is the pure note of exile, and so is the - - Coheredes et sodales - In terra viventium, - -and in this last glorious thing comes in the note of marching and of -soldiers as well as the note of separation and of longing. But after -all the mention of religion is in itself a proof of song, for what -spell could there ever be without incantation, or what ritual could -lack its chaunt? - -If any man wonders why these two, Religion and Song, are connected, or -thinks it impious that they should so be, let him do this: if he is an -old man let him cover his face with his hand and remember at evening -what occasions stand out of the long past, full of a complete life, and -of an acute observation and intelligence of all that was around: how -many were occasions for song! There are pictures a man will remember -all his life only because he watched them for a pastime, because he -heard a woman singing as he watched them, and there are landscapes -which remain in the mind long after other things have faded, but so -remain because one went at morning with other men along the road -singing a walking song. And if it is a young man who wishes to make -trial of this truth, he also has his test. For he will note as the -years continue how, while all other pleasures lose their value and -gradation, Song remains, until at last the notes of singing become like -a sort of sacrament outside time, not subject to decay, but always -nourishing men, for Song gives a permanent sense of futurity and a -permanent sense of the presence of Divine things. Nor is there any -pleasure which you will take away from middle age and leave it more -lonely, than this pleasure of hearing Song. - -It is that immortal quality in the business which makes it of a -different kind from the other efforts of men. Write a good song and -the tune leaps up to meet it out of nothingness. It clothes itself -with tune, and once so clothed it continues on through generations, -eternally young, always smiling, and always ready with strong hands -for mankind. On this account every man who has written a song can be -certain that he has done good; any man who has continually sung them -can be certain that he has lived and has communicated life to others. - -It is the best of all trades, to make songs, and the second best to -sing them. - - - - -On an Empty House - - -A man a little over forty years of age had desired to take a house in -London. He had lived hitherto between a cottage in the country, where -he had stables and where he made it his pleasure to ride, and rooms in -town off St. James’s Street. He had also two clubs, one of which he -continually visited. From his thirtieth year onward he had come more -often to town; he was heavier in build; he rode with less pleasure. -He had taken to writing and had published more than one little study, -chiefly upon the creative work of other men. He was under no compulsion -to write or to do any other thing, for he had a private fortune of -about £3000 a year. This he managed with some ability so that it -neither increased nor diminished, and like many other Englishmen, he -had wisely invested abroad, from the year 1897 onwards. Now, I say, -that middle age was upon him, London controlled him more and more. He -was in sympathy with the maturity of the great town, which responded -to his own maturity. He could find a leisure in it which he had never -found in youth. The multitude of the books and the easy access to -them, the sensible and varied conversation of men of his own rank and -age, and that sort of peopled quiet which supports the nights of men -living in London--all these had become a sort of food to him; they -greatly pleased him. So also did the physical food of London. He took -an increasing pleasure in changing the choice of his wine, which (an -invariable effect of age) he now distinguished. His rooms in London had -thus become for now some years past more and more his home; but he had -begun to feel that rooms could not be a home; and he would set up for -himself; he would be a master. He would feel again and in a greater way -that comfortable consciousness of self and of surroundings fitting one -which a man has in early youth every time he enters his father’s house. - -With this purpose the man of whom I speak looked at several houses, -going first to agents, but finding himself disappointed in all. He -soon learned a wiser way, which was to ask friends of what houses they -had heard, and then to see for himself whether he liked them, and to -do this before even he knew what rent was asked. Also he would wander -up and down the streets, his heavy, well-dressed figure ponderous and -moving at a measured pace, and as he so wandered he would cast his eyes -over houses. - -London, like all great things, has about it a quality for which I do -not know the word, but when I was at school there was a Greek word for -it. “Manifold” is too vague; “multitudinous” would not explain the idea -at all. What I mean is a quality by which one thing contains several -(not many) parts, each individual, each with a separate life and -colour of its own, and yet each living by a common spirit which builds -up the whole. Thus London, a great town, is also a number (not a large -number) of towns within. And to this man, who had cultivation and so -often wrote upon the creative work of other men, the spirit and the -delight of each quarter was well known. The words “Chelsea,” “Soho,” -“Mayfair,” “Westminster,” “Bloomsbury”--all meant to him things as -actual as colours or as chords of music, and each represented to him -not measurable advantages or drawbacks, but separate kinds of pleasure. -He loved them all, but he gravitated, as it is right and natural that -a man of his wealth and sort should do, to the houses north of Oxford -Street and south of the Marylebone Road. He had no territorial blood, -nor had his ancestry engaged in commerce; he was European in every -ramification of his descent. He came of doctors, of soldiers, of -lawyers, and in a word, of that middle class which has now disappeared -as a body and remains among us only in a few examples whose tradition, -though we respect it, is no longer a corporate tradition. For three -hundred years his people had had Greek, Latin, and French, and had in -alternate generations experienced ease or constraint according to the -circumstances of English life. He was the first to enjoy so complete a -leisure. - -To this part of London, therefore, he naturally turned at last, and -following the sound rule that a man’s rent should be one-tenth of -his income--if that income is moderate--he looked about for a large -and comfortable house. The very streets had separate atmospheres for -him. He fixed at last upon what seemed a very nice house indeed in -Queen Anne Street. First he looked at it well from without, admired -the ironwork and the old places for lanterns, and the extinguishers; -he looked at the solid brick, and at that expression which all houses -have from the position of their windows. It was a house such as his -own people might have built or lived in under George III, and in -the earlier part of the reign of that unfortunate, though virtuous, -monarch. In a little while he had gone so far as to get his ticket from -the agent, and he would view the house. He came one day and another; he -was very much taken with the arrangement of it and with the quiet rooms -at the back, and he was pleased to see that the second staircase was -so arranged that there would be little noise of service. He remembered -with a sort of sentimental but pleasing feeling his childhood passed in -such a house, for his father had been a surgeon, somewhat famous, and -they lived in such rooms and in such a neighbourhood. He was pleased -with the old-fashioned arrangements for heating the water; he did not -propose to change them. But he was glad that electric light had taken -the place of gas, and he did propose to change the disposition of this -light made by the last tenants. - -With every day that he visited the place it pleased him more. It -became a daily occupation of his, and it took up most of his thoughts. -The agents were gentle and kind; no mention of competitors was made, -and the reason for this would have been plain to any other but himself, -for he was offering a larger rent than the house was worth. But his -offer was not yet confirmed. Many years of successful investment, in -which, as I have said, he had neither increased nor diminished his -fortune, had given him a just measure of prudence in these affairs, -and he would not sign in a definite way until the whole scheme was -quite clear in his mind. For a week he visited and revisited, until the -caretaker, an elderly woman of rich humour, began to count upon the -conversation which she enjoyed at his daily appearances. - - * * * * * - -In the wealthier part of London--next door to the modern abomination of -some new man or other who was destined to no succession, to no honour, -and whose fate in the future would probably prove to be some gamble -or other upon the Continent--next door to such a house, just round -the corner, so that you could only see the Park sideways, lived an -admirable woman. She was the wife of a Peer and the mother of numerous -children, of whom the eldest now served as a soldier and was an expense -to them, as was the youngest, from the traditions of his school, which -was also expensive. It was her husband’s business, when that half -of the politicians to which he belonged was not in office, to speak -at meetings and to write lithographed letters imploring aid of the -financial kind for institutions designed to relieve the necessities of -the poor. He also shot both on his own land and on that of friends, -and he would fish in Scotland, but as he had no land there, he had to -hire the fishing. The same was true of his sport with the birds in that -Northern Kingdom; so one way and another they were not rich for their -position, and this admirable woman it was who made all things go well. -She was strong in body, handsome in face, and of a clear, vivacious -temper, which pleased all the world about her, and made it the better -for her presence. But none of these attributes were so worthy, nor gave -her so general an admiration, as the splendid and evident virtue of her -soul. There was in her very gesture, and in every tone of her voice -when she chose to be serious, that fundamental character of goodness -which is at once the chief gift to mortals from Almighty God, and the -chief glory and merit of those recipients who have used it well. She -had done so, and the whole of her life was a sacrament and a support to -all who were blessed with her acquaintance. - -Among these was the Man who was taking the House, for he had known her -brother very well at college. She was much of the same rank as himself, -though a little older. During many years of his youth he had so taken -for granted her perfections and her companionship, that these had, -as it were, made his world for him; he had judged the world by that -standard. Now that he knew the world, he used that standard no more. -It would not be just to say that at her early marriage he had felt any -pain save a necessary loss of some companionship. He had never had a -sister; he continued to receive her advice and to enter her house as -a relative, for though he was not a relative, the very children would -have been startled had they ever chosen to remember that he was not -one, and his Christian name came as commonly upon their lips, upon -hers, and upon her husband’s as any name under their own roof. He would -not, of course, finally take this house until she had seen it. - -He was waiting, therefore, in the hall one morning of that winter a -little impatiently to show her his choice, and to take her verdict upon -certain details of it before he should write the last letter which -should bind him to the place. He heard a motor-car come up, looked out -and saw that it was hers, and met her upon the steps and led her in. -She also was pleased with everything she saw, and her pleasure suddenly -put light into the house, so that if you had seen her there, moving and -speaking and laughing, you would have had an illusion that the sun had -come shining in all the windows; a true physical illusion. You would -have remembered the place as sunlit. She noted the panelling, she -approved of one carved fireplace, she disapproved of another; she said -the house was too large for him; she was sure it would suit him. She -showed him where his many books would go, and warned him on a hundred -little things which he had never guessed at, in the arrangement of a -home. She was but half an hour in his company, and still smiling, still -full of words, she went away. He was to see her again in a very short -time; he was to lunch at their house, and he stood for a moment after -the door had shut in the silence of the big place, as though wondering -how he should pass his time. The hall in which he lingered was surely -very desolate; the bare boards he was sure he would remember, however -well they were covered; he never could make those cold walls look -warm.... Anyhow, one didn’t live in one’s hall. He just plodded -upstairs slowly to what had been the drawing-room of the house, and the -big brass curtain rods offended him; the rings were still upon them. He -would move them away, but still they offended him. The lines were too -regular, and there was too little to appeal to him. He hesitated for a -moment as to whether he would go up farther and look again at the upper -rooms which they had discussed together, but the great well of the -staircase looked emptier than all the rest; the great mournful windows, -filled with a grey northern sky, lit it, but gave it no light. And he -noticed, as he trod the bare wood of the last flight, how dismally his -footsteps echoed. Then he called up the caretaker and gave her the key, -surprised her with a considerable fee, and said he would communicate -that day with the agents, and left. - -When he got to lunch at his friends’ house he told them that he would -not take the Empty House after all, whereat they all buzzed with -excitement, and asked him what he had found at the last moment. And he -said, in a silly sort of way, that it was not haunted enough for him. -But anyhow he did not take it: he went back to live in his rooms, and -he lives there still. - - - - -The Landfall - - -It was in Oxford Street and upon the top of an omnibus during one of -those despairing winter days, the light just gone, and an air rising -which was neither vigorous nor cold, but sodden like the hearts of all -around, that I fell wondering whether there were some ultimate goal for -men, and whether these adventures of ours, which grow tamer and so much -tamer as the years proceed, are lost at last in a blank nothingness, -or whether there are revelations and discoveries to come. This debate -in the mind is very old; every man revolves it, none has affirmed a -solution, though all the wisest of men have accepted a received answer -from authority external to themselves. I was not on that murky evening -concerned with authority, but with the old problem or rather mood of -wonder upon the fate of the soul. - -As I so mused to the jolting of the bus I began unconsciously to -compare the keenness of early living with the satiety or weariness -of later years; and so from one thing to another, I know not how, I -thought of horses first, and then of summer rivers, and then of a -harbour, and then of the open sea, and then of the sea at night, till -this vague train took on the form of an exact picture, and my mind -lived in an unforgotten day. - - * * * * * - -In my little boat, with my companion asleep in the bows, I steered at -the end of darkness eastward over a warm and easy sea. - -It was August: the roll was lazy, and the stars were few and distant -all around, because the sky, though clear, was softened by the pleasant -air of summer at its close; moreover, an arch of the sky before me was -paling and the sea-breeze smelt of dawn. - -My little boat went easy, as the sea was easy. There was just enough -of a following wind dead west to keep her steady and to keep the -boom square in its place right out a-lee, nor did she shake or swing -(as boats so often will before a following wind), but went on with a -purpose gently, like a young woman just grown used to her husband and -her home. So she sailed, and aft we left a little, bubbling wake, which -in the darkness had glimmered with evanescent and magic fires, but now, -as the morning broadened, could be seen to be white foam. The stars -paled for an hour and then soon vanished; although the sun had not yet -risen, it was day. - -The line of the horizon before me was fresh and sharp, clear tops -of swell showed hard against the faint blue of the lowest sky, and -for some time we were thus alone together in the united and living -immensity of the sea: my sleeping companion, my boat, and I. Then it -was that I perceived a little northward and to the left of the rising -glow a fixed appearance very far away beyond the edge of the world; it -was grey and watery like a smoke, yet fixed in outline and unchanging; -it did not waver but stood, and so standing confirmed its presence. It -was land; and this dim but certain vision which now fixed my gaze was -one of the mighty headlands of holy Ireland. - -The noble hill lifted its mass upon the extreme limits of sight, almost -dissolved by distance and yet clear; its summit was high and plain, and -in the moment it was perceived the sea became a new thing. It was no -longer void or absorbing, but became familiar water neighbourly to men; -and was now that ocean, whose duty and meaning it is to stream around -and guard the shores on which are founded cities and armies, families -and enduring homes. The little boat sailed on, now in the mood for -companions and for friends. - -My companion stirred and woke; he raised himself upon his arm, and, -looking forward to the left and right, at last said, “Land!” I told him -the name of the headland. But I did not know that there lay beyond it -a long and narrow bay, nor how, at the foot of this land-locked water, -a group of small white houses stood, and behind it a very venerable -tower. - -It was not long before the sun came up out of a sea more clear and into -a sky more vivid than you will see within the soundings of the Channel. -It poured upon all the hills an enlivening new light quite different -from the dawn, and this was especially noticeable upon the swell and -the little ridges of it, which danced and shone so that one thought of -music. - -Meanwhile the land grew longer before us and this one headland merged -into the general line, and inland heights could be seen; a little later -again it first became possible to distinguish the divisions of the -fields and the separate colours of rocks and of grassland and of trees. -A little while later again the white thread showed all along that coast -where the water broke at the meeting of the rocks and the sea; the tide -was at the flood. - -We had, perhaps, three miles between us and the land (where every -detail now stood out quite sharp and clear) when the wind freshened -suddenly and, after the boat had heeled as suddenly and run for a -moment with the scuppers under, she recovered and bounded forward. It -was like obedience to a call, or like the look that comes suddenly into -men’s eyes when they hear unexpectedly a familiar name. She lifted at -it and she took the sea, for the sea began to rise. - -Then there began that dance of vigour which is almost a combat, when -men sail with skill and under some stress of attention and of danger. -I would not take in an inch because of the pleasure of it, but she -was over-canvased all the same, and I put her ever so little round for -fear of a gybe, but the pleasure of it was greater than the fear, and -the cordage sang, and it gave me delight to glance over my shoulder at -that following rush which chases a small boat always when she presses -before a breeze and might poop her if her rider did not know his game. -That which had been a long, long sail through the night with an almost -silent wake and the bursting of but few bubbles, and next a steady -approach before the strong and easy wind, had now become something -inspired and exultant, a course which resembled a charge; and the more -the sea rose the larger everything became--the boat’s career, the land -upon which she was determined, and our own minds, while all about us as -we urged and raced for shore were the loud noises of the sea. - -We ran straight for a point where could be seen the gate to the inland -bay; we rounded it, and our entry completed all, for when once we had -rounded the point all fell together; the wind, the heaving of the -water, the sounds and the straining of the sheets. In a moment, and -less than a moment, we had cut out from us the vision of the sea, a -barrier of cliff and hill stood between us and the large horizon. The -very lonely slopes of these western mountains rose solemn and enormous -all around, and the bay on which we floated, with only just that way -which remained after our sharp turning, was quite lucid and clear, -like the seas by southern beaches where one can look down and see a -world underneath our own. The boom swung inboard, the canvas hung -in folds, and my companion forward cut loose the little anchor from -its tie, the chain went rattling down, and so silent was that sacred -place that one could hear an echo from the cliffs close by returning -the clanking of the links; the chain ran out and slowly tautened as -she fell back and rode to it. Then we let go the halyards, and when -the slight creaking of the blocks had ceased there was no more noise. -Everything was still. - - * * * * * - -There was the vision that returned to me. - -I was in the midst of it, I was almost present, I had forgotten the -streets of the treacherous and evil town, when suddenly, I know not -what, a cry, or some sharp movement near me, brought me back from such -a place and day, from such an experience, such a parallel and such a -security. - -With that return to the common business of living the thought on which -my mind had begun its travel also returned, but in spite of the mood I -had so recently enjoyed my doubts were not resolved. - - - - -The Little Old Man - - -It was in the year 1888 (“O noctes coenasque deum!”--a tag) that, upon -one of the southern hills of England, I came quite unexpectedly across -a little old man who sat upon a bench that was there and looked out to -sea. - -Now you will ask me why a bench was there, since benches are not -commonly found upon the high slopes of our southern hills, of which the -poet has well said, the writer has well written, and the singer has -well sung:-- - - The Southern Hills and the South Sea - They blow such gladness into me - That when I get to Burton Sands - And smell the smell of the home lands, - My heart is all renewed, and fills - With the Southern Sea and the South Hills. - -True, benches are not common there. I know of but one, all the way from -the meeting place of England, which is upon Salisbury Plain, to that -detestable suburb of Eastbourne by Beachy Head. Nay, even that one of -which I speak has disappeared. For an honest man being weary of labour -and yet desiring firewood one day took it away, and the stumps only now -remain at the edge of a wood, a little to the south of No Man’s Land. - -Well, at any rate, upon this bench there sat in the year 1888 a little -old man, and he was looking out to sea; for from this place the English -Channel spreads out in a vast band 600 ft. below one, and the shore -perhaps five miles away; it looks broader than any sea in the world, -broader than the Mediterranean from the hills of Alba Longa, and -broader than the Irish Sea from the summit of the Welsh Mountains: -though why this is so I cannot tell. The little old man treated my -coming as though it was an expected thing, and before I had spoken to -him long assured me that this view gave him complete content. - -“I could sit here,” he said, “and look at the Channel and consider the -nature of this land for ever and for ever.” Now though words like this -meant nothing in so early a year as the year 1888, yet I was willing -to pursue them because there was, in the eyes of the little old man, a -look of such wisdom, kindness, and cunning as seemed to me a marriage -between those things native to the earth and those things which are -divine. I mean, that he seemed to me to have all that the good animals -have, which wander about in the brushwood and are happy all their -lives, and also all that we have, of whom it has been well said that -of every thing which runs or creeps upon earth, man is the fullest -of sorrow. For this little old man seemed to have (at least such was -my fantastic thought in that early year) a complete acquiescence in -the soil and the air that had bred him, and yet something common to -mankind and a full foreknowledge of death. - -His face was of the sort which you will only see in England, being -quizzical and vivacious, a little pinched together, and the hair on -his head was a close mass of grey curls. His eyes were as bright as -are harbour lights when they are first lit towards the closing of our -winter evenings: they shone upon the daylight. His mouth was firm, but -even in repose it permanently, though very slightly, smiled. - -I asked him why he took such pleasure in the view. He said it was -because everything he saw was a part of his own country, and that just -as some holy men said that to be united with God, our Author, was the -end and summit of man’s effort, so to him who was not very holy, to -mix, and have communion, with his own sky and earth was the one banquet -that he knew: he also told me (which cheered me greatly) that alone of -all the appetites this large affection for one’s own land does not grow -less with age, but rather increases and occupies the soul. He then made -me a discourse as old men will, which ran somewhat thus:-- - -“Each thing differs from all others, and the more you know, the more -you desire or worship one thing, the more does that stand separate: and -this is a mystery, for in spite of so much individuality all things are -one.... How greatly out of all the world stands out this object of my -adoration and of my content! you will not find the like of it in all -the world! It is England, and in the love of it I forget all enmities -and all despairs.” - -He then bade me look at a number of little things around, and see how -particular they were: the way in which the homes of Englishmen hid -themselves, and how, although a great town lay somewhat to our right -not half a march away, there was all about us silence, self-possession, -and repose. He bade me also note the wind-blown thorns, and the -yew-trees, bent over from centuries of the south-west wind, and the -short, sweet grass of the Downs, unfilled and unenclosed, and the long -waves of woods which rich men had stolen and owned, and which yet in a -way were property for us all. - -“There is more than one,” said I in anger, “who so little understands -his land that he will fence the woods about and prevent the people from -coming and going: making a show of them, like some dirty town-bred -fellow who thinks that the Downs and the woods are his villa-garden, -bought with gold.” - -The little old man wagged his crooked forefinger in front of his face -and looked exceedingly knowing with his bright eyes, and said: “Time -will tame all that! Not they can digest the county, but the county -them. Their palings shall be burnt upon cottage hearths, and their sons -shall go back to be lackeys as their fathers were. But this landscape -shall always remain.” - -Then he bade me note the tides and the many harbours; and how there was -an inner and an outer tide, and the great change between neaps and -springs, and how there were no great rivers, but every harbour stood -right upon the sea, and how for the knowledge of each of these harbours -even the life of a man was too short. There was no other country, he -said, which was thus held and embraced by the mastery of the Atlantic -tide. For the patient Dutch have their towns inland upon broad rivers -and ships sail up to quays between houses or between green fields; -and the Spaniards and the French (he said) are, for half their nature -and tradition, taught by a tideless sea, but we all around have the -tide everywhere, and with the tide there comes to character salt and -variety, adventure, peril, and change. - -“But this,” I said, “is truer of the Irish.” - -He answered: “Yes, but I am talking of my own soil.” - -Then when he had been silent for a little while he began talking of the -roads, which fitted into the folds of the hills, and of the low long -window panes of men’s homes, of the deep thatch which covered them, and -of that savour of fullness and inheritance which lay fruitfully over -all the land. It gave him the pleasure to talk of these things which it -gives men who know particular wines to talk of those wines, or men who -have enjoyed some great risk together to talk together of their dangers -overcome. - -It gave him the same pleasure to talk of England and of his corner of -England that it gives some venerable people sometimes to talk of those -whom they have loved in youth, or that it gives the true poets to -mouth the lines of their immortal peers. It was a satisfaction to hear -him say the things he said, because one knew that as he said them his -soul was filled. - -He spoke also of horses and of the birds native to our Downs, but not -of pheasants, which he hated and would not speak to me about at all. -He spoke of dogs, and told me how the dogs of one countryside were the -fruits of it, just as its climate and its contours were; notably the -spaniel, which was designed or bred by the mighty power of Amberley -Wildbrook, which breeds all watery things. He showed me how the plover -went with the waste flats of Arun and of Adur and of Ouse, and he -showed me why the sheep were white and why they bunched together in a -herd. “Because,” he said, “the chalk pits and the clouds behind the -Down are wide patches of white; so must the sheep be also.” For a -little he would have told me that the very names of places, nay, the -religion itself, were grown right out of the sacred earth which was our -Mother. - - * * * * * - -These truths and many more I should have learned from him, these -extravagences and some few others I should have whimsically heard, had -I not (since I was young) attempted argument and said to him: “But all -these things change, and what we love so much is, after all, only what -we have known in our short time, and it is our souls within that lend -divinity to any place, for, save within the soul, all is subject to -time.” - -He shook his head determinedly and like one who knows. He did assure -me that in a subtle mastering manner the land that bore us made us -ourselves, and was the major and the dominant power which moulded, as -with firm hands, the clay of our being and which designed and gave us, -and continued in us, all the form in which we are. - -“You cannot tell this,” I said, “and neither can I; it is all guesswork -to the brevity of man.” - -“You are wrong,” he answered quietly. “I have watched these things for -quite 3000 years.” And before I had time to gasp at that word he had -disappeared. - - - - -The Long March - - -The French Service, by some superstition of theirs which is probably -connected with clear thinking and with decision, have perpetually in -mind two things where Infantry is (or are) concerned; these two things -are, marching power and carrying weight. - -It is their thesis, or rather it is their general opinion, that of -all things in which civilised armies may differ the power of trained -endurance is the most variable, and that the elements in which this -endurance is most usefully manifested are the elements of bearing a -weight for long and of marching for long and far between a sleep and a -sleep. - -There is no Service in the world but would agree that rapidity of -movement (other things being equal) is to the advantage of an army. -Not even the Blue Water School (for which school armies are distant -and vague things) would deny that. It is even true that most men -(though by no means all) who have to do with thinking out military -problems would admit that, other things again being equal, the power -of carrying weight was an advantage to an army. But the French Service -differs from its rivals in this, that it regards these two factors in -a sort of fundamental way, testing the whole Army by them and keeping -them perpetually present before the whole of that Army, so that the -stupidest driver in front of the guns is worrying in a muddled way -as to whether the Line have not too much to do, and the cleverest -young captain on the staff is wondering whether the strain put upon -a particular regiment has not been too great that day. The exercise -is continual, and is made as much a part of the men’s mode of thought -as cricket is made a part of the mode of thought of a boy at school, -or as the daily paper is made a part of the mode of thought of a man -who comes in daily from the suburbs to gamble in the City of London. -And the French Service shows its permeation in the matter of these -two ideas by this very characteristic test, that not only are the -supporters of either element in the power of Infantry numerous and -enthusiastic, but also that those (and I believe for a moment Negrier) -who think these theories have been overdone recognise at the back of -their minds the general importance of them; while the great neutral -mass that sometimes discuss, but hardly ever think originally, take -them as it were for granted in all their discussions. - -It would be possible to continue for some time the exposition of -this most interesting thing; it would be possible to show how this -point of view was connected with the conservatism of the French mind. -It would be possible and fascinating perhaps to show the relation -of such theories with the mentality which is convinced upon the -retention of private property and upon the subdivision of it, upon the -all-importance of agriculture to a State, upon the possession at no -matter what sacrifice of a vast amount of vaulted, tangible, material -gold. But my business in these lines is not to argue whether the French -are right or wrong in this military aspect of their philosophy, nor to -show them wise or unwise in regarding even the railways of a modern -State as being only supplementary to marching power, and even the vast -and mobile modern methods of road carriage as being only supplementary -to the knapsack, which can go across ploughed fields or climb a tree. -My business is not to discuss the philosophy of the thing, though I am -grievously tempted to do so, but to speak of one particular thing I saw. - -I saw the beginning, the middle, and the end of it. Had I myself been -in the Line such things might have been so familiar to me that they -would not in the long run have stood out in my imagination, and I might -not have been as fascinated as I now am by the recollections of that -strange experience. - -The Infantry that was the support of our pieces (for we were -Divisionary Artillery) was quartered near to us in a little village -of what is called “the Champagne Pouilleuse,” that is, “the lousy,” -or “the dusty” Champagne, to distinguish it from the chalky range of -the mountain of Rheims, those hot slopes whereon is grown the grape -producing the most northern and the most exhilarating of wines. - -In this little village were we side by side, and very far off along the -horizon we had seen the night before, to the north, guns and linesmen -together, the goal of our journey, which was that roll in the ground -upon the summit of which the very tall spire of a famous shrine led the -eye on toward the larger mass of the Cathedral. The Road was straight -both upon the map and in our weary minds. It crossed the fields on -which had been decided the fate of Christendom in the defeat of Attila -and again in the cannonade of Valmy. Little we cared for these things. -What we cared about, or rather what the fellows on foot cared about, -was a distance of nearly thirty miles with fifty pound and more upon -one’s back. - -I lay in the straw of the stable near my horses, whose names were Pacte -and Basilique--Basilique was the elder one and was ridden, and Pacte -was the led horse--when I heard the sound of a bugle. I was already -awake, I cannot tell why, I had no duties; I strolled out from the -stable into the square and watched the Line assembling. They were of -all sorts and sizes in the dark morning, for the French are profoundly -indifferent to making a squad look neat. Some shuffled, others ran, -others affected to saunter to where the sergeant, with the roll in his -hand and a lantern held above it, stood ready to call out the names. As -they gathered to fall in I heard their comments, which were familiar -enough, for they did not differ from the comments we also made when -any effort was required of us. They cursed all order and discipline. -Some boasted that the thing was not tolerable, and that they were the -men to make the system impossible. Others cunningly hinted that they -would deceive the doctor and fall out, and in general it would have -been conceded by any man listening to them that this march could never -be accomplished. - -With the usual oaths, dreadful to an intellectual ear, but to us a sort -of atmosphere, they fell in, and all over the village square were other -companies falling in and other sergeants holding other rolls. Then -the names were called, with no trappings, in a rather low voice, and -rapidly. - -One man was missing, and the sergeant looked round, saw me leaning -against my stable door, and told me to go for the guard; but when I had -got four men from the guard the missing man had come up. He was a very -little man, in a hurry; he was not punished, he was warned. Hardly had -I returned and hardly had the four men of the guard (who that day of -the march were Cavalry) gone back straggling when the various companies -shuffled into place, formed fours, and began the marching column. No -drums rolled, no bugle inspirited them. The little village was now more -clearly seen under a growing light, and there were bands of colour -above the distant ridge of the Argonne. It was not quite four in the -morning, and there was a mist from the meadows beside the road. - -They went out silently. There was a sort of step kept, but it was very -loose. They sang no songs, they were a most unfortunate crowd. - - * * * * * - -We had been for two hours upon our horses, we who had started long -after sunrise after our horses had been groomed and fed and watered, -and treated like Christian men--for it was a saying of ours that the -Republic was kinder to a horse than to a man, because a horse cost -money. We had gone, I said, two hours also along the road, trotting and -walking alternately, with the interminable clatter-clank-clank of the -limber and the pieces behind us, and with the occasional oath of the -sergeant or the corporal when a trace went loose or when a bit of bad -riding on the part of some leader checked the column of guns; we had so -pounded along into the heat of the day; the sun was beginning to offend -us--we were more in a sweat than our horses--when we heard a long way -off upon the road before us the faint noise of a song, and soon we saw -from one of those recurring summits of the arrow-like French road, the -jolly fellows of the Line. They were not more than a thousand yards -before us; they made a little dust as they went, and as they went -their rifles swinging on the shoulder gave them a false appearance -of unity--for unity they were not caring at all. Somewhat before we -reached them we saw their cohesion break, they became a doubled mob -upon either side of the road, and we knew that they were making the -regulation halt of five minutes, which is ordered at the end of every -hour; but probably their commanding officer had somewhat advanced or -retarded this in order to make a coincidence with the going by of the -guns. - -We saw them as we approached lying in all attitudes upon either side -of the road, some few munching bread from the haversack, and some -few drinking from their gourds. As we came up they were compelled to -rise to salute another arm upon its passage, and their faces, all -their double hedge of faces, were full of insolence and of merriment, -for they had recently sung and eaten, and the march had done them -good--they had covered about eighteen miles. - -So we went by, and when we had left them some few hundred yards we -again heard faintly behind us the beginning of a new song, the tune of -which was known among us as “The Washerwoman.” It is a good marching -song. But shortly after this we heard no more, for first the noise of -the horse hoofs extinguished the singing, and later distance swallowed -it up altogether. - - * * * * * - -We had come into quarters early in the afternoon, we had groomed our -horses and fed them, and watered them at the chalkiest stream, we had -brought them back to their stables, and the stable guard was set; those -who were not on duty went off about the village, and several, of -whom I was one, gathered in the house of a man whose relative in the -regiment had led us thither. - -He received us well, for he was a farmer in a large way; he gave us -wine, bread, and eggs, and a little bacon. He said he hoped that no -more troops would come into the little village that day. We told him -that the Line would come, so far as we knew, but he answered that he -had heard from his brother, who was mayor of the adjoining commune, -that the Line were to be quartered in that neighbouring parish, that -they would march through the village in which we were, and sleep in the -houses about a mile ahead of us upon the road to Rheims. - -While he was speaking thus we heard again, but much louder than before -(for it came upon us round the corner of the village street), the noise -of a marching song. They were singing at the top of their voices--they -were in a sort of fury of singing. - -They passed along making more dust than ever before, and anyone who -had not known them would have said they were out of hand. Several were -limping as they went, one or two, recognising the gunners and the -drivers, waved their hands. The rest still sang. No one had fallen out. -Their arms they carried anyhow, and more than one man was carrying -two rifles (probably for money), and more than one man was carrying -none, and some had their rifles slung across their backs, and some -tucked under their arms. So they went forward, and again we heard -their singing dwindle, but this time it continued much longer than -before, and I think we heard it up to the halt, when their task was -accomplished and the march was done. - -They are an incredible people! - - - - -On Saturnalia - - -One of the bothers of writing is that words carry about upon their -backs nowadays a great pack of past meanings and derivations, and -that--particularly to-day--no word is standing still as it were and -meaning something once and for all which a plain man can say without -being laughed at for ignorance or for affectation. For instance, -Saturnalia. To one man it means a certain bundle of ritual many -centuries dead, common to a particular district of Italy and practised -in midwinter. To another man it means a lot of poor people having an -exaggerated beanfeast and thereby annoying the rich people. But it does -not mean either of these things to the plain man. It means to the plain -man occasion and specific occasion for turning things upside down and -getting breathing space for a while from the crushing order of this -world. That is what “Saturnalia” means to the ordinary user of the -word, and note, he has no other word by which to express the idea--so -thoroughly has the thing died out since modern English was formed. -I suppose the nearest word for it in English--when such feasts were -still known in England--was the vague word “Misrule.” Anyhow, it is -Saturnalia now, and Saturnalia it shall be here. - -If a man were to come back from the past and watch the modern world -into which he had tumbled he would note any number of things that -would, I am certain, intoxicate him with wonder and delight. Just -as one is intoxicated with wonder and delight on landing in youth -upon the quays of a foreign port for the first time--that is, if the -foreign port is well governed, for there is no wonder or delight either -in barbarism or in decay. Such a man would be perpetually running -to telephones, those curious toys, and marvelling at cinematographs -and rejoicing in express trains and clear print and big guns and -phonographs; he couldn’t help it. Motor-cars moving by themselves would -fill him with magic--but he would bitterly mislike certain absences, -and he would complain that half a dozen things were very wrong with the -world. So many men free and yet owning nothing--so much the greater -part of men free and yet owning nothing--would seem to him a monstrous -and perilous thing. The exact and mechanical accuracy that clocks and -railways have made would offend him; he would see it as a disease -wearing out men’s nerves. The modern arguments all in a circle round -and round the old insoluble problems would bore him dreadfully, and -still more perhaps the fresh discoveries every week of principles and -plain truths as old as the Mediterranean--but nothing surely would -astonish him or grieve him or frighten him more than the absence of -topsy-turvydom without some recurrent breath of which the soul of man -perishes. - -And why? There is a question you may ask some time before it will be -answered. One thing is sure, though the sureness of it reposes on some -base we cannot see: in the proportion that men are secure of their -philosophy and social scheme, in that proportion they must in some -fixed manner turn it upside down from time to time for their delight -and show it on a stage or enact it in a religious ritual with all -its rules reversed and the whole thing wrong way about. They have -always done this in healthy States, and if ever our State gets healthy -they will begin to do it again. It is a human craving, an intense -craving--but why, it would be a business to say. - -It must not be imagined that the craving or the expression of it has -passed from us to-day. They have no more passed from us than the desire -for property or for the tilling of the land. But their corporate -character is broken up, they appear sporadically in individuals only, -and are therefore often evil. They appear in the irony which is an -increasing feature of our letters, in mad freaks and outbreaks for -which men strained beyond bearing are punished, and they appear in -fantastic prophecies of a changed world. - -One sees that craving for a burst of misrule in quite unexpected -enthusiasms for things remote from our lives, in great senseless -mobs furious about minor things--the minor actions of a campaign or -the minor details of law-making--in the public clamour about the -misfortunes of some foreign prisoner or the politics of some alien -State. One sees it in the men who suddenly start rules of life based on -some careful negation of what all around them do, in the leaders and -teachers who first note exactly what nearly all their fellow-beings -eat or drink or wear, and then most loudly proclaim salvation to -lie in _not_ eating, drinking, or wearing these obviously necessary -things. The neighbours stare! And no wonder--for private Saturnalia are -dangerously near to vice in the sane, in the weak to insanity. - -But true Saturnalia, public Saturnalia, were healthy because they were -corporate. Custom and religion had dug a sort of channel into which -all that emotion could commonly run, and in midwinter, when it had -long been very dark, the mischiefs, the comic spirits came out of the -woods and for some days possessed the souls of men, and these, by that -possession, were purged and freed. So it was for hundreds upon hundreds -of years--until quite the modern time. Why have we lost it, and how -long must we wait for it to return? - -When the relations of slave and master seemed as obvious and necessary -as seem to us (let us say) the reading of a daily paper or the taking -of a train, yet the obvious and necessary routine was broken in -midwinter, the slave was the master for a moment and the master a slave. - -When the ritual of the Church was as much a commonplace as the ritual -of social life is to us to-day, there was a season (it was this season -between Christmas and the Epiphany) when the dead weight of order was -lifted and a boy was dressed as a bishop or a donkey was put to chaunt -the office, and the people sang:-- - - Plebs autem respondet: - Hé sire Ane, ho! Chantez! - Vous aurez du foin assez - Et de l’avoine à manger! - -When the awful authority of civil and hereditary powers was -unquestioned they yet set up in English halls Lords of Misrule who -governed that season. The Inns of Court, I believe, delighted in them, -and certainly till quite late in the seventeenth century the peasantry -of the villages. - -It has gone. It will return. During its absence (and may that absence -not be much prolonged) perhaps one can see its nature the more -clearly because one sees it from the outside and as a distant though -a desired thing. Perhaps we, living in a very unreasonable age, when -realities are forgotten and imaginaries preferred, when we solemnly -reiterate impossibilities, affirm our faith in scientific guesswork -and our doubts upon the plain rules of arithmetic, can understand -why our much more reasonable fathers thirsted for and obtained these -feasts of unreason. It seems to have been a little like the natural -craving for temporary oblivion (sleep--a chaos) once in every day; -a sort of bath in that muddle or nothingness out of which the world -was made. Equality, which lies at the base of society, was brought -to surface by a paradox and shown at large. Intensity of conviction -and of organisation took refuge in the relief of a momentary--and not -meant--denial of that conviction and organisation, and the whole of -society collectively expanded its soul by one collective foolery at -high pressure, as does the healthy individual by one good farce or peal -of laughter when occasion serves. - -How the Saturnalia will return (as return they will) no one can say. -The seeds of reaction from the tangle of the modern world lie all -around in the customs and the demands of the populace: but seeds -are never known or perceived till they have sprouted. Sometimes one -catches the echo of the return in a chance jest; especially if it be a -cabman’s. Sometimes in a solemn hoax largely indulged in by many poor -men against one richer than themselves. Sometimes in the voluntary -humour and cynical goodness of heart of a powerful or wealthy man -exposing the illusions of his kind. - -Anyhow, one way or another, sooner or later, the Saturnalia will -return; may it be sooner rather than later, and at the latest not later -than 1938, when so many of us will be so very old. - -For my part I shall look for the first signs in the provinces of rich -and riotous blood as on the Border (and especially just north of it) -or in Flanders, or, better still, in Burgundy from Nuits and Beaune -northward and eastward. I have especially great hopes of the town of -Dijon. - - - - -A Little Conversation in Herefordshire - - -There is a country house (as the English phrase goes) in the County -of Hereford, at a little distance from the River Wye; the people who -live in this house are very rich. They are not rich precariously, -nor with doubts here and there, nor for the time, but in a solid -manner; that is, they believe their riches to be eternal. Their income -springs from very many places, of which they have not an idea; it is -spent in a straightforward manner, which they fully comprehend. It is -spent in relieving the incompetence--the economic incompetence--of -all those about them; in causing wine to come into England from Ay, -Vosne, Barsac, and (though they do not know it) from the rougher soil -of Algiers. It also causes (does the way in which they exercise what -only pedants call their Potential Demand) tea to be grown in Ceylon -for their servants and in China for themselves, horses to be bred in -Ireland, and wheat to be sown and most laboriously garnered in Western -Canada, Ohio, India, South Russia, the Argentine, and other places. -Also, were you to seek out every economic cause and effect, you would -find missionaries living where no man can live, save by artifice, and -living upon artificial supply in a strange climate by the strength of -this Potential Demand rooted in the meadows of the Welsh March. - -Then, also, if you were to follow the places whence their wealth is -derived, it would interest you very much. You would see one man earning -so much in the docks and handing on a Saturday evening so much of his -wages into their fund. You would see another clipping off cloth in -Manchester and offering it to them, and another plucking cotton in -Egypt and exchanging it, at their order, against something which they, -not he, needed. Altogether you would see the whole world paying tithe, -and a stream flowing into Hereford as into a reservoir, and a stream -flowing out again by many channels. - -These good people were at dinner; upon the 5th of October, to be -accurate. Parliament had not yet met, but football had begun, and there -was shooting, also a little riding upon horses, though this is not -to-day a popular amusement, and few will practise it. As for the women, -one wrote and the other read--which was a fair division of labour; but -the woman who wrote was not read by the woman who read, for the woman -who wrote (and she was the daughter) preferred to write upon problems. -But her mother, who did the reading, preferred what is called fiction, -and Mr. Meredith was a favourite author of hers; but, indeed, she would -read all fiction so only that it was in her native tongue. - -Now the men of the family were very different from this, and the things -they liked were hunting of a particular kind (which I shall not here -describe), shooting of a similar kind, their country, and politics, -which last interest it would have been abominable to deny them, for the -two men, both father and son, were actively engaged in the making of -laws, each in a different place; the laws they made (it is true in the -company of, and with the advice of, others) are to be found in what is -called the Statute Book, which neither you nor I have ever seen. - -All these four, the father, the son, the mother, and the daughter, in -different ways intelligent, but all four very kind and good, were at -dinner upon this day of which I speak, the 5th of October, but they -were not alone. They had to meet them several people who were staying -in the house. The one was a satirist who had been born in Lithuania. -He was poor and proud and had learnt the English tongue, and he wrote -books upon the pride of race and upon battling with the sea. He was an -envious sort of man, but as he never had nor ever would have any home -or lineage, England was much the same to him as any other place. He -hated all our nations with an equal hatred. - -Another guest was a little man called Copp. He was a lord; his title -was not Copp. Only his name was Copp, and even this name he hid, for -old father Copp, who had married a Miss Billings in the eighteenth -century, had had a son John Billings, since the Billings were richer -than the Copps. And John Billings had married Mary Steyning, who was -the Squire’s daughter, and they had had a son John Steyning, since -John was by this time the hereditary name. Now John Steyning was in the -Parliament that worked for the Regent, and a short one it was, and he -became plain Lord Steyning, and then he and his son and his grandson -married in all sorts of ways, and the title now was Bramber, but the -family name was Steyning, and the real name was Copp. So much for -Copp. He was as lively as a grig, he had travelled everywhere, and he -knew about ten languages. He was peculiarly brave, and as a boy he had -stoutly refused to go to the University. - -Then also there was the Doctor, who was absurdly nervous and could ill -afford to dine out, and there was a young man who was in Parliament -with the son of the family; this young man had been to Oxford with -him also, not at Cambridge; he was a lawyer, and he was making three -thousand pounds a year, but he said he was making six when he talked to -his wife and mother, and most serious men believed that he was making -ten. The women of these were also present with them, saving always that -Copp, who was called Steyning, and whose title was Bramber, was not -married. - -These then, sitting round the table, came to talk of something after -all not remote from the interest of their lives. They talked of -Socialists, and it all began by Copp (who called himself Steyning, -while his title was Bramber) saying that his uncle Gwilliam had just -missed being a Socialist because he was too stupid. - -The Head of the Family, who had most imperfectly caught the -pronouncement of Copp as to his relative, said, “Yes, Bramber; got to -be pretty stupid to be that!” By which the Head of the House meant that -one had to be pretty stupid to be a Socialist, whereas what Copp had -said was that his uncle had been too stupid to be a Socialist. But it -was all one. - -The Son of the House said that there were lots of Socialists going -about, and the young lawyer friend said there were a lot of people who -said they were Socialists but who were not Socialists. - -The Daughter of the House said that it was very interesting the way in -which Socialism went up and down. She said: “Look at the Fabians!” The -Mother of the House looked all round, smiling genially, for she thought -that her daughter was speaking of the name of a book. - -The Doctor said: “It’s all a pose, those sort of people.” But which -sort he did not say, so the Daughter of the House said sharply: “Which -sort of people?” For she loved to cross-examine struggling professional -men, and the Doctor got quite red, and said; “Oh, all that sort of -people!” - -The young lawyer, who was quick to see a difficulty, helped him out by -saying, “He means people like Bensington!” - -The Doctor, who had never heard of Bensington, nodded eagerly, and -the Head of the House, frowning a healthy frown, said, “What, not John -Bensington, old William Bensington’s son?” - -“Yes,” said the young lawyer. “That’s the kind of man he means,” and -the Doctor nodded again. - -His enemy was dropping farther and farther behind him with every -stride, but she made a brilliant rally. “Do you mean John Bensington?” -she said. The Doctor, in some alarm, and with his mouth full, nodded -vigorously for the third time. The Head of the House, still frowning, -broke into all this with a solid roar: “I don’t believe a word of -it.” He sat leaning back again, not relaxing his frown and trying to -connect the son of his old friend with a gang of treasonable robbers. -He remembered Jock’s marriage--for it was a bad one--and a silly book -of verses he had written, and how keen he had been against his father’s -selling the bit of land along the coast, because it was bound to go up. -He could fit Jock in with many unpleasant things, but he couldn’t fit -him in with the very definite picture that rose in his mind whenever he -heard the word “Socialist.” There was something adventurous and violent -and lean about the word--something like a wolf. There was nothing of -all that in Jock. So much thought matured at last into living words, -and the Head of the House said, “Why, he’s on the County Council.” - -The Daughter of the House turned to the lawyer and said, “How would -you define a Socialist, Mr. Layton?” - -Mr. Layton defined a Socialist, and his silent wife, who was sitting -opposite, looked at him happily on account of the power of his mind. -The Lithuanian, who had said nothing all this while, but had been -glancing with eyes as bright as a bird’s, now at one speaker, now -at another, nerved himself to intervene. Then there passed over his -little soul the vivid pictures of things he had seen and known: the -dens in Riga, the pain, the flight upon a Danish ship, the assumption -first of German, then of English nationality, the easy gullibility of -the large-hearted wealthy people of this land. He remembered his own -confidence, his own unwavering talent, and his contempt of, and hatred -for, other men. He could have trusted himself to speak, for he was in -full command of his little soul, and there was not a trace of anything -in his accent definitely foreign. But the virtue and the folly of these -happy luxurious people about him pleased him too much and pleased him -wickedly. - -He went on tasting them in silence, until the Daughter of the House, -who felt awe for him alone of all those present--much more awe than she -did for her strong and good father--said to him, almost with reverence, -that he should take to writing now of the meadows of England, since he -had so wonderfully described her battles at sea. And the Lithuanian -was ready to turn the talk upon letters, his bright eyes darting all -the while. The old man, the Head of the House, sighed and muttered: -“Jock was no Socialist.” That was the one thing that he retained; -... and meanwhile wealth continued to pour in from all corners of -the world into his house, and to pour out again over the four seas, -doing his will, and no one in the world, not even the chief victims -of that wealth, hated it as the little Lithuanian did, and no one in -the world--not even of them who had seen most of that wealth--hungered -bestially for it as did he. - - - - -On the Rights of Property - - -There is in the dark heart of Soho, not far from a large stable -where Zebras, Elephants, and trained Ponies await their turn for the -footlights and the inebriation of public applause, a little tavern, -divided, as are even the meanest of our taverns, into numerous -compartments, each corresponding to some grade in the hierarchy of our -ancient and orderly society. - -For many years the highest of these had been called “the Private -Bar,” and was distinguished from its next fellow by this, that the -cushions upon its little bench were covered with sodden velvet, not -with oilcloth. Here, also, the drink provided by the politician who -owned this and many other public-houses was served in glasses of -uncertain size and not by imperial measure. This, I say, had been the -chief or summit of the place for many years; from the year of the -great Exhibition, in fact until that great change in London life which -took place towards the end of the eighties and brought us, among other -things, a new art and a new conception of world-wide power. In those -years, as the mind of London changed so did this little public-house -(which was called “the Lord Benthorpe”), and it added yet another step -to its hierarchy of pens. This new place was called “the Saloon Bar.” -It was larger and better padded, and there was a tiny table in it. -Then the years went on and wars were fought and the modern grip of man -over natural forces marvellously extended, and the wealth of a world’s -Metropolis greatly swelled, and “The Lord Benthorpe” found room for yet -another and final reserve wherein it might receive the very highest of -its clients. This was built upon what had been the backyard, it had -several tables, and it was called “the Lounge.” - -So far so good. Here late one evening when the music-halls had just -discharged their thousands, and when the Elephants, the Zebras, and -the Ponies near by were retiring to rest, sat two men, both authors; -the one was an author who had written for now many years upon social -subjects, and notably upon the statistics of our industrial conditions. -He had come nearer than any other to the determination of the Incidence -of Economic Rent upon Retail Exchange and had been the first to show -(in an essay, now famous) that the Ricardian Theory of Surplus did not -apply in the anarchic competition of Retail Dealing, at least in our -main thoroughfares. - -His companion wielded the pen in another manner. It was his to analyse -into its last threads of substance the human mind. Rare books proceeded -from him at irregular and lengthy intervals packed with a close -observation of the ultimate motives of men and an exact portrayal -of their labyrinth of deed; nor could he achieve his ideal in this -province of letters save by the use of words so unusual and, above all, -arranged in an order so peculiar to himself, as to bring upon his few -readers often perplexity and always awe. - -Neither of these two men was wealthy. Such incomes as they gained had -not even that quality of regular flow which, more than mere volume, -impresses the years with security. Each was driven to continual -expedients, and each had lost such careful habits as only a regular -supply can perpetuate. The consequence of this impediment was -apparent in the clothing of both men and in the grooming of each; -for the Economist, who was the elder, wore a frock-coat unsuited to -the occasion, marked in many places with lighter patches against its -original black, and he had upon his head a top hat of no great age and -yet too familiar and rough, and dusty at the brim. The Psychologist, -upon the other hand, sprawled in a suit of wool, grey and in places -green, which was most slipshod and looked as though at times he slept -in it, which indeed at times he did. Unlike his elder companion he wore -no stiff collar round his throat, a negligence which saved him from -the reproach of frayed linen worn through too many days; his shirt -was a grey woollen shirt with a grey woollen collar of such a sort as -scientific men assure us invigorates the natural functions and prolongs -the life of man. - -These two fell at once to a discussion upon that matter which absorbs -the best of modern minds. I mean the organisation of Production in -the modern world. It was their favourite theme. Their drink was Port, -which, carelessly enough, they continued to order in small glasses -instead of beginning boldly with the bottle. The Port was bad, or -rather it was not Port, yet had they bought one bottle of it they would -have saved the earnings of many days. - -It was their favourite theme.... Each was possessed of an intellectual -scorn for the mere ritual of an older time; neither descended to an -affirmation nor even condescended to a denial of private property. Both -clearly saw that no organised scheme of production could exist under -modern conditions unless its organisation were to be controlled by the -community. Yet the two friends differed in one most material point, -which was the possibility, men being what they were, of settling thus -the control of _machinery_. Upon land they were agreed. The land must -necessarily be made a national thing, and the conception of ownership -in it, however limited, was, as a man whom they both revered had put -it, “unthinkable.” Indeed, they recognised that the first steps towards -so obvious a reform were now actually taken, and they confidently -expected the final processes in it to be the work of quite the next -few years; but whereas the Economist, with his profound knowledge of -external detail, could see no obstacle to the collective control of -capital as well, the Psychologist, ever dwelling upon the inner springs -of action, saw no hope, no, not even for so evident and necessary a -scheme, save in some ideal despotism of which he despaired. In vain -did the Economist point out that our great railways, our mines, the -main part of our shipping, and even half our textile industry had -now no personal element in their direction save that of the salaried -management; the Psychologist met him at every move with the effect -produced upon man by the mere illusion of a personal element in all -these things. The Economist, not a little inspired as the evening -deepened, remembered and even invented names, figures, cases that -showed the growing unity of the industrial world; the Psychologist -equally inspired, and with an equal increase of fervour, drew picture -after picture, each more vivid and convincing than the last, of -man caught in the tangle of imaginary motive and unobedient to any -industrial control, unless that control could by some miracle be given -the quality of universal tyranny. - -Music was added to their debate, and subtly changed, as it must always -change, the colour of thought. In the street without a man with a -fine baritone voice, which evidently he had failed through vice or -carelessness to exploit with success, sang songs of love and war, -and at his side there accompanied him a little organ upon wheels -which a weary woman played. The rich notes of his voice filled “The -Lord Benthorpe” through the opened windows of that hot night, and -drowned or modified the differences of cabmen and others in the Public -Bar; as he sang the two disputants rose almost to the lyric in their -enthusiasm, the one for the new world that was so soon to be, the other -for that gloomy art of his by which he read the hearts of men and saw -their doom. - - * * * * * - -It has been remarked by many that we mortals are surrounded by -coincidence, and least observe Fate at its nearest approach, so that -friends meet or leave us unexpectedly, and that the accidents of -our lives make part of a continual play. So it was with these two. -For as they warmly debated, and one of them had upset and broken -his glass while the other lay back repeating again and again some -favourite phrase, a third was on his way to meet them. A man much -older than either, a man who did nothing at all and lived when his -sister remembered him, was in that neighbourhood, vaguely wandering -and feeling in every pocket for a coin. His hand trembled with age, -and also a little with anxiety, but to his great joy he felt at last -through the lining of his coat a large round hardness, and very -carefully searching through a tear, and aided by the light that shone -from the windows of “The Lord Benthorpe,” he discovered and possessed -half a crown. With that he entered in, for he knew that his friends -were there. In what respect he held them, their accomplishments, and -their public fame, I need not say, for that respect is always paid by -the simple to the learned. He sat by them at the little table, drinking -also, and for some minutes listened to their stream of affirmation and -of vision, but soon he shook his head in a quavering senile way, as -he very vaguely caught the drift of their contention. “You’ve got the -wrong end of the stick,” he said.... “You’ve got the wrong end of the -stick!... Can’t take away what a man’s got ... ’tis _wrawng_!... ’Vide -it up, all the same next week.... Same hands! Same hands!” he went on -foolishly wagging his head, and still smiling almost like an imbecile. -“All in the same hands again in a week!... ’Vide it up ever so much.” -They neglected him and continued their ardent debate, and as they flung -repeated bolts of theory he, their new companion, still murmured to -himself the security of established things and the ancient doctrine of -ownership and of law. - -But now the night and the stars had come to their appointed hour, -and the ending which is decreed of all things had come also to their -carousal. A young man of energy stood before them in his shirt sleeves, -crying, “Time, Time!” as a voice might cry “Doom!” and, by force of -crying and of orders, “The Lord Benthorpe” was emptied, and there was -silence at last behind its shutters and its bolted doors. - -These three, not yet in a mood for sleep, sauntered together westward -through the vast landed estates of London, westward, to their distant -homes. - - - - -The Economist - - -A gentleman possessing some three thousand acres of land, the most -of it contiguous, one field with another, or, as he himself, his -agent, his bailiff, his wife, his moneylender, and others called it, -“in a ring fence,” was in the habit of asking down to the country at -Christmas time some friend or friends, though more usually a friend -than friends, because the income he received from the three thousand -acres of land had become extremely small. - -He was especially proud of those of his friends who lived neither by -rent from land nor from the proceeds of their business, but by mental -activity in some profession, and of none was he prouder than of an -Economist whom he had known for more than forty years; for they had -been at school together and later at college. Now this Economist was -a very hearty, large sort of a man, and he made an amply sufficient -income by writing about economics and by giving economic advice in the -abstract to politicians, and economic lectures and expert economic -evidence; in fact, there was no limit to his earnings except that -imposed by time and the necessity for sleep. He was not married and -could spend all his earnings upon himself--which he did. He was -tall, lean, and active, with bright vivacious eyes and an upstanding -manner. He had two sharp and healthy grey whiskers upon either side of -his face; his hair was also grey but curly; and altogether he was a -vigorous fellow. There was nothing in economic science hidden from him. - -This Economist, therefore, and his friend the Squire (who was a short, -fat, and rather doleful man) were walking over the wet clay land which -one of them owned and on which the other talked. There was a clinging -mist of a very light sort, so that you could not see more than about -a mile. The trees upon that clay were small and round, and from their -bare branches and twigs the mist clung in drops; where the bushes were -thick and wherever evergreens afforded leaves, these drops fell with -a patter that sounded almost like rain. There were no hills in the -landscape and the only thing that broke the roll of the clay of the -park land was the house, which was called a castle; and even this they -could not see without turning round, for they were walking away from -it. But even to look at this house did not raise the heart, for it was -very hideous and had been much neglected on account of the lessening -revenue from the three thousand acres of land. Great pieces of plaster -had fallen off, nor had anything been continually repaired except the -windows. - -The Economist strode and the Squire plodded on over the wet grass, and -it gave the Squire pleasure to listen to the things which the Economist -said, though these were quite incomprehensible to him. They came to -a place where, after one had pushed through a tall bramble hedge and -stuck in a very muddy hidden ditch, one saw before one on the farther -side, screened in everywhere and surrounded by a belt or frame of low, -scraggy trees and stunted bushes, a large deserted field. In colour -it was very pale green and brown; myriads of dead thistles stood in -it; there were nettles, and, in the damper hollows, rushes growing. -The Economist took this field and turned his voluble talk upon it. He -appreciated that much he said during their walk, being sometimes of an -abstract and always of a technical nature, had missed the mind of his -friend; he therefore determined upon a concrete instance and waved his -vigorous long arm towards the field and said: - -“Now, take this field, for instance.” - -“Yes,” said the Squire humbly. - -“Now, this field,” said the Economist, “_of itself_ has no value at -all.” - -“No,” said the Squire. - -“_That_,” said the Economist with increasing earnestness, tapping one -hand with two fingers of the other, “that’s what the layman must seize -first ... every error in economics comes from not appreciating that -things in themselves have no value. For instance,” he went on, “you -would say that a diamond had value, wouldn’t you ... a large diamond?” - -The Squire, hoping to say the right thing, said: “I suppose not.” - -This annoyed the Economist, who answered a little testily: “I don’t -know what you mean. What _I_ mean is that the diamond has no value in -itself....” - -“I see,” broke in the Squire, with an intelligent look, but the -Economist went on rapidly as though he had not spoken: - -“It only has a value because it has been transposed in some way from -the position where man could not use it to a position where he can. -Now, you would say that land could not be transposed, but it can be -made from _less_ useful to man, _more_ useful to man.” - -The Squire admitted this, and breathed a deep breath. - -“Now,” said the Economist, waving his arm again at the field, “take -this field, for instance.” - -There it lay, silent and sullen under the mist. There was no noise of -animals in the brakes, the dirty boundary stream lay sluggish and dead, -and the rank weeds had lost all colour. One could note the parallel -belts of rounded earth where once--long, long ago--this field had been -ploughed. No other evidence was there of any activity at all, and it -looked as though man had not seen it for a hundred years. - -“Now,” said the Economist, “what is the value of this field?” - -The Squire had begun his answer, when his friend interrupted him -testily. “No, no, no; I don’t want to ask about your private affairs; -what I mean is, what is it builds up the economic value of this field? -It is not the earth itself; it is the use to which man puts it. It is -the crops and the produce which he makes it bear and the advantage -which it has over other neighbouring fields. It is the _surplus value_ -which makes it give you a rent. What gives _this_ field its value is -the competition among the farmers to get it.” - -“But----” began the Squire. - -The Economist with increasing irritation waved him down. “Now, listen,” -he said; “the worst land has only what is called prairie value.” - -The Squire would eagerly have asked the meaning of this, for it -suggested coin, but he thought he was bound to listen to the remainder -of the story. - -“That is only true,” said the Economist, “of the worst land. There _is_ -land on which no profit could be made; it neither _makes_ nor loses. It -is on what we call the _margin of production_.” - -“What about rates?” said the Squire, looking at that mournful stretch, -all closed in and framed with desolation, and suggesting a thousand -such others stretching on to the boundaries of a deserted world. - -How various are the minds of men! That little word “rates”--it has but -five letters; take away the “e” and it would have but four--and what -different things does it not mean to different men! To one man the -pushing on of his shop just past the edge of bankruptcy; to another the -bother of writing a silly little cheque; to another the brand of the -Accursed Race of our time--the pariahs, the very poor. To this Squire -it meant the dreadful business of paying a great large sum out of an -income that never sufficed for the bare needs of his life ... to tell -the truth, he always borrowed money for the rates and paid it back out -of the next half year ... he had such a lot of land in hand. Years -ago, when farms were falling in, in the eighties, a friend of his, a -practical man, who went in for silos and had been in the Guards and -knew a lot about French agriculture, had told him it would pay him to -have his land in hand, so when the farms fell in he consoled himself by -what the friend had said; but all these years had passed and it had not -paid him. - -Now to the Economist this little word “rates” suggested the hardest -problem--the perhaps insoluble problem--of applied economics in our -present society. He turned his vivacious eyes sharply on to the Squire -and stepped out back for home, for the Castle. For a little time -he said nothing, and the Squire, honestly desiring to continue the -conversation, said again as he plodded by his friend’s side, “What -about rates?” - -“Oh, they’ve nothing to do with it!” said the Economist, a little -snappishly. “The proportionate amount of surplus produce demanded -by the community does not affect the basic process of production. Of -course,” he added, in a rather more conciliatory tone, “it _would_ if -the community demanded the total unearned increment and _then_ proposed -taxes beyond that limit. _That_, I have always said, would affect the -whole nature of production.” - -“Oh!” said the Squire. - -By this time they were nearing the Castle, and it was already dusk; -they were silent during the last hundred yards as the great house -showed more definitely through the mist, and the Economist could note -upon the face of it the coat-of-arms with which he was familiar. They -had been those of his host’s great-grandfather, a solicitor who had -foreclosed. These arms were of stucco. Age and the tempest had made -them green, and the head of that animal which represented the family -had fallen off. - -They went into the house, they drank tea with the rather worried but -well-bred hostess of it, and all evening the Squire’s thoughts were of -his two daughters, who dressed exactly alike in the local town, and -whose dresses were not yet paid for, and of his son, whose schooling -was paid for, but whose next term was ahead: the Squire was wondering -about the extras. Then he remembered suddenly, and as suddenly put out -of his mind by an effort of surprising energy in such a man, the date -February 3rd, on which he must get a renewal or pay a certain claim. - -They sat at table; they drank white fizzy wine by way of ritual, but it -was bad. The Economist could not distinguish between good wine and bad, -and all the while his mind was full of a very bothersome journey to the -North, where he was to read a paper to an institute upon “The Reaction -of Agricultural Prosperity upon Industrial Demand.” He was wondering -whether he could get them to change the hour so that he could get back -by a train that would put him into London before midnight. And all this -cogitation which lay behind the general talk during dinner and after it -led him at last to say: “Have you a ‘Bradshaw’?” - -But the Squire’s wife had no “Bradshaw.” She did not think they could -afford it. However, the eldest daughter remembered an old “Bradshaw” of -last August, and brought it, but it was no use to the Economist. - - * * * * * - -How various is man! How multiplied his experience, his outlook, his -conclusions! - - - - -A Little Conversation in Carthage - - -HANNO: Waiter! Get me a copy of _The Times_. [_Mutters to himself. -The waiter brings the copy of_ The Times. _As he gives it to Hanno he -collides with another member of the Club, and that member, already -advanced in years, treads upon Hanno’s foot._] - -HANNO: Ah! Ah! Ah!... Oh! [_with a grunt_]. Bethaal, it’s you, is it? - -BETHAAL: Gouty? - -HANNO [_after saying nothing for some time_]: ’Xtraordinary thing.... -Nothing in the papers. - -BETHAAL: Nothing odd about that! [_He laughs rather loudly, and -Hanno, who wishes he had said the witty thing, smirks gently without -enthusiasm. Then he proceeds on another track._] I find plenty in the -papers! [_He puffs like a grampus._] - -HANNO: Plenty about yourself!... That’s the only good of politics, and -precious little good either.... What I can’t conceive--as you _do_ -happen to be the in’s and not the out’s--is why you don’t send more men -from somewhere; he has asked for them often enough. - -BETHAAL [_wisely_]: They’re all against it; couldn’t get anyone to -agree but little Schem [_laughs loudly_]; he’d agree to anything. - -HANNO [_wagging his head sagely_]: He’ll be Suffete, my boy! He’ll be a -Sephad all right! He’s my sister’s own boy. - -BETHAAL [_surlily_]: Shouldn’t wonder! All you Hannos get the pickings. - -HANNO: You talk like a book.... Anyhow, what about the -reinforcements?--that _does_ interest me. - -BETHAAL [_wearily_]: Oh, really. I’ve heard about it until I’m tired. -It isn’t the reinforcements that are wanted really; it’s money, and -plenty of it. That’s what it is. [_He looks about the room in search -for a word._] That’s what it is. [_He continues to look about the -room._] That’s what it is ... er ... really. [_Having found the word -Bethaal is content, and Hanno remains silent for a few minutes, then_:] - -HANNO: He doesn’t seem to be doing much. - -BETHAAL [_jumping up suddenly with surprising vigour for a man of close -on seventy, and sticking his hands into his pockets, if Carthaginians -had pockets_]: That’s it! That’s exactly it! That’s what I say, What -Hannibal really wants is money. He’s got the _men_ right enough. The -_men_ are splendid, but all those putrid little Italian towns are -asking to be bribed, and I _can’t_ get the money out of Mohesh. - -HANNO [_really interested_]: Yes, now? Mohesh has got the old -tradition, and I do believe it’s the sound one. Our money is as -important to us as our Fleet, I mean our _credit’s_ as important to -us as our Fleet, and he’s perfectly right is Mohesh.... [_Firmly_] I -wouldn’t let you have a penny if I were at the Treasury. - -BETHAAL [_surlily_]: Well, he’s bound to take Rome at last anyway, so I -don’t suppose it matters whether he has the money or not; but it makes -_me_ look like a fool. When everything was going well I didn’t care, -but I do care now. [_He holds up in succession three fat fingers_]. -First there was Drephia---- - -HANNO [_interrupting_]: Trebbia. - -BETHAAL: Oh, well, I don’t care.... Then there was Trasimene; then -there was that other place which wasn’t marked on the map, and little -Schem found for me in the very week in which I got him on to the Front -Bench. You remember his speech? - -[HANNO _shakes his head_.] - -BETHAAL [_impatiently_]: Oh well, anyhow you remember Cannae, don’t you? - -HANNO: Oh yes, I remember Cannae. - -BETHAAL: Well, he’s bound to win. He’s bound to take the place, and -then [_wearily_], then, as poor old Hashuah said at the Guildhall, -“Annexation will be inevitable.” - -HANNO: Now, look here, may I put it to you shortly? - -BETHAAL [_in great dread_]: All right. - -HANNO [_leaning forward in an earnest way, and emphasising what he -says_]: All you men who get at the head of a Department only think -of the work of that Department. That’s why you talk about Hannibal’s -being bound to win. Of course he’s bound to win; but Carthage all -hangs together, and if he wins at too great a price in money _you’re_ -weakened, and your _son_ is weakened, and _all_ of us are weakened. We -shall be paying five per cent where we used to pay four. Things don’t -go in big jumps; they go in gradations, and I do assure you that if you -don’t send more men---- - -BETHAAL [_interrupting impatiently_]: Oh, curse all that! One can -easily see where _you_ were brought up; you smell of Athens like a -Don, and you make it worse by living out in the country, reading books -and publishing pamphlets and putting people’s backs up for nothing. If -you’d ever been in politics--I mean, if you hadn’t got pilled by three -thousand at.... - -[_At this moment an obese and exceedingly stupid Carthaginian of the -name of Matho strolls into the smoking-room of the club, sees the two -great men, becomes radiant with a mixture of reverence, admiration, and -pride of acquaintance, and makes straight for them._] - -HANNO: Who on earth’s that? Know him? - -BETHAAL [_in a whisper astonishingly vivacious and angry for so old a -man_]: Shut your mouth, can’t you? He’s the head of my association! -He’s the Mayor of the town! - -MATHO: Room for little un? [_He laughs genially and sits down, -obviously wanting an introduction to Hanno._] - -BETHAAL [_nervously_]: I haven’t seen you for ages, my dear fellow! I -hope Lady Matho’s better? [_Turning to Hanno_] Do you know Lady Matho? - -HANNO [_gruffly_]: Lady _Who_? - -BETHAAL [_really angry, and savage on that half of his face which is -turned towards Hanno_]: This gentleman’s wife! - -MATHO [_showing great tact and speaking very rapidly in order to bridge -over an unpleasant situation_]: Wonderful chap this Hannibal! Dogged -does it! No turning back! Once that man puts his hand to the plough he -won’t take it off till he’s [_tries hard, and fails to remember what a -plough does--then suddenly remembering_] till he’s finished his furrow. -That’s where blood tells! Same thing in Tyre, same thing in Sidon, same -thing in Tarshish; I don’t care who it is, whether it’s poor Barca, or -that splendid old chap Mohesh, whom they call “Sterling Dick.” They’ve -all got the blood in them, and they don’t know when they’re beaten. -Now [_as though he had something important to say which had cost him -years of thought_], shall I tell you what I think produces men like -Hannibal? I don’t think it’s the climate, though there’s a lot to be -said for _that_. And I don’t think it’s the sea, though there’s a lot -to be said for _that_. I think it’s our old Carthaginian home-life -[_triumphantly_]. That’s what it is! It isn’t even hunting, though -there’s a lot to be said for that. It’s the old---- [_Hanno suddenly -gets up and begins walking away._] - -BETHAAL [_leaning forwards to Matho_]: Please don’t mind my cousin. -You know he’s a little odd when he meets anyone for the first time; -but he’s a really good fellow at heart, and he’ll help anyone. But, -of course [_smiling gently_], he doesn’t understand politics any more -than---- [_Matho waves his hand to show that he understands._] But such -a good fellow! Do you know Lady Hanno? [_They continue talking, chiefly -upon the merits of Hannibal, but also upon their own._] - - - - -The Strange Companion - - -It was in Lichfield, now some months ago, that I stood by a wall that -flanks the main road there and overlooks a fine wide pond, in which you -may see the three spires of the Cathedral mirrored. - -As I so gazed into the water and noted the clear reflection of the -stonework a man came up beside me and talked in a very cheery way. -He accosted me with such freedom that he was very evidently not from -Europe, and as there was no insolence in his freedom he was not a -forward Asiatic either; besides which, his face was that of our own -race, for his nose was short and simple and his lips reasonably thin. -His eyes were full of astonishment and vitality. He was seeing the -world. He was perhaps thirty-five years old. - -I would not say that he was a Colonial, because that word means so -little; but he talked English in that accent commonly called American, -yet he said he was a Brittishur, so what he was remains concealed; -but surely he was not of this land, for, as you shall presently see, -England was more of a marvel to him than it commonly is to the English. - -He asked me, to begin with, the name of the building upon our left, and -I told him it was the Cathedral, to which his immediate answer was, -was I sure? How could there be a cathedral in such a little town? - -I said that it just was so, and I remembered the difficulty of the -explanation and said no more. Then he looked up at the three spires and -said: “Wondurful; isn’t it?” And I said: “Yes.” - -Then I said to him that we would go in, and he seemed very willing; so -we went towards the Close, and as we went he talked to me about the -religion of those who served the Cathedral, and asked if they were -Episcopalian, or what. So this also I told him. And when he learnt that -what I told him was true of all the other cathedrals, he said heartily: -“Is thet so?” And he was silent for half a minute or more. - -We came and stood by the west front, and looked up at the height of it, -and he was impressed. - -He wagged his head at it and said: “Wondurful, isn’t it?” And then he -added: “Marvlurs how they did things in those old days!” but I told him -that much of what he was looking at was new. - -In answer to this (for I fear that his honest mind was beginning to be -disturbed by doubt), he pointed to the sculptured figures and said that -they were old, as one could see by their costumes. And as I thought -there might be a quarrel about it, I did not contradict; but I let him -go wandering round to the south of it until he came to the figure of -a knight with a moustache, gooseberry eyes, and in general a face so -astoundingly modern that one did not know what to say or do when one -looked at it. It was expressionless. - -My companion, who had not told me his name, looked long and -thoughtfully at this figure, and then came back, more full of time -and of the past of our race than ever; he insisted upon my coming -round with him and looking at the image. He told me that we could not -do better than that nowadays with all our machinery, and he asked me -whether a photograph could be got of it. I told him yes, without doubt, -and what was better, perhaps the sculptor had a duplicate, and that we -would go and find if this were so, but he paid no attention to these -words. - -The amount of work in the building profoundly moved this man, and he -asked me why there was so much ornament, for he could clearly estimate -the vast additional expense of working so much stone that might have -been left plain; though I am certain, from what I gathered of his -character, he would not have left any building wholly plain, not even -a railway station, still less a town hall, but would have had here and -there an allegorical figure as of Peace or of Commerce--the figure -of an Abstract Idea. Still he was moved by such an excess of useless -labour as stood before him. Not that it did not give him pleasure--it -gave him great pleasure--but that he thought it enough and more than -enough. - -We went inside. I saw that he took off his hat, a custom doubtless -universal, and, what struck me much more, he adopted within the -Cathedral a tone of whisper, not only much lower than his ordinary -voice, but of quite a different quality, and I noticed that he was -less erect as he walked, although his head was craned upward to look -towards the roof. The stained glass especially pleased him, but there -was much about it he did not understand. I told him that there could be -seen there a copy of the Gospels of great antiquity which had belonged -to St. Chad; but when I said this he smiled pleasantly, as though I -had offered to show him the saddle of a Unicorn or the tanned skin of -a Hippogriff. Had we not been in so sacred a place I believe he would -have dug me in the ribs. “St. _Who_?” he whispered, looking slily -sideways at me as he said it. “St. Chad,” I said. “He was the Apostle -to Mercia.” But after that I could do no more with him. For the word -“Saint” had put him into fairyland, and he was not such a fool as to -mix up a name like Chad with one of the Apostles; and Mercia is of -little use to men. - -However, there was no quarrelsomeness about him, and he peered at the -writing curiously, pointing out to me that the letters were quite -legible, though he could not make out the words which they spelled, -and very rightly supposed it was a foreign language. He asked a little -suspiciously whether it was the Gospel, and accepted the assurance that -it was; so that his mind, sceptical to excess in some matters, found -its balance by a ready credence in others and remained sane and whole. -He was again touched by the glass in the Lady Chapel, and noted that -it was of a different colour to the other and paler, so that he liked -it less. I told him it was Spanish, and this apparently explained the -matter to him, for he changed his face at once and began to give me the -reason of its inferiority. - -He had not been in Spain, but he had evidently read much about the -country, which was moribund. He pointed out to me the unnatural -attitude of the figures in this glass, and contrasted its half-tones -with the full-blooded colours of the modern work behind us, and he was -particularly careful to note the irregularity of the lettering and -the dates in this glass compared with the other which had so greatly -struck him. I was interested in his fixed convictions relative to the -Spaniards, but just as I was about to question him further upon that -race I began to have my doubts whether the glass were not French. It -was plainly later than the Reformation, and I should have guessed the -end of the sixteenth or beginning of the seventeenth century. But I -hid the misgiving in my heart, lest the little trust in me which my -companion still had should vanish altogether. - -We went out of the great building slowly, and he repeatedly turned to -look back up it, and to admire the proportions. He asked me the exact -height of the central spire, and as I could not tell him this I felt -ashamed, but he told me he would find it in a book, and I assured him -this could be done with ease. The visit had impressed him deeply; it -may be he had not seen such things before, or it may be that he was -more at leisure to attend to the details which had been presented to -him. This last I gathered on his telling me, as we walked towards the -Inn, that he had had no work to do for two days, but that same evening -he was to meet a man in Birmingham, by whom, he earnestly assured -me, he was offered opportunities of wealth in return for so small -an investment of capital as was negligible, and here he would have -permitted me also to share in this distant venture, had I not, at some -great risk to that human esteem without which we none of us can live, -given him clearly to understand that his generosity was waste of time, -and that for the reason that there was no money to invest. It impressed -him much more sharply than any plea of judgment or of other investments -could have done. - -Though I had lost very heavily by permitting myself such a confession -to him, he was ready to dine with me at the Inn before taking his -train, and as he dined he told me at some length the name of his native -place, which was, oddly enough, that of a great German statesman, -whether Bismarck or another I cannot now remember; its habits and its -character he also told me, but as I forgot to press him as to its -latitude or longitude to this day I am totally ignorant of the quarter -of the globe in which it may lie. - -During our meal it disturbed him to see a bottle of wine upon the -table, but he was careful to assure me that when he was travelling he -did not object to the habits of others, and that he would not for one -moment forbid the use in his presence of a beverage which in his native -place (he did not omit to repeat) would be as little tolerated as any -other open temptation to crime. It was a wine called St. Emilion, but -it no more came from that Sub-Prefecture than it did from the hot -fields of Barsac; it was common Algerian wine, watered down, and--if -you believe me--three shillings a bottle. - -I lost my companion at nine, and I have never seen him since, but he is -surely still alive somewhere, ready, and happy, and hearty, and noting -all the things of this multiple world, and judging them with a hearty -common sense, which for so many well fills the place of mere learning. - - - - -The Visitor - - -As I was going across Waterloo Bridge the other day, and when I had got -to the other side of it, there appeared quite suddenly, I cannot say -whence, a most extraordinary man. - -He was dressed in black silk, he had a sort of coat, or rather shirt, -of black silk, with ample sleeves which were tied at either wrist -tightly with brilliant golden threads. This shirt, or coat, came down -to his knees, and appeared to be seamless. His trousers, which were -very full and baggy, were caught at his ankles by similar golden -threads. His feet were bare save for a pair of sandals. He had nothing -upon his head, which was close cropped. His face was clean shaven. -The only thing approaching an ornament, besides the golden threads of -which I have spoken, was an enormous many-coloured and complicated -coat-of-arms embroidered upon his breast, and showing up magnificently -against the black. - -He had appeared so suddenly that I almost ran into him, and he said -to me breathlessly, and with a very strong nasal twang, “Can you talk -English?” - -I said that I could do so with fluency, and he appeared greatly -relieved. Then he added, with that violent nasal twang again, “You -take me out of this!” - -There was a shut taxi-cab passing and we got into it, and when he had -got out of the crush, where several people had already stopped to stare -at him, he lay back, panting a little, as though he had been running. -The taxi-man looked in suddenly through the window, and asked, in the -tone of voice of a man much insulted, where he was to drive to, adding -that he didn’t want to go far. - -I suggested the “Angel” at Islington, which I had never seen. The -machine began to buzz, and we shot northward. - -The stranger pulled himself together, and said in that irritating -accent of his which I have already mentioned twice, “Now say, _you_, -what year’s this anyway?” - -I said it was 1909 (for it happened this year), to which he answered -thoughtfully, “Well, I have missed it!” - -“Missed what?” said I. - -“Why, 1903,” said he. - -And thereupon he told me a very extraordinary but very interesting tale. - -It seems (according to him) that his name was Baron Hogg; that -his place of living is (or rather will be) on Harting Hill, above -Petersfield, where he has (or rather will have) a large house. But the -really interesting thing in all that he told me was this: that he was -born in the year 2183, “which,” he added lucidly enough, “would be -your 2187.” - -“Why?” said I, bewildered, when he told me this. - -“Good Lord!” he answered, quite frankly astonished, “you must know, -even in 1909, that the calendar is four years out?” - -I answered that a little handful of learned men knew this, but that we -had not changed our reckoning for various practical reasons. To which -he replied, leaning forward with a learned, interested look: - -“Well, I came to learn things, and I lay I’m learning.” - -He next went on to tell me that he had laid a bet with another man that -he would “hit” 1903, on the 15th of June, and that the other man had -laid a bet that he would get nearer. They were to meet at the Savoy -Hotel at noon on the 30th, and to compare notes; and whichever had won -was to pay the other a set of Records, for it seems they were both -Antiquarians. - -All this was Greek to me (as I daresay it is to you) until he pulled -out of his pocket a thing like a watch, and noted that the dial was set -at 1909. Whereupon he began tapping it and cursing in the name of a -number of Saints familiar to us all. - -It seems that to go backwards in time, according to him, was an art -easily achieved towards the middle of the Twenty-second Century, and it -was worked by the simplest of instruments. I asked him if he had read -“The Time Machine.” He said impatiently, “You have,” and went on to -explain the little dial. - -“They cost a deal of money, but then,” he added, with beautiful -simplicity, “I have told you that I am Baron Hogg.” - -Rich people played at it apparently as ours do at ballooning, and with -the same uncertainty. - -I asked him whether he could get forward into the future. He simply -said: “What _do_ you mean?” - -“Why,” said I, “according to St. Thomas, time is a dimension, just like -space.” - -When I said the words “St. Thomas” he made a curious sign, like a man -saluting. “Yes,” he said, gravely and reverently, “but you know well -the future is forbidden to men.” He then made a digression to ask if -St. Thomas was read in 1909. I told him to what extent, and by whom. He -got intensely interested. He looked right up into my face, and began -making gestures with his hands. - -“Now that really _is_ interesting,” he said. - -I asked him “Why?” - -“Well, you see,” he said in an off-hand way, “there’s the usual -historic quarrel. On the face of it one would say he wasn’t read at -all, looking up the old Records, and so on. Then some Specialist gets -hold of all the mentions of him in the early Twentieth Century, and -writes a book to show that even the politicians had heard of him. Then -there is a discussion, and nothing comes of it. _That’s_ where the fun -of Travelling Back comes in. You find out.” - -I asked him if he had ever gone to the other centuries. He said, “No, -but Pop did.” I learned later that “Pop” was his father. - -“You see,” he added respectfully, “Pop’s only just dead, and, of -course, I couldn’t afford it on my allowance. Pop,” he went on, rather -proudly, “got himself back into the Thirteenth Century during a walk in -Kent with a friend, and found himself in the middle of a horrible great -river. He was saved just before the time was up.” - -“How do you mean ‘the time was up’?” said I. - -“Why,” he answered me, “you don’t suppose Pop could afford more than -one hour, do you? Why, the Pope couldn’t afford more than six hours, -even after they voted him a subsidy from Africa, and Pop was rich -enough, Lord knows! Richer’n I am, coz of the gurls.... I told you I -was Baron Hogg,” he went on, without affectation. - -“Yes” said I, “you did.” - -“Well, now, to go back to St. Thomas,” he began---- - -“Why on earth----?” said I. - -He interrupted me. “Now that _is_ interesting,” he said. “You know -about St. Thomas, and you can tell me about the people who know about -him, but it _does_ show that he had gone out in the Twentieth Century, -for you to talk like that! Why, I got full marks in St. Thomas. Only -thing I did get full marks in,” he said gloomily, looking out of the -window. “That’s what _counts_,” he added: “none of yer high-falutin’ -dodgy fellows. When the Colonel said, ‘Who’s got the most stuff in -him?’ (not because of the rocks nor because I’m Baron Hogg), they all -said, ‘_That’s_ him.’ And that was because I got first in St. Thomas.” - -To say that I simply could not make head or tail of this would be to -say too little: and my muddlement got worse when he added, “That’s why -the Colonel made me Alderman, and now I go to Paris by right.” - -Just at that moment the taxi-man put in his head at the window and -said, with an aggrieved look: - -“Why didn’t you tell me where I was going?” - -I looked out, and saw that I was in a desolate place near the -River Lea, among marshes and chimneys and the poor. There was a -rotten-looking shed close by, and a policeman, uncommonly suspicious. -My friend got quite excited. He pointed to the policeman and said: - -“Oh, how like the pictures! Is it true that they are the Secret Power -in England? Now _do_----” - -The taxi-man got quite angry, and pointed out to me that his cab was -not a caravan. He further informed me that it had been my business to -tell him the way to the “Angel.” His asset was that if he dropped me -there I would be in a bad way; mine was that if I paid him off there he -would be in a worse one. We bargained and quarrelled, and as we did so -the policeman majestically moved up, estimated the comparative wealth -of the three people concerned, and falsely imagining my friend to be an -actor in broad daylight, he took the taxi-man’s part, and ordered us -off back to the “Angel,” telling us we ought to be thankful to be let -off so lightly. He further gave the taxi-man elaborate instructions for -reaching the place. - -As I had no desire to get to the “Angel” really, I implored the -taxi-man to take me back to Westminster, which he was willing to do, -and on the way the Man from the Future was most entertaining. He -spotted the public-houses as we passed, and asked me, as a piece of -solid, practical information, whether wine, beer, and spirits were sold -in them. I said, “Of course,” but he told me that there was a great -controversy in his generation, some people maintaining that the number -of them was, in fiction, drawn by enemies; others said that they were, -as a fact, quite few and unimportant in London, and others again that -they simply did not exist but were the creations of social satire. He -asked me to point him out the houses of Brill and Ferguson, who, it -seems, were in the eyes of the Twenty-second Century the principal -authors of our time. When I answered that I had never heard of them he -said, “That _is_ interesting.” I was a little annoyed and asked him -whether he had ever heard of Kipling, Miss Fowler, or Swinburne. - -He said of course he had read Kipling and Swinburne, and though he -had not read Miss Fowler’s works he had been advised to. But he said -that Brill for wit and Ferguson for economic analysis were surely the -glories of our England. Then he suddenly added, “Well, I’m not sure -about 1909. The first _Collected_ Brill is always thought to be 1911. -But Ferguson! Why he knew a lot of people as early as 1907! He did the -essay on Mediæval Economics which is the appendix to our school text of -St. Thomas.” - -At this moment we were going down Whitehall. He jumped up excitedly, -pointed at the Duke of Cambridge’s statue and said, “That’s Charles I.” -Then he pointed to the left and said, “That’s the Duke of Buccleuigh’s -house.” And then as he saw the Victoria Tower he shouted, “Oh, that’s -Big Ben, I know it. And oh, I say,” he went on, “just look at the -Abbey!” “Now,” he said, with genuine bonhomie as the taxi drew up with -a jerk, “are those statues symbolic?” - -“No,” I said, “they are real people.” - -At this he was immensely pleased, and said that he had always said so. - -The taxi-man looked in again and asked with genuine pathos where we -really wanted to go to. - -But just as I was about to answer him two powerful men in billycock -hats took my friend quietly but firmly out of the cab, linked their -arms in his, and begged me to follow them. I paid the taxi and did so. - -The strange man did not resist. He smiled rather foolishly. They hailed -a four-wheeler, and we all got in together. We drove about half a -mile to the south of Westminster Bridge, stopped at a large Georgian -house, and there we all got out. I noticed that the two men treated the -stranger with immense respect, but with considerable authority. He, -poor fellow, waved his hand at me, and said with a faint smile as he -went through the door, arm in arm with his captors: - -“Sorry you had to pay. Came away without my salary ticket. Very silly.” -And he disappeared. - -The other man remaining behind said to me very seriously, “I hope his -Lordship didn’t trouble you, sir?” - -I said that on the contrary he had behaved like an English gentleman, -all except the clothes. - -“Well,” said the keeper, “he’s not properly a Lord as you may say; he’s -an Australian gent. But he’s a Lord in a manner of speaking, because -Parliament did make him one. As for the clothes--ah! you may well ask! -But we durstn’t say anything: the doctor and the nurse says it soothes -him since his money trouble. But _I_ say, _make_ ’em act sensible and -they will be sensible.” - -He then watched to see whether I would give him money for no particular -reason, and as I made no gestures to that effect I went away, and thus -avoided what politicians call “studied insolence.” - - - - -A Reconstruction of the Past - - -“It has been said with some justice that we know more about the -Victorian Period in England than we do of any one of the intervening -nine centuries, even of those which lie closest to our own time, and -even of such events as have taken place upon our own soil in the Malay -Peninsula. I will attempt to put before you very briefly, as a sort of -introduction to the series of lectures which I am to deliver, a picture -of what one glimpse of life in London towards the end of the Nineteenth -Century must have resembled. - -“It is a sound rule in history to accept none but positive evidence and -to depend especially upon the evidence of documents. I will not debate -how far tradition should be admitted into the reconstruction of the -past. It _may_ contain elements of truth; it _must_ contain elements of -falsehood, and on that account I propose neither to deny nor to admit -this species of information, but merely to ignore it; and I think the -student will see before I have done with my subject that, using only -the positive information before us, a picture may be drawn so fully -detailed as almost to rival our experience of contemporary events. - -“We will imagine ourselves,” continued the professor, with baleful -smile of playful pedantry, “in Piccadilly, the fashionable promenade of -the city, at nine o’clock in the morning, the hour when the greatest -energies of this imperial people were apparent in their outdoor life; -for, as we know from the famous passage which we owe to the pen of the -pseudo-Kingsley, the English people, as befitted their position, were -the earliest risers of their time. We will further imagine (to give -verisimilitude to the scene) the presence of a north-east wind, in -which these hardy Northerners took exceptional delight, and to which -the anonymous author above alluded to has preserved a famous hymn. - -“Piccadilly is thronged with the three classes into which we know the -population to have been divided--the upper class, the middle, and the -lower, to use the very simple analytical terms which were most common -in that lucid and strenuous period. The lower class are to be seen -hurrying eastward in their cloth caps and ‘fustian,’ a textile fabric -the exact nature of which is under dispute, but which we can guess, -from the relics of contemporary evidence in France, to have been of a -vivid blue, highly glazed, and worn as a sort of sleeved tunic reaching -to the knees. The headgear these myriads are wearing is uniform: it is -a brown skull cap with a leather peak projecting over the eyes, the -conjectural ‘cricket cap,’ of which several examples are preserved. -It has been argued by more than one authority that the article in -question was not a headgear. It appears in none of the statuary of -the period. No mention of it is made in any of the vast compilations -of legal matter which have come down to us, and attempts have been -made to explain in an allegorical sense the very definite allusions -to it with which English letters of that time abound. I am content -to accept the documentary evidence in the plain meaning of the words -used, and to portray to you these ‘toiling millions’ (to use the phrase -of the great classic poet) hurrying eastward upon this delightful -morning in March of the year 1899. Each is carrying the implement of -his trade (possession in which was secured to him by law). The one -holds a pickaxe, another balances upon his head a ladder, a third is -rolling before him a large square box or ‘trunk’--a word of Oriental -origin--upon a ‘trolley’ or small two-wheeled vehicle dedicated to -some one of the five combinations of letters which had a connection -not hitherto established with the system of roads and railways in the -country. Yet another drags after him a small dynamo mounted on wheels, -such as may be seen in the frieze illustrating the Paris Exhibition of -ten years before. - -“Interspersed with this crowd may be seen the soldiery, clad entirely -in bright red. But these, by a custom which has already the force of -law, are compelled to occupy the middle of the thoroughfare. They are -of the same class as the labouring men round them, and like these -carry the implements of their trade, with which we must imagine them -from time to time threatening the passers-by. All, I say, are hurrying -eastward to their respective avocations in the working part of this -great hive. - -“Appearing as rarer units we perceive members of the second or _middle_ -class proceeding at a more leisurely and dignified pace towards their -professional or commercial pursuits, the haunts of which lie less to -the eastward and more in the centre of the city. These are dressed -entirely in black, and wear upon their heads the round hat to which -one of my colleagues erroneously gave the title of a religious emblem, -a position from which, I am glad to see, he has recently receded. -Nothing is more striking in the scene than the absolute uniformity of -this costume. In the right hand is carried, according to the ritual -of a secret society to which the greater part of this class belong, a -staff or tube. The left hand grasps a roll of printed paper which we -may premise without too much phantasy to be the original news-sheet -from which the innumerable forgeries and copies of the succeeding dark -ages proceeded. We are, of course, ignorant of its name, but we may -accept it as the prototype of that vast mass of printed matter which -purports to be contemporary in date, but which recent scholarship has -definitely proved to be of far later origin. Beyond these, but in -numbers certainly few, the exact extent of which I shall discuss in -a moment, are the _upper_ classes, or Gentry. How many they may be -in such a crowd, I repeat, we cannot tell. We know that to the whole -population they stood somewhat as one to 10,000. The proportion in -London may have been slightly higher, for we have definite documentary -information that in certain provincial centres ‘not a gentleman’ could -be discovered, though for what reason these centres were less favoured -we are not told. In a street full of some thousands we shall certainly -not be exaggerating if we put the number of the Gentry present at -certainly a couple of individuals, and we may put as our highest limits -half a dozen. How are they dressed? In a most varied manner. Some in -grey, some in pink (these are off to hunt the fox in the fields of -Croydon or upon the heath of Hampstead, or possibly--to follow the -conjecture of the Professor of Geology in his fascinating book on the -Thames Valley--to Barking Level). Others are in black silk with a -large oval orifice exposing the chest. Others again will be in white -flannel, and others in a species of toga known as ‘shorts.’ These are -students from the university, or their professors, and they will be -distinguished by a square cap upon the head which, unlike so many other -conjectural forms of headgear, we can definitely pronounce to have had -a religious character. A tassel sometimes of gold hangs from the centre -of this square. With the exception of this headgear the Gentry discover -upon their heads as uniform a type of covering as their inferiors of -the middle class, who salute them as they pass by lifting the round -hat with the right hand. This headgear is tubular and probably of some -light metal, polished to a highly reflecting surface, and invariably -(as we know by the fascinating diaries recently collected by the -University Press) polished in the same direction upon some sort of -lathe. - -“If we are lucky we may see at this hour one member of a class -restricted even among the few gentlemen of that period, the Peers. -Should we see such an one he will be walking in a red plush robe. -It is probable that he will carry upon his head the same species of -hat as the others of his rank, but I admit that it is open to debate -whether this hat were not surrounded by a circle of metal spikes, each -surmounted with a small ball. Such a person will be walking at an even -more leisurely pace than the few other members of the Gentry who may be -present, and upon the accoutrements of his person will be discovered -a small shield, varying in size from a couple of inches to as many -feet, stamped with a representation of animals and often ornamented by -a device in the English or in the Latin tongue. These devices, many -of which have come down to us engraved upon metal, are of the utmost -value to the historian. They have enabled him to reconstruct the exact -appearance of animals now long extinct, and it is even possible in some -cases to ascertain the particular families to which they belonged. No -class of object, however, has suffered more from frequent forgeries -than these emblems. Luckily there is an almost invariable test for -recognising such forgeries, which consists in the use of the French -language misspelt. Of some thousands of such signs many hundreds affect -a legend in the French tongue, and of these hardly one is correctly -spelt. Moreover, essential words are often omitted, and in general the -forgeries betray that imperfect acquaintance with the contemporary -language of Paris which was one of the marks of social inferiority -at that time. When I add that the total number of Peers at any given -moment was less than seven hundred out of forty million people, -while the number of these shields which have been discovered already -amounts to over five hundred thousand, it will be apparent that the -proportion of genuine emblems must be very small. Now and then a house -will bear the picture of some such shield painted and hung out upon a -board before it. This sometimes, but not universally, indicates the -nobility of the tenant. In the matter of religion....” At this point -the professor looked narrowly at his notes, held one sheet of them in -various positions, put it up to the light, shook his head, and next, -observing the hour, said that he would deal with this important subject -upon the following Wednesday or Thursday, according to sale of tickets -during the intervening days. With these words, after a fit of coughing, -he withdrew. - - - - -The Reasonable Press - - -THE OPPOSITION PAPER: LEADER - -It is difficult to repress a feeling of natural indignation when one -considers the policy which the Government and Mr. Robespierre have -seen fit to pursue during the last two years, and especially since the -unfortunate blunder of Mr. Danton and Mr. Desmoulins. We have never -hidden our opinion that these two gentlemen--able and disinterested men -as they undoubtedly were--acted rashly in stepping out of the party -(as it were) and attempting to form an independent organisation at a -moment when the strictest discipline was necessary in the face of the -enormous and servile majority commanded by the Government. However -unrepresentative that majority may be of the national temper at this -moment, the business of a member of the Convention lies chiefly on the -floor of the House, and it is the height of unwisdom to divide our -forces even by an act of too generous an enthusiasm for the cause. -We would not write a word that might give offence to the surviving -relatives of the two statesmen we have named, but this much _must_ -be said: the genius of the nation is opposed to particular action of -this sort; the electors understand Government and Opposition, by -separate action like Mr. Danton’s and Mr. Desmoulin’s they are simply -bewildered. Such eccentric displays do no good, and may do very great -harm. Meanwhile, we must repeat that the general attitude of the -Government is indefensible. That is a strong word, but hardly too -strong under the circumstances. It is not the executions themselves -which have (as we maintain) alienated public sentiment, nor their -number--though it must be admitted that 1200 in four months is a high -record--it is rather the pressure of business in the Courts and the -disorganisation of procedure which the Plain Man in the Street notices -and very rightly condemns, and we would warn Mr. Robespierre that -unless a larger number of judges are created under his new Bill the -popular discontent may grow to an extent he little imagines, and show -itself vigorously at the polls. We are all agreed that Mr. Carnot shows -admirable tact and energy at the War Office, and it is characteristic -of that strong man that he has left to others the more showy trappings -of power. We would urge upon him as one who is, in a sense, above -party politics, to counsel his colleagues in the Government in the -direction we have suggested. It may seem a small point, but it is one -of practical importance, and the Man in the Street cares more for -practical details than he does for political theories. - - -THE GOVERNMENT PAPER: LEADER - -The present moment is opportune for reviewing the work of the -Government to date, and drawing up a political balance-sheet as it -were of its successes and failures. We have always been open critics -of the present Administration, whenever we thought that national -interests demanded such criticism, and our readers will remember that -we heartily condemned the ill-fated proposal to change the place of -public executions from the Place de la Revolution to the Square de -l’Egalité--a far less convenient spot; but apart from a few tactical -errors of this sort it must be admitted, and is admitted even by his -enemies, that Mr. Robespierre has handled a very difficult situation -with admirable patience and with a tremendous grasp of detail. It is -sometimes said of Mr. Robespierre that he owes his great position -mainly to his mastery over words. To our thinking that judgment is as -superficial as it is unjust. True, Mr. Robespierre is a great orator, -even (which is higher praise) a great _Parliamentary_ orator, but it -is not this one of his many talents which is chiefly responsible for -his success. It is rather his minute acquaintance with the whole of -his subject which impresses the House. No assembly in the world is a -better judge of character than the Convention, and its appreciation -of Mr. Robespierre’s character is that it is above all a practical -one. His conduct of the war--for in a sense the head of the Government -and Leader of the House may be said to conduct any and every national -enterprise--has been remarkable. The unhappy struggle is now rapidly -drawing to a close and we shall soon emerge into a settlement to which -may be peculiarly applied the phrase “Peace with Honour.” The restraint -and kindliness of our soldiers has won universal praise, even from -the enemy, and it is a gratifying feature in the situation that those -of our fellow-citizens in Toulon, Lyons, and elsewhere who could not -see eye to eye with us in our foreign and domestic policy are now -reconciled to both. One last word upon the Judges Bill. We implore Mr. -Robespierre to stand firm and not to increase the present number, which -is ample for the work of the Courts even under the somewhat exceptional -strain of the last four years. After all it is no more fatigue to -condemn sixty people to death than one. The delay in forensic procedure -is (or rather was) due to its intolerable intricacy, and the reforms -introduced by Mr. Robespierre himself, notably the suppression of -so-called “witnesses” and of the old-fashioned rigmarole of “defence,” -has done wonders in the way of expedition. We too often forget that Mr. -Robespierre is not only a consummate orator and a past master of prose, -but a great lawyer as well. We should be the last to hint that the -demand for more judges was due to place-hunting: vices of that kind are -happily absent in France whatever may be the case in other countries. -The real danger is rather that if the new posts were created jealousy -and a suspicion of jobbery might arise _after_ they were filled. Surely -it is better to leave things as they are. - - -THE OPPOSITION PAPER: LOBBY NOTES - -Really the Government Press seems determined to misrepresent last -Friday’s incident! Mr. Talma has already explained that his allusion -to cripples was purely metaphorical and in no way intended for Mr. -Couthon, for whom, like everyone in the House, he has the highest -respect. - - -THE GOVERNMENT PAPER: LOBBY NOTES - -Last Friday’s incident is happily over. Mr. Talma has assured Mr. -Couthon that he used the word “cripple” in a sense quite different from -that in which that highly-deservedly popular gentleman unfortunately -took it. - - -SOCIAL AND PERSONAL - -The Marquis de Misenscene is leaving Paris tonight for Baden Baden. -His Lordship intends to travel in the simplest fashion and hopes his -incognito may be preserved. - -Mr. Couthon, the deservedly popular M.P., made a pathetic sight -yesterday at Mr. Robespierre’s party in the Tuileries Gardens. As -most people know, the honourable gentleman has lost the use of his -lower limbs and is wheeled about in a bath-chair, but he can still -gesticulate freely and his bright smile charms all who meet him. - -Madame Talma was At Home yesterday on behalf of the Society for the -Aid and Rescue of Criminal Orphans. Whatever our political differences -we all can unite in this excellent work, and the great rooms of Talma -House were crowded. At Madame Talma’s dinner before the reception -were present Major Bonaparte, Mr. Barrere, Mr. St. Just, Mrs. Danton -(widow of statesman), Mrs. Desmoulins (mother of the late well known -author-journalist), and Miss Charlotte Robespierre, who looked charming -in old black silk with a high bodice and jet trimmings. - - -LETTERS TO THE PAPERS - -Sir,--I hope you will find space in your columns for a protest against -the disgraceful condition of the public prisons. I have not a word to -say, sir, against the presence of the prisoners in such large numbers -at this exceptional moment; moreover, as nearly all their cases are -_sub judice_ it would be highly improper in me to comment upon them. I -refer, sir, only to the intolerable noise proceeding from the cells and -rendering life a burden to all ratepayers in the vicinity. Prisoners -are notoriously degenerate and often hysterical, and the nuisance -created by their lamentations and protests is really past bearing. I -can assure the Government that if they do not provide gags, _and use -them_, they shall certainly not have my vote at the next election.--I -am, &c., - - DISGUSTED. - -Sir,--_May_ I trespass upon your space to make known to our _many_ -friends that the memorial service for my late husband, the Archbishop -of Paris, is postponed till the 1st Decadi in Fructidor?--With many -thanks in advance for your courtesy, I am, &c., - - ASPASIA GOREL. - - -OFFICIAL NEWS - -We are requested by the Home Office to give publicity to the -arrangements for to-morrow’s executions. These will be found on page 3. -There will be no executions on the day after to-morrow. - - - - -Asmodeus - - -“Can you not show me,” said the Student, as they flew swiftly through -the upper air over Madrid, he clinging tightly to the Devil’s skirts, -“can you not show me other sights equally entertaining before we finish -our journey?” - -“Readily,” replied Asmodeus, “for I have the power of showing you every -heart and thought in Madrid, and of unroofing every house if it be my -pleasure, and I am determined to repay you in whatever way you choose -for the service you have done me. First, then, cast your eyes down at -the very well-dressed gentleman whom you see in that open taxi-cab, -enjoying as he whirls along the warm air of a night in the season. He -is a wealthy man in charge of one of the great departments of State; -nay, I can tell you which one, for the mines in Peru are his special -department.” - -“Doubtless,” said the Student, “he is at this moment considering some -weighty matter in connection with his duties.” - -“No,” said the Devil; “you must guess again.” - -“Why, then, since you have shown me so many diverting weaknesses in -men I must believe that he is plotting for the advancement of some -favourite.” - -“Yet again you are wrong,” said the Devil. “His whole mind is occupied -in watching the sums marked by the taximeter, which he constantly -consults by the aid of a match; only last Wednesday, the Feast of St. -Theresa, he was overcharged a matter of a quarter of a real by one of -these machines, and he is determined this shall not happen again. You -perceive the great house which he is now passing. It is lit up at every -window, and the sounds of music are proceeding from it.” - -“I not only see it,” said the Student, “but have seen this sort of -sight so often during the season in Madrid that I am certain you will -not find anything here to surprise me.” - -“No,” said the Devil, “I was perhaps wrong in attempting to amuse you -by so commonplace a spectacle as that of a moneylender entertaining -very nearly all those in Madrid with whom he has had no dealings, -and even some of those who are in his power; that is, if, on account -of their nobility or from some other cause, it is worth his while to -have them seen in his rooms. But what I would particularly point out -to you is, not this kind of feast which (as you say) you have seen a -thousand times, but the old man who is mumbling strange prayers over a -dish of food in that common servants’ room which you may perceive to -lie half above the ground and half beneath it next to the kitchen. He -is the father of the wealthy gentleman who is entertaining the guests -upstairs.” - -“It is evident,” said the Student, “that he has no liking for High -Life.” - -“No,” said Asmodeus, “and in this eccentricity he is supported with -true filial sympathy by his son.” - -“I perceive,” said the Student, “a man tossing uneasily in his sleep, -and from time to time crying out as one does to a horse when it is -restive, or rather as men cry to horses which they can hardly control.” - -“I am well acquainted with him,” said the Devil. “He is one of my most -earnest clients, but in nothing does he divert me more than in these -nightmares of his wherein he cries ‘Whoa there! Steady, old girl!’ -And again, ‘Now then! Now then!’ not omitting from time to time, ‘You -damned brute!’ and a cuff upon his pillow.” - -“To what, my dear Asmodeus, do we owe this diversion?” asked the -Student wonderingly. “He seems to be a wealthy man, if we may judge by -the house in which we see him and the furniture of the room in which he -so painfully sleeps. And surely there is nothing upon his mind?” - -“You are wrong,” said the Devil; “there is upon his mind a most -weighty matter, for he considers it a necessity in his position to ride -every morning along the soft road especially prepared for that exercise -upon the banks of the Manzanares, where he may meet the wealth and -fashion of Madrid occupied in the same pastime. But unfortunately for -him he is wholly devoid of the art of equitation and stands in as much -terror of his mount as does a lady of her dressmaker. For one hour, -therefore, of every day, he suffers such tortures that I greatly fear -we shall not be able to add to them appreciably in my dominions when -the proper time arrives. But let us leave these wealthy people, whose -foibles are, after all, much the same, and turn to the poorer quarters -which lie south of the King’s Royal Palace.” - -In a few moments they had reached these and were examining a mean house -not far from the Church of St. Alphonso, in a bare upper room of which -a woman with a starved and anxious expression was writing, late as was -the hour, at top speed. - -“Poor woman!” said the Student. “I perceive that she is one of those -unhappy people whom grinding poverty compels to produce ephemeral -literature which is afterwards printed and sold at one real for the -divertisement of the populace of Madrid. I know of no trade more -pitiful, and I can assure you the sight of her industry moves me to the -bottom of my heart.” - -“The sight is indeed pitiful,” said the Devil, “to those at least who -permit themselves the luxury of pity--a habit which I confess I have -long ago abandoned. For you must know that in the company of Belphegor, -Ashtaroth, and the rest even the softest-hearted of devils will grow -callous. But more interesting to you perhaps than the sad necessities -of her trade is the matter which she is at present engaged upon.” - -“What is that?” said the Student. - -“Why,” said Asmodeus, “she is writing ‘Nellie’s Notes’ for a paper -called _The Spanish Noblewoman_, and she is at this very moment setting -down her opinion that there is no better way to pass a rainy afternoon -than taking out and cleaning one’s Indian Bracelets, Ropes of Pearls, -Diamonds, and other gems. She is good enough to add that she herself -thinks it wise and a good discipline to clean her own jewellery and not -leave it to a maid.” - -“In the room below you will see a young man whom I very much regret to -say is in a state of complete intoxication.” - -“I do not know,” said the Student, “why you should regret such a sight, -for I had imagined that all human frailty was a matter of pleasure to -your highnesses.” - -“Yes,” replied Asmodeus, “in the general it is so, but you must know -that this particular vice is so inimical to the province which I -control that I regard it with peculiar detestation, and I am not upon -so much as speaking terms with Shamarel, who has been deputed by the -Council to look after those who exceed in wine.” - -“Is not that the same,” asked the Student, “whom they say twice -appeared to a hermit at Carinena?” - -“You are right,” said Asmodeus, betraying a slight annoyance, “but -pray do not put it about that a personage of such importance was at -the pains of appearing to a common hermit. The fact is, he was at that -moment visiting the Campo Romano to assure himself that the vines were -in good condition, and it was by the merest accident that the hermit -caught sight of him during this journey, for you must know that he -makes it a punctilio never to appear in person to one under the rank of -Archbishop, and even then he prefers that the recipient of the favour -should be a Cardinal into the bargain, and if possible a Grandee of -Spain.” - -“You have told me so much about your amiable colleague,” said the -Student, “that you have forgotten to tell me whether any moral -divertisement attached to the poor young fellow whom we see in that -offensive stupor.” - -“No,” said the Devil, “now I come to think of it, there is perhaps -nothing remarkable in his condition, unless you think it worthy of -notice that he is a medical student and will shortly be entrusted with -the nerves and veins of the poor in the public hospitals of Madrid. It -is to be hoped that he will soon put behind him these youthful follies, -for if he persists in them they will make his hand tremble, and in that -case he will never be permitted to practise the art of surgery upon the -persons of the wealthy and more remunerative classes.” - -“Outside the house,” said the Student, “I see a policeman walking with -some solemnity, and I confess that the sight is pleasing to me, for -it gives me a feeling that the good people of Madrid are well looked -after when so expensive an instrument of the law is spared for so poor -a quarter.” - -“You are right,” said Asmodeus, “and were I now to show you the inner -heart of the Duke of Medina y Barò who controls the police forces of -Madrid, you would find that his chief anxiety in the distribution of -his men came from the dilemma in which he perpetually finds himself, -whether to furnish them rather in large numbers to the wealthier -quarters for the defence of which policemen exist, or for the poorer -quarters, the terrorising of which is necessarily their function.” - -“At any rate,” said the Student, “he need not bother himself about the -houses of that large number of people (and I am one) from whom there -is nothing to steal and who yet have never learnt any of the arts of -theft. In a word, he is spared the trouble either of protecting or of -keeping down what are called the middle classes.” - -“True,” said Asmodeus, “but most unfortunately this kind of person does -not herd together in special districts. If they did so it would be a -great relief to the strain upon the Police Department; but they are -scattered more or less evenly throughout the wealthier and the poorer -quarters.” - -“Can you tell me,” asked the Student, “whether it is worth our while -to watch the policeman for a few moments in the exercise of his duties -and whether he would provide us with any entertainment as we watched -him unseen?” - -“Alas!” answered the Devil sadly, “I have no power to forecast the -future; but from my knowledge of the past I can tell you that during -the ten years since he has joined the force this officer has not once -arrested a rich man in error on a dark night, nor perjured himself -before a Magistrate so openly as to be detected, nor done any of those -things which legitimately amuse us in people of his kind.” - -“But do you not think,” said the Student, “that we might by remaining -here see him help an old woman across the road amid the plaudits of the -governing classes, or take a little child that is lost by the hand and -lead it to its mother’s home?” - -“Doubtless,” said the Devil, yawning, “we should find him up to tricks -of that sort were we willing to wait here, floating in the air, for -another ten or dozen hours, when the streets will be full of people. -But the play-acting to which you so feelingly allude is but rarely -indulged in by these gallant men when onlookers are wanting. Come, the -sky is already pale in the direction of the eastern mountains; it will -soon be day, and I desire before you are completely tired out to show -you one more sight.” - -With these words Asmodeus took the Student by the hand and darted with -inconceivable rapidity over the roofs of the city until he came to a -particular spot which he had evidently marked in his flight. - -“Cast your eyes,” he said, “upon this narrow but busy thoroughfare -beneath us. It is the only street in Madrid which at so late an hour is -still full of people and of business. It is called Fleet Street.” - -“I have heard of it,” said the Student. - -“No doubt,” said the Devil; “but what I particularly desire to point -out to you is a man whom you will see in his shirt-sleeves, seated upon -a swivel-chair and writing away for dear life, matter which will appear -to-morrow in the _Morning Post_.” - -“Well,” said the Student, “what of that?” - -“Can you guess what he is writing?” asked Asmodeus. - -“That I am quite unable to do,” said the Student. - -“It is,” said the Devil, “a series of satirical remarks upon the -frailties and follies of others--and yet he is a journalist!” - - - - -The Death of the Comic Author - - -A Comic Author of deserved repute was lodging at the beginning of this -month in a house with broken windows, in a court off the Gray’s Inn -Road. - -He had undertaken to produce a piece of Humorous Fiction to the length -of 75,000 words. - -The Comic Author, a man of experience (for this was his forty-seventh -book), had sat down to begin his task. He calculated how long it would -last him. He was good for 1500 words a day, if they were short words, -and even when doom or accident compelled him to the use of long ones he -could manage from 1163 to 1247. - -The specification was lucid and simple. There was to be nothing in -the work that could offend the tenderness of the patriot nor the ease -of good manners, let alone the canons of decency and right living. A -powerful love interest which he was compelled under Clause VII of his -contract to introduce immediately after each of the wittiest passages -had been deftly woven into the fabric, and (as was clearly laid down -in Clause IX) no matter already published might appear in those virgin -pages. If any did so, be sure it was so veiled by the tranposition -of phrases and other slight changes of manner as to escape the -publisher’s eye. - -So far so good. But upon the 13th of August, a day of great beauty, but -of excessive heat, the Comic Author, sitting at his desk, was struck by -Apollo, the God and patron of literary men. - -It was the custom of the Comic Author, who was a teetotaler and a -vegetarian, to wear a soft shirt entirely made of wool and devoid of -a collar, which ornament, he was assured by Members of the Faculty, -exercised a prejudicial effect upon the health. It was equally his -custom to compose his famous periods with his back turned to the light. -This habit he had also adopted at the dictation of the Faculty, who -had proved to him beyond possibility of refutation that the human eye -is damaged by nothing more than by reading or writing with one’s face -towards the window. With his back, therefore, to the window in his room -(it was unbroken), it was the Comic Artist’s wont to sit at a plain -and dirty small deal table and express his mind upon paper, his head -reposing upon his left hand, his fountain pen grasped firmly in his -right, and his lips and tongue following the movement of his nib as it -slowly crawled over the page before him. - -The Comic Author (again under the impulse of the Faculty) kept his -hair cut short at the back; to cut it short all over was more than his -profession would allow. You have, then, the Comic Author sitting at his -desk with his back to the unbroken window, his neck exposed from the -shortness of hair and the absence of collar, under the brilliant light -of the 13th of August. - -A fourth condition must now be considered: by some physical action -never properly explained, glass, though it may act as a screen to -radiant heat, will also store and intensify the action of sunlight. -So that anything placed immediately beneath it upon a bright day will -(it is notorious) suffer or enjoy an effect of heat far greater than -that discoverable upon its outer side. The common greenhouse is a proof -of this. The Comic Author was therefore in a situation to receive the -full power of Apollo. It took the form of a sunstroke, and with his -story uncompleted, nay, in the midst of an unfinished phrase, he fell -helpless. - -His Landlady, summoning a neighbour to her aid (for the charwoman never -stayed after ten o’clock, and it was already noon), dragged him to his -room and sent for the parish doctor, who, after a brief examination of -the patient, declared him to be in some danger; but the poor fellow was -not so far gone as to forget his obligations, and he murmured a few -words which, after some difficulty, they understood to be the address -of the publisher whom he would not for worlds have disappointed. -Imagining this address to be in some way connected with a pecuniary -advantage to herself, the Landlady sent to it immediate word of his -accident, and within half an hour a motor-car of surpassing brilliance -and immense power was purring at the door. From this vehicle descended -in a gentlemanly but commanding manner One who seemed far too great -for the humble lodging which he entered. And the Doctor, leaving his -patient for a moment, was pleased to receive the visitor in a lower -room, while the Landlady, who was also interested in the event, -listened with due courtesy in the passage without. - -The Publisher (for it was he) learned with increasing concern the -desperate position of the Comic Author, and while he was naturally -chiefly concerned with the financial loss the little accident might -involve, it should be remembered to his credit that he made inquiries -as to the state of the patient and even asked whether he suffered -physical pain. Upon hearing that the Comic Author, though fuddled -by cerebral congestion, did undoubtedly suffer the Visitor’s brow -perceptibly darkened; he pointed out to the Doctor that if this -accident had but happened ten days later it would have had consequences -much less serious to himself. - -The Doctor was eager to point out that the fault was none of his. He -had come the moment he had heard of the case, and, moreover, sunstroke -was a disease which betrayed itself by no premonitory symptoms. He -assured the Publisher that if the Comic Author’s survival could in any -way be of service to the firm he would do everything in his power to -save his life. - -The Publisher replied, a little testily, that the value of the Comic -Author’s survival would entirely depend upon the talent remaining to -him after his recovery, and pointed out what the Doctor had overlooked, -that a sensational death, if it received due recognition from the -Press, often caused the works of the deceased to sell for a week or -more with exceptional rapidity. - -He next asked whether the Comic Author had not left manuscripts, and -the Landlady was pleased to bring him not only all that lay upon the -deal table, but much more beside, and all his private correspondence -as well, which she found where she had often perused it, in various -receptacles of her lodger’s room. - -The Publisher upon receiving these seemed to feel his position less -acutely, and sending the sheets out at once to his secretary in the car -(with instructions that those stories or sketches hitherto unpublished -should be carefully noted) he resumed his conversation with the medical -man. He was first careful to ask how long cases of this sort when they -proved fatal commonly endured, and expressed some relief at hearing -that certain benignant exceptions had lingered for several days. He -was further assured that lucid intervals might be counted on, and in -general he discovered that the lines upon which the story had been -intended to proceed might be recovered from the lips of the dying man -before he should exchange the warm and active existence of this world -for the Unknown Beyond. - -He re-entered his motor-car, therefore, with a much lighter heart, -promising to send an Expert Stenographer who should take down the last -and necessary instructions from the lips of Genius. The motor-car -then left that court off the Gray’s Inn Road where the tragedy was in -progress, and swept westward to the larger atmosphere of St. James’s. - -At this point again, when the activity and decision of one master brain -seemed to have saved all, Fate intervened. The Expert Stenographer, -having lacked regular employment for nearly eighteen weeks, was -so overjoyed at learning the news and the price attached to his -immediate services, that he could not resist cheerful refreshment and -conversation with friends in celebration of the occasion. He reached -the Gray’s Inn Road, therefore, somewhat late in the day; he was -further delayed by a difficulty in discovering the house with broken -windows which had been indicated to him, and when he entered it was to -receive the unwelcome news that the Comic Author was dead. - -The Doctor, whose duties had already for some hours called him to other -scenes where it was his blessed mission to alleviate human suffering, -was not present to confirm the sad event, and the Expert Stenographer, -who could not believe that he had been baulked of so unexpected a -piece of fortune, insisted upon proof which the Landlady was unable -to afford. He even sat for some few moments by the side of the Poor -Lifeless Clay in the vain hope that some further indication as to the -general trend of the book might fall from the now nescient lips. But -they were dumb. - -How many consequent misfortunes depended upon this untoward accident -the reader may easily guess. The Landlady, to whom the Comic Author -had owed thirty shillings for a month’s rent and service, was in a -very natural anxiety for some days, an anxiety which was increased by -the discovery that her former lodger had no friends, while his few -relatives seemed each to have, in their own small way, claims against -him of a pecuniary nature. - -His dress clothes, upon which she had confidently counted, turned out -to belong to a costumier of the neighbourhood, who loudly complained -that he had had no notice of this intempestive demise, and was at least -a sovereign out of pocket by so awkward a conjunction; nor was he -appreciably relieved when it was pointed out to him that the suit would -at least carry no contagious disease. - -The Stenographer, as I have already indicated, lost the remuneration -dependent upon his Expert Services, and was further at the charge of -the refreshment which he had foolishly consumed in anticipation of that -gain. - -The Doctor, indeed, was not disappointed, for he had expected nothing, -but by far the worst case was that of the generous and wealthy man who -had been at all the risk of advertising, partly printing, and already -ordering the binding of the work which he now found himself at a loss -to produce. - -There is no moral to this simple story: it is one of the many tragedies -which daily occur in this great city, and from what I know of the Comic -Author’s character, he would have been the last to have inflicted so -much discomfort had it in any way depended upon his own volition; but -these things are beyond human ordinance. - - - - -On certain Manners and Customs - - -I was greatly interested in the method of government which I discovered -to obtain in the Empire of Monomotapa during my last visit there. I -say “during my last visit” because although, as everyone knows, I have -repeatedly travelled in the more distant provinces of that State, I had -never spent any time to speak of in the capital until I delayed there -last month for the purpose of visiting a friend of mine who is one of -the State Assessors. He was good enough to explain to me many details -of their Constitution which I had not yet grasped, and I conceive -it--now that I have a full comprehension of it--to be as wise a method -of governing as it is a successful one. - -I must first put before the reader the elements of the matter. Every -citizen in Monomotapa takes a certain fixed rank in the State; for -the inhabitants of that genial clime have at once too much common -sense and too strict a training to talk nonsense about equality or -any other similar metaphysical whimsey. Every man, therefore, can -precisely tell where he stands in relation to his fellows, and all -those heart-burnings and jealousies which are the bane of other States -are by this simple method at once exorcised. Moreover, the method by -which a man’s exact place is determined is simplicity itself, for it -reposes upon his yearly revenue; and there is a gradually ascending -scale from the poorest, whose revenue may not amount from all sources -to more than 40 Tepas a month, to the Supreme Council, the wealthier -members of which may have as much as 10,000,000 Tepas a month, or -even more. There is but one drawback to this admirably practical and -straightforward way of ordering the State, which is that by a very -ancient article of their religion the Monomotapians are each forbidden -to disclose to others what the state of their fortunes may be. It is -the height of impertinence in any man, even a brother, to put questions -upon the matter; all documents illuminating it are kept strictly -secret, and though religious vows and binding oaths are very much -disliked among this people, yet one is rigidly observed, which is that -forbidding the divulgence by a bank of the sums of money entrusted to -it by its clients. Certain rash spirits have indeed proposed to destroy -the anomaly and either to make some other standard arrange the order -of society (which is unthinkable) or else to allow questions of money -to be freely debated, and the incomes of all to be matter of public -comment. - -Now, like many excellent and rational attempts at religious or social -reform, these propositions must wholly fail in practice. As for setting -up some other standard than that of wealth by which to decide the -importance of one’s fellow citizens, the Monomotapians very properly -regard such a proposal as fantastic to the point of buffoonery. Nor, -to do them justice, do those who propose the scheme seriously intend -this part of it. They rather put it forward to emphasise the second -half of their programme, which has much more to be said for it. But -here a difficulty arises of a sort that often upsets the calculations -of idealists, namely, that however much you change the laws you can -with more difficulty change the customs of the people, and though you -might compel all banking accounts to be audited, or even insist upon -every man making a public return of his income, yet it is certain that -the general opinion upon this matter would result, in practice, in much -the same state of affairs as they now have. Men would devise some other -system than that of banks; their returns would be false, and there -would be a sort of general unconscious conspiracy among all to support -fraud in this matter. - -My host next explained to me the manner in which laws are made among -the Monomotapians and the manner in which they are administered. It -seems that by a fundamental rule of their Constitution no law may be -passed in less than twenty-five years, unless it can be proved to have -its origin in terror. - -If indeed those who are the wealthiest and therefore the most important -in the State can prove to the satisfaction of all that they have gone -blind with panic, then indeed the passage of a law is permitted even -in a few hours. Thus, when a certain number of young gentlemen had -so far forgotten their good breeding as to torture by way of sport -considerable numbers of the poorer classes, one of these in his turn, -oblivious to the rules of polite behaviour, so far forgot himself as to -strike his young master in the face. It was under these circumstances, -when the greater part of the governing classes had fled abroad, or were -closely locked in behind their doors, that the “Tortures Restrictions -Bill” was passed; but this haste was even then regarded as somewhat -indecent, and it would have been thought more honourable to have -discussed the matter for at least two days. Nominally, however, affairs -of real importance cannot be legislated upon, as I have said, in less -than twenty-five years. It is customary for the Monomotapians first to -wait until some neighbouring State has attempted a particular reform. -When that reform has been working for some years, if it be successful -in its working, the wealthier Monomotapians begin to talk about it -according to set rules. And it is again a fundamental point in their -Constitution that one-half of those who so debate must be for, the -other half against the proposed change. The discussion is carried -on by some seventy or eighty men, of whom two-thirds at least must -possess a fortune of at least 1000 Tepas a month, but it is customary -to mix among them one or two men of exceptional poverty, as this is -imagined in some way or other to please the Gods. The middle class, -on account of their intolerable habit of referring to learned books -and to the results of their travel, are very properly excluded. These, -then, debate for a term of years, and when they are weary of it they -will very often begin to debate again. Meanwhile the institution or -the reform upon which their discussion has turned will have taken -root in those foreign countries which it is their pride to copy, and -they can at last be certain that in following suit Monomotapa will -have nothing to lose. When all this is decided a certain number of -men are set apart, the poorer of whom are given a sum of money and -the wealthier certain titles on condition that they vote in favour of -the change; while another body of men are set apart and rewarded in a -precisely similar manner for giving a pledge of the opposite sort. But -great care is taken that the first body shall be slightly larger than -the second, for by an unexplained decision of their priests the force -of a law depends upon the margin between the two bodies so chosen. -These electors once named are put into an exceedingly narrow passage -in which it would be difficult for any very stout person to move at -all. At the end of the passage doors still narrower open upon the -street, the door upon the left being used to record affirmative, that -upon the right negative votes. The whole mass, which consists of near -a thousand men, is then kindly but firmly pushed by Assistants of -the King (as they are called) until its last member has been squeezed -through one of the two doors. This process is immensely popular among -the Monomotapians, who will gather in crowds to cheer the wretched -men whom avarice or ambition has devoted to so pleasant a task. And -when they have come out, covered with sweat and perhaps permanently -affected in their hearts by the ordeal, they are very often granted -civic honours by their fellow-townsmen over and above the sums of money -or titles which they have already received. With such frenzied delight -do the Monomotapians regard this singular practice that even women have -lately petitioned to be permitted to join in the scrimmage. This they -will undoubtedly be granted in cases where they can prove a certain -wealth, for, indeed, there is no reason why an exercise of this sort -should be confined to one sex. But it is understood that a certain part -of the women of Monomotapia, many of them also wealthy, are willing to -pay money to prevent such a result, and if this indeed be the case a -very curious situation, almost unknown in the annals of Monomotapia, -will arise; for since all government is in the hands of the rich, it -is necessary that the rich should act together in serious affairs of -State. And what on earth will happen when one section of the wealthy, -whether men or women, are opposed to the actions of another section, it -would indeed be difficult to determine. Nor are the older men and the -more experienced without grave misgivings as to the issue of such an -unprecedented conflict. - -I cannot conclude without telling you briefly the manner in which -their Kings are elected, for it reflects in every detail at once the -originality and the wisdom of this people. - -There are in Monomotapa some three or four hundred public halls in -which is conducted the national sport, which consists in competitions -between well-known talkers as to who can talk the longest without -exhaustion, and it rapidly becomes known, through well-developed -agencies of information as well as by public repute, which individuals -have attained to the greatest proficiency in this regard. Sometimes -in the remotest province will arise a particular star, but more often -it is in the Metropolis or its neighbourhood that your really great -talkers can be found; a man in the tradition of that great King of the -last century who upon one occasion talked the clock round and was in -reward for that feat permitted to hold the Kingship for three terms in -succession. - -When by a process of elimination the two strongest talkers have been -discovered, they are brought to the capital, set up upon a stage before -a vast audience of Assessors (of which my friend, as I have told you, -was one), and begin talking one against the other with great rapidity, -starting at a signal made by an official who is paid for this duty a -very high salary indeed. It may well be imagined that the interest -in the struggle grows keen after the first few hours have passed. The -panting breath, the discoloured cheeks, the drooping attitude of either -competitor, call forth cheers of encouragement from his supporters and -even murmurs of sympathy from his numerous judges. At last, it may be -in the sixth or the seventh hour, one of the two goes groggy--if I may -so express myself--he falters in his words, perhaps repeats himself, -passes his hand to his forehead or takes a drink of gin (which, from -its resemblance to water, is greatly favoured in these contests). Such -signals of distress are the beginning of the end. His successful rival, -straining himself to one last effort, will pour out a great string of -sentences of an approved pattern, dealing as a rule with the glories -and virtues of those who have listened to him, of their ancestry, and -their hold upon the Monomotapian State, and as the defeated competitor -falls lifeless to the floor this successful fellow is crowned amid the -applause of the vast assembly. I was at the pains to ask whether it was -necessary that these long harangues should make sense, for it seemed to -me that this added labour would very materially handicap many men who -might otherwise possess all the physical requirements of victory, and -I was free to add that it would seem to me, at least, as a foreigner, -very foolish to weigh down some fine athlete worthy of the Crown by -demanding of him the rare characteristics of the pedant. I was relieved -to hear that there was no obligation as to the choice of words used -or the order in which they were to be pronounced, saving that they -must be words in the vulgar tongue. But it seems, oddly enough, that -the trainers in this sport after generations of experience have -discovered that the competitors actually suffer less fatigue if they -will repeat certain set and ritual phrases than if they take refuge in -mere gibberish, just as men marching in step are said to suffer less -fatigue than men marching at ease. So at least I was assured, but my -insufficient acquaintance with the Monomotapian tongue forbade me to -make certain upon the matter. - - - - -The Statesman - - - “HÔTEL DE FERRAS, PARIS, _August 1, 1846_. - -“My dear Father,--I got in here last night, after a very painful and -tiresome journey, at eleven o’clock. At least it was eleven o’clock -by Calais time, but they are so careless in this country about their -clocks that it would be very difficult to say what the right time -really was were I not able to consult the excellent chronometer -which you and Mamma were so kind as to give me after my success in -the Schools at Oxford this summer. I confess to the childishness of -having rung the chimes in it five or six times during the night to -while away the tedium of the journey in the Diligence from Beauvais. -Beauvais contains a really remarkable cathedral, but it is unfinished. -I notice, indeed, that many of the buildings undertaken by the French -remain in an incomplete condition. The Louvre, for instance (which is -so near this hotel, and the roofs of which I can see from my window), -would be a really fine building if it were completed, but this has -never been done, and the total effect is very distressing. I fancy it -is the numerous wars, in which the unhappy people have been engaged -at the caprice of their rulers, which have led to such deplorable -inconsequence. You have often warned me not to judge rashly upon -a first impression, but I confess the people seem to me terribly -poverty-stricken, especially in the country districts, where the -children may often be seen hobbling about in rough _wooden_ shoes, -without stockings to their feet. I say no more. I hope, dear Papa, -that when Parliament meets I shall be returned from Italy, and that I -shall be able to follow your action in the House of Commons. You know -how ardently I attend to the great struggle for Free Trade, to the -attainment of which, as of every form of Righteousness, you have ever -trained my early endeavours. - - “I am, your affectionate son, - - “JO. BILSTED.” - - - “HÔTEL DE FERRAS, _January 15, 1853_. - -“My dear Julia,--I write you a hurried note to tell you that I have -left behind me, at Number Eleven, my _second beaver hat_. It is in -the hatbox in the white cupboard on the landing outside the nursery -door. Do not send anything else with it, as you were imprudent enough -to do last time I asked you to despatch luggage; the Customs are -very particular, and it is important for me just now, amid all these -political troubles, not to have what the French call ‘histoires.’ I -have really nothing to tell you more as to the condition of affairs, -nor anything to add to the brief remarks in my last letter. Were I not -connected by business ties with the Continent nothing should tempt -me to this kind of journey again. The train service is ridiculously -slow, and there is a feeling of distress and ill-ease wherever one -goes. It is truly amazing to me that any people, however stunted by -centuries of oppression, should tolerate the form of government which -has been recently set up by brute force in this unhappy country! -Meanwhile, though everyone discusses politics, nothing is _done_, and -the practical things of life are wholly neglected. The streets still -remain the narrow, ill-lit thoroughfares which would be a disgrace to -a small English provincial town, and the Army, so far as any civilian -can judge, is worthless. The men slouch about with their hands in -their pockets; the Cavalry sit their horses very badly; and even the -escort of the ‘Emperor’ would look supremely ridiculous in any other -surroundings. I have little doubt that if horse racing were more -thoroughly developed the Equine Race would improve. As it is, the -horses here are deplorable. I hope to persuade M. Behrens, who is one -of the few sensible and clear-sighted men I have met during this visit, -to accept our proposals, and I will write you further on the matter. - - “Your affectionate husband, - - “JO. BILSTED. - -“P.S.--I somewhat regret that you have accepted the invitation to the -Children’s Party. However, I never interfere with you in these matters. -I must, however, positively forbid your taking little Charles, who, -though he is eldest, suffers, I fear, from a weak heart, inherited from -your dear mother. I hope to return this day fortnight.” - - - “HÔTEL DE FERRAS, _July 15, 1870_. - -“My dear Julia,--It was a matter of great regret to me that you should -have been compelled to leave Paris a few days before myself; but I -shall follow to-morrow, and hope to be at Number Eleven by Thursday at -the latest. You will then have learned the terrible truth that war has -been finally declared. Nothing could have more deeply _im_pressed and -_op_pressed me at the same time. The overwhelming military power which -in better hands and under a proper guidance might have been turned to -such noble uses is to be hurled against the insecure combination of -German States which have recently been struggling, perfectly rightly -in my opinion, to become One Great Nation; for I make no doubt that -the lesser States will throw in their lot with Prussia: a menace to -one is a menace to all. I write from the bottom of my heart (my dear -Julia), when I say that I am convinced that after the first triumphs -of this Man of Blood our own Government will speak with no uncertain -voice, and will defend the new German people against the aggressor. It -was sufficiently intolerable that his Italian policy should have been -framed before our eyes, without intervention, and that the unity of -that ancient land should be deferred through his insolence. I have not -borne to visit Rome since the hateful presence of a foreign garrison -was established there. I will even go so far (perhaps against your own -better judgment) as to raise the matter in Parliament, but I greatly -fear that the House will not be sitting when the most drastic action -is needed. However, I repeat what I have said; I am confident in the -ultimate Righteousness of our intervention. I am therefore confident -that we shall not allow the further expansion of this Military Policy. - -“As I write the garish, over-lit façades of this luxurious Babylon, its -broad, straight streets, with their monotonous vulgar splendour, and -the swarms of the military all round, fill me with foreboding. It would -be a terrible thing if this very negation of True Civilisation and -Religion were to triumph, and I am certain that unless we speak boldly -we ourselves shall be the next victim. But we _shall_ speak boldly.... -My faith is firm. - - “Your affectionate husband, - - “JO. BILSTED. - -“P.S.--I am glad that Charles has got through his examination -successfully. I hope he clearly understands that I have no intention of -letting him be returned for Pensbury until a year has elapsed.” - - - “HÔTEL DE FERRAS, _April 1, 1886_. - -“My dear Charles,--It was a filial thought in you to send a letter -which would reach me upon my sixtieth birthday, and believe me that, -speaking as your father, I am not insensible to it. - -“I wish you could come and see your mother and me if only for a few -hours, but I know that your Parliamentary duties are heavier than ever; -indeed, life in the House of Commons is not what it used to be! In my -time it was often called ‘the best club in Europe.’ Alas, no one can -say that now! Meanwhile your mother and I are very happy pottering -about our old haunts in Paris; but you have no idea, my dear Charles, -how changed it all is! You can, of course, remember the Second Empire -as a child, but to your mother and me, who were so intimate with -Paris during its most brilliant period, there is something tragic -in the sight of this great capital since the awful chastisement of -fifteen years ago. We ought not, of course, to judge foreign nations -too harshly, but after no inconsiderable experience of Parliamentary -life I cannot but have the most gloomy forebodings as to the future of -this nation. There seems no settled policy of any kind. Yesterday I -attended a debate in the Chamber, but the various speakers articulated -so rapidly that I was not able to follow them with any precision. It is -surely an error to pour out torrents of words in this fashion, and I -cannot believe there is any mature thought behind it at all. I regret -to say that the practice of duelling, though denounced by all the best -thought in the country, is still rife, and nowhere do occasions for its -exercise arise more frequently than in the undisciplined political -life of this capital. One must not, however, look only on the dark -side; there are certainly some very fine new buildings springing up, -especially in the American quarter towards the Arc de Triomphe. Of -course your mother and I keep to the old Hôtel de Ferras. We are at an -age now when one does not easily change one’s habits, but it seems to -me positively dingy compared with some of these new great palaces. It -is a comfort, however, to deal with people who know what an English -banknote is, and who will take an English cheque, and who can address -one properly on the outside of an envelope. It amused your dear mother -to see how quickly they seized the new honour which her Majesty has so -graciously conferred upon me. - - “Your affectionate father, - - “JO. BILSTED.” - - - “HÔTEL DE FERRAS, _October 19, 1906_. - -“My dear Charles,--I cannot tell you how warmly I agree with your last -letter upon the state of Europe. I am an old man, I have seen many men -and things, and I have been particularly familiar with foreign policy -ever since I first entered the House of Commons, now nearly fifty years -ago, but rarely have I known a moment more critical than the present. -My one comfort lies in the fact that in spite of the divisions of -Party, the heart of the nation is still sound, and the leaven of common -sense in the electors will save us yet. I feel a shade of regret -sometimes to think that the division no longer retains its old name; -I should like to feel that, father and son, we had held it for three -generations, but though the name has changed, the spirit of the place -is the same.... I beg you to mark my words; I may say without boasting -that I have rarely been wrong in my judgment of foreign affairs. When -one sees things here one sometimes trembles for the future. - -“This Hotel is not at all what it was. It is ill-kept and damp, and I -shall not return to it. - -“Expect me in London before the end of the week. - - “PENSHURST.” - - [Lord Penshurst died shortly after his return to London. He was - succeeded by his son Charles, second Baron, but the Division is still - represented by a member of the family in the person of Mr. George - Bilstead, his second son, the husband of Mrs. Bilstead, and author of - _The Coming Struggle in the Balkans_.] - - - - -The Duel - - -In the year 1895 of blessed memory there was living in the town of -Paris at the expense of his parents a young English gentleman of the -name of Bilbury; at least, if that were not his name his name was so -nearly that that it doesn’t matter. He spoke French very well, and had -for his age (which was twenty-four) a very good working acquaintance -with French customs. He was popular among the students with whom he -associated, and it was his especial desire not to seem too much of a -foreigner on the various occasions when French life contrasts somewhat -with that of this island. It was something of a little mania of his, -for though he was patriotic to a degree when English history or English -habits were challenged, yet it made him intolerably nervous to feel -exceptional or eccentric in the town where he lived. It was upon this -account that he fought a duel. - -There happened to be resident in the town of Paris at the same time -another gentleman, whose name was Newman; he also was young, he -also was English, but whereas Mr. Bilbury was by genius a painter, -Mr. Newman was by vocation an engineer. And while Mr. Bilbury would -spend hours in the studio of a master whom (in common with the other -students) he despised, Mr. Newman was continually occupied in playing -billiards with his fellow students of engineering in the University. -And while Mr. Bilbury was spending quite twelve hours a day in finding -out how to make a picture look like a thing if you stood a long way -off from it (which is the end and object of his school in Paris), Mr. -Newman had already acquired the art of making a billiard ball come -right back again towards the cue after it had struck its neighbour. Mr. -Bilbury had learned how to sing in chorus with the other students songs -relating in no way to pictorial excellence; Mr. Newman had learned to -sing those songs peculiar to students of engineering, but relating in -no way to applied physics. In a word, these two young gentlemen had -never met. - -But one day Mr. Bilbury, going arm-in-arm with three friends towards -the river, met upon the pavement of the Rue Bonaparte Mr. Newman in -much the same posture, but accompanied by a rather larger bodyguard. It -would have been astonishing to anyone little acquainted with the temper -of students in the University, and indeed it _was_ astonishing both to -Mr. Newman and to Mr. Bilbury, though they had now for some months been -acquainted with the inhabitants of that strange corner of the universe, -to see how this trifling incident provoked an altercation which in its -turn degenerated into a vulgar quarrel. Each party refused to give way -to the other, and the members of each began comparing the members of -the other to animals of every kind such as the pig, the cow, and even -certain denizens of the deep. In the midst of the hubbub Mr. Bilbury, -not to be outdone in the racy vigour of youth, shouted at Mr. Newman -(who for all he knew might have been a Russian revolutionary or a man -from St. Cyr) an epithet which he had come across in the contemporary -literature of the capital, and which he imagined to be of common -exchange among the merry souls of the University. To his surprise--nay, -to his alarm--a dead silence followed the use of this very humble and -ordinary word. Mr. Newman, to whom it was addressed, was not indeed -ignorant of its meaning (for it meant nothing in particular and was -offensive), but was astonished at the gravity of those round him when -the little epithet had been uttered. With a sense of surprise now far -exceeding that of Mr. Bilbury he saw his companions draw themselves -up stiffly, take off their eccentric felt hats with large sweeping -gestures, and march him off as stiff as pokers, leaving the Bilbury -group solemn with the solemnity of men who have a duty to perform. - -That duty was very quickly accomplished. The eldest and most -responsible of the three friends told Bilbury very gently but very -firmly that there could be no issue but one to the scene which had just -passed. - -“I am not blaming you, my dear John,” he said kindly (Mr. Bilbury’s -name was John), “but you know there can be only one issue.” - -Meanwhile Mr. Newman’s friends, after maintaining their strict and -haughty parade almost the whole length of the Rue Bonaparte, broke -silence together, and said: “It is shameful, and you will not tolerate -it!” To which Mr. Newman replied by an assurance that he would in no -way fall beneath the dignity of the situation. - -More than this neither Mr. Bilbury nor Mr. Newman knew, but they both -went to bed that night much later than either intended, and each felt -in himself a something of what Ruth felt when she stood among the alien -corn, or words to that effect. - -And next morning each of them woke with the knowledge that he had some -terrible business on hand with some ass of a foreigner who had got -excited, or, to be more accurate, had suddenly stopped being excited -for wholly incomprehensible reasons at a particular moment in a lively -conversation. Both Mr. Newman and Mr. Bilbury were, I say, in this mood -when there entered to Mr. Newman in his room in the Rue des Ecoles -(which he could ill afford) two of his friends of the night before, who -said to him very simply and rapidly that it would be better for them -to act as his seconds as the others had chosen them as most fitted. To -this Mr. Newman murmured his adhesion, and was about to ask anxiously -whether he would soon see them again, when, with a solemnity quite out -of keeping with their usual good-fellowship, they bowed in a ritual -manner and disappeared. - -Meanwhile a similar scene was taking place in the little fourth-floor -room which Mr. Bilbury occupied, and Mr. Bilbury, somewhat better -acquainted with the customs of the University, dismissed his two -friends with a little speech and awaited developments. - -Before lunch the thing was arranged, and Mr. Newman, who was waiting in -a rather hopeless way for his friends’ return, was informed at about -twelve o’clock that all was settled; it was to be at the end of the -week, up in Meudon, in a field which belonged to one of his friends’ -uncles. “We are less likely to be disturbed there,” said the friend, -“and we can carry the affair to a satisfactory finish.” Then he added: -“It has a high wall all round it.” - -“But,” said the other second, interrupting him, “since we have chosen -pistols that will not be much good, for the report will be heard.” - -“No,” said the first second in a nonchalant manner, “my uncle keeps -a shooting gallery and the neighbours will think it a very ordinary -sound. You had,” he explained courteously to Mr. Newman, “the choice of -weapons as the insulted party, and we chose pistols of course.” - -“Of course,” said Mr. Newman, who was not going to give himself away -upon details of this kind. - -“The other man’s seconds,” went on Mr. Newman’s friend genially, -“wanted swords, but we told them that you couldn’t fence; besides -which, with amateurs nothing ever happens with swords. And then,” he -continued, musing, “if the other man is really good you’re done for, -whereas with pistols there is always a chance.” - -To Mr. Bilbury, equally waiting for the luncheon hour in some -gloominess of soul, the same tale was told, _mutatis mutandis_, as they -say in what is left of the classical school of the University. His -adversary had chosen pistols. “And you know,” said one of his seconds -to Bilbury sympathetically, “he had the right of choice; technically -he was the insulted party. Besides which, pistols are always better if -people don’t know each other.” - -The other second agreed, and was firmly of the opinion that swords were -only for intimate friends or politicians. They also mentioned the field -at Meudon, but with this difference that it became in their mouths the -ancient feudal property of one of their set, and they were careful to -point out that the neighbours were all Royalists, devotedly attached to -the family, and the safest and most silent witnesses in the world. - -For the remaining days Mr. Bilbury and Mr. Newman were conducted by -their separate groups of friends, the first to a shooting gallery near -Vincennes, the second to a shooting gallery near St. Denis. Their -experiments were thus conducted many miles apart: and it was just as -well. It was remarkable what an affluence of students came as the -days proceeded to see the exercise in martial sport of Mr. Newman. At -first from fifty to sixty of the students with one or two of the pure -mathematicians and three or four chemists comprised the audience, but -before the week was over one might say that nearly all the Applied -Physics and Positive Sciences of the University were crowding round -Vincennes and urging Mr. Newman to accurate and yet more accurate -efforts at the target. At St. Denis the number of artists increased in -a similar proportion, and to these, before the week was ended, were -added great crowds of poets, rhetoricians, and even mere symbolists, -who wore purple ties and wigs. These also urged Mr. Bilbury to add to -his proficiency; and sometimes that principal himself would shudder -to see a long-haired and apparently inept person with a greenish face -pick up a pistol with dreadful carelessness and put out the flame of a -candle at a prodigious distance with unerring aim. - -When the great day arrived two processions of such magnitude as gave -proof of the latent wealth of the Republic crawled up the hill to -Meudon. The occasion was far too solemn for a trot, and two men at -least of those present thought several times uncomfortably about -funerals. I must add in connection with funerals that a large coffin -was placed upon trestles in a very conspicuous part of the field, into -which each party entered by opposite wooden gates which, with the high -square wall all round, quite shut out the surrounding neighbourhood. -The two groups of friends (each over a hundred in number), all dressed -in black and most of them in top-hats, retired to opposite corners of -the field, nor was there any sign of levity in either body in spite -of their youth; the four seconds, who were in frock-coats and full -of an unnatural importance, deposited upon the ground between them a -very valuable leather case which, when it was opened, discovered two -perfectly new pistols of a length of barrel inordinate even for the use -of Arabs, let alone for civilised men. These two were loaded in private -and handed to either combatant, and Mr. Bilbury and Mr. Newman, having -been directed each to hold the pistol pointed to the ground, were set -apart by either wall while the seconds proceeded to pace the terrain. -Mr. Newman remembered the cricket pitches of his dear home which -perhaps he would never see again; Mr. Bilbury could think of nothing -but a tune which ran in his head and caused him grave discomfort. - -When the ceremony of the pacing was over the two unfortunate gentlemen -were put facing each other, but twisted, with the right side of the one -turning to the corresponding side of the other, so as to afford the -smallest target for the deadly missiles; and then one of the seconds -who held the handkerchief retired to some little distance to give the -signal. - -It was at this juncture, as Mr. Newman and Mr. Bilbury stood with their -pistols elevated towards heaven, and waiting for the handkerchief -to drop, each concentrated with a violent concentration upon the -emotions of the moment, that a prodigious noise of hammering and -shouting was heard at one of the doors of the enclosure, and that three -gentlemen--the one wearing a large three-coloured sash, the like of -which neither Mr. Bilbury nor Mr. Newman had ever seen--entered, and -ordered the whole party to desist in the name of the law. So summoned, -the audience with the utmost precipitation climbed over the wall, -forced itself through the gates, and in every manner at its disposal -vanished. And the gentleman with the tri-coloured sash, sitting down -in the calmest manner upon one of the trestles and turning the coffin -over by way of making a table, declared himself a public officer, and -took notes of all that had occurred. It was interesting to see the -businesslike way in which the seconds gave evidence, and the courtesy -with which the two principals were treated as distinguished foreigners -by the gentleman with the three-coloured sash. He was young, like all -the rest, amazingly young for a public official of such importance, but -collected and evidently most efficient. When he had done taking his -notes he stood up in a half-military fashion, ranged Mr. Newman and -Mr. Bilbury before him, and very rapidly read out a series of legal -sentences, at the conclusion of which was a fine of one hundred francs -apiece, and no more said about the matter. Mr. Bilbury and Mr. Newman -were astonished that attempted homicide should cost so little in this -singular country. They were still more astonished to discover that -etiquette demanded a genial reconciliation of the two combatants under -such circumstances, and they were positively amazed to find after that -reconciliation that they were compatriots. - -It was their seconds who insisted upon standing the dinner that -evening. The whole incident was very happily over save for one passing -qualm which Mr. Bilbury felt (and Mr. Newman also) when he saw the -gentleman, whom he had last met as the tri-coloured official of the -Republic, passing through the restaurant singing at the top of his -voice and waving his hand genially to the group as he went out upon the -boulevard. - -But they remembered that in democracies the office is distinguished -from the man. Luckily for democracies. - - - - -On a Battle, or “Journalism,” or “Points of View” - - “_The art of historical writing is rendered the less facile in - expression from I know not what personal differences which the most - honest will admit into their record of events, and the most observant - wilt permit to colour the picture proceeding from their pens._” - (Extract from the Judicious Essay of a Gentleman in Holy Orders, - author of _A History of Religious Differences_.) - - -I - -FROM HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF TO THE MINISTER OF WAR - OF HIS BROTHER THE EMPEROR OF PATAGONIA. - - (Begins) - -I have the honour to report: Upon the morning of Sunday, the 31st, -the enemy attacked the left of my position in great force, a little -before dawn. I withdrew the XIth, XIIIth, and IInd Brigades, which were -here somewhat advanced, covering their retirement with detachments -from the First, the Thirty-seventh, and the Forty-second of the Line. -The retirement was executed in good order and with small loss, the -total extent of which I cannot yet determine, but of which by far the -greater part consists of men but slightly wounded. Several pieces which -had been irretrievably damaged were destroyed and abandoned. Upon -reaching a position I had determined in my general plan before leaving -the capital (see annexed sketch map A) the forces entrenched, defending -a line which the enemy did not care to attack. I have reinforced the -Brigade with two groups drawn from the Corps Artillery, and have -despatched all aids, medicaments, etc., required. - -A simultaneous attack delivered upon the centre of my position was -repulsed, the enemy flying in the utmost disorder, and leaving behind -them two pieces of artillery and a colour, which last I have sent under -the care of Major the Duke of Tierra del Fuego to be deposited among -the glorious trophies that adorn the Military Temple. - -By noon the action showed no further development. In the early -afternoon I determined to advance my right, largely reinforced from the -centre, which was now completely secure from attack. The movement was -wholly successful, and the result coincided exactly with my prearranged -plans. The enemy abandoned all this upper portion of the right bank -of the Tusco in the utmost confusion; his main body is therefore now -in full retreat, and there is little doubt that over and above the -decisive and probably final character of this success I shall be able -to report in my next the capture of many prisoners, pieces, and stores. -I congratulate His Majesty upon the conspicuous courage displayed in -every rank, and recommend for distinguished service the 1847 names -appended. His Majesty’s Government may take it that this action -virtually ends the war. (Ends.) - - -II - -FROM FIELD-MARSHAL THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS THE LORD DUKE OF RAPELLO TO - THE MINISTER OF WAR OF THE REPUBLIC OF UTOPIA. - -(Begins) Upon the morning of Sunday, the 31st, in accordance with the -plan which I had drawn up before leaving the capital, I advanced my -right a little before dawn against the left of the Imperial position, -which was very strongly posted upon the edge of a precipitous cliff, -one flank reposing upon an impassable gulf and the other on a deep and -torrential river. The enemy resisted with the utmost stubbornness, but -was eventually driven from his positions, though these were strongly -entrenched after more than a week’s work with the spade. He abandoned -the whole of his artillery. A great number of prisoners have fallen -into my hands, and the loss of the enemy in killed alone must amount to -many thousands. Particulars will follow later, but I am justified in -saying that the left wing of the enemy is totally destroyed. Meanwhile, -General Mitza, most ably carrying out my instructions, contained the -enemy upon the centre without loss, save for one pom-pom and a Maxim, -which were shattered by a chance shell early in the action. The 145th -also report the loss by burning of a waggon containing their Colours, -eighteen cans of tinned beef, and the Missionaries’ travelling library. -Somewhat later in the day the enemy attempted to retrieve a hopeless -position by advancing his right in great force. I had been informed of -the movement (which was somewhat clumsily executed) in ample time, and -withdrew the petty outposts I had thrown out for observation in his -neighbourhood. There is little doubt that the enemy will now attempt -to withdraw his main force along the line of the Tusco Valley, but a -glance at the map will show that this retreat is closed to him by my -occupation of the line X Y (see annexed sketch map), and he is now -virtually contained. - -I congratulate the Government of the Republic upon the signal and -decisive victory our troops have driven home, and I may confidently -assure them that it is tantamount to the successful ending of the -present campaign. Appended is a list of officers recommended for -distinguished service, which I have made as brief as possible, and -which I particularly beg after so glorious a day may not be curtailed -by political intrigues, of which I have already been compelled to -complain. (Ends.) - - -III - -EXTRACT FROM A LEADING ARTICLE IN ONE OF THE MOST REPUTABLE - NEWSPAPERS OF THE CAPITAL OF PATAGONIA UPON MONDAY THE 1ST. - -“We have always maintained in these columns that His Imperial Majesty’s -Government was amply justified in undertaking the short, and now -happily successful, campaign in which it was proposed to chastise the -so-called ‘Republic’ of Utopia, whose chronic state of anarchy is a -menace to the peace and prosperity of civilisation. It is a pleasure to -be able to announce this morning what was already a foregone conclusion -in the minds of all educated men. The enemy’s forces--if we may dignify -them by that name--have been overwhelmed at the first contact, and it -is now only a question of whether they will be utterly disorganised -during retreat or will prefer to capitulate while some semblance of -discipline remains to them. We must, however, implore public opinion -to preserve at this juncture the calm, sane courage which is among the -best traditions of our race, and we reiterate the absolute necessity of -abstaining from any wild cat policy of annexation. It should be enough -for us that the ‘Republic’ of Utopia will now exist in name only, and -has ceased for ever to be a menace to its neighbours. A specially -gratifying feature in the news before us is the skill and mastery -displayed by the Prince, whose advanced years (we blush to remember it) -had been the cause of so much secret criticism of his command.” - - -IV - - -EXTRACT FROM THE LEADING ARTICLE OF THE MOST POPULAR JOURNAL OF THE - UTOPIAN REPUBLIC, SAME DATE. - -“Citizens, awake! All ye that kneel, arise! Ares (the god of battles) -has breathed upon the enemy, and he has been destroyed! The cowardly -mercenaries who handle the gold of Patagonia have broken and fled -before our troops upon the very first occasion when their reputed -valour was put to the test. The glorious and aged Mitza has guaranteed -that the next news will be that of their complete submission. It will -then be for the Government to decide whether our victorious lads should -complete a triumphant march upon the Patagonian capital or whether it -may not be preferable to wring from that corrupt and moribund society -such an indemnity as shall make them for ever impotent to disturb the -frontiers of free men.” - - -V - -EXTRACT FROM THE NOTE OF THE MILITARY EXPERT OF THE AFORESAID WEIGHTY - AND REPUTABLE JOURNAL OF THE CAPITAL OF PATAGONIA: A JOURNALIST. - -“It is not easy to reconstruct from the fragmentary telegrams that -have come through from the front the tactical nature of the great -and happily decisive victory upon the Tusco which has just ended -the campaign. So far as one can judge, His Royal Highness the -Commander-in-Chief lay _en biais_, reposing his right upon the river -itself and his left upon the Cañon of the Encantado, his centre -somewhat advanced ‘in gabion,’ his pivot points refused, and his right -in double concave. Upon a theory of Ballistic and Shock, which all -those who have read His Royal Highness’s daring and novel book of -thirty years ago, entitled ‘Cavalry in the Field,’ will remember, our -Corps Artillery and reserve of horse were doubtless some miles in the -rear of the firing line. The enemy, with an amazing ignorance of the -elements of military knowledge, appear to have attacked the _left_ of -this position. It is an error to which we should hardly give credence -were not the telegrams so clear and decisive on this point. The reader -will immediately grasp the obvious result of such a piece of folly. His -Royal Highness promptly refused _en potence_, wheeled his left centre -round upon the Eleventh Brigade as a pivot, and supported this masterly -move by the sudden and unexpected appearance of no less than thirty-six -guns, the converging fire of which at once arrested the ill-fated and -mad scheme of the enemy. The rest is easily told. Our centre retaining -its position, in spite of the burning zeal of the men to take part in -the general advance, the right, which had not yet come into action, was -thrown forward with a sudden, sweeping movement, and behind its screen -of Cavalry debouched upon the open plateau which dominates the left -bank of the Tusco. After that all was over; the next news we shall have -will certainly be the capitulation of our broken foe, unless, indeed, -he prefer to be destroyed piecemeal in a scattered flight.” - - -VI - -EXTRACT FROM THE NOTE OF THE MILITARY EXPERT OF THE POPULAR JOURNAL - OF UTOPIA: FORMERLY A SERGEANT IN THE COMMISSARIAT DEPARTMENT OF THE - ARMY. - -“It is not easy to reconstruct from the fragmentary telegrams which -have come through from the front the tactical nature of the great and -happily decisive victory upon the Tusco. Some points are obvious. In -the first place, it was ‘a soldiers’ battle.’ Gallant old Mitz (to whom -all honour is due) drew up the line of battle, but the hard work was -done by Bill Smith and Tom Jones, and the rest in the deadly trenches -above the right bank. It seems probable that all the heaviest work was -done on our right, and therefore against the enemy’s left, unless, -indeed, the private telegram received by a contemporary be accurate, -which would make out the heaviest work to have been on our left -against the enemy’s right. The present writer has an intimate personal -knowledge of the terrain, over every part of which he rode during the -manoeuvres of five years ago. It is sandy in places, interspersed -with damp, clayey bits; much of it is undulating, and no small part -of it rocky. Trees are scattered throughout the expanse of the now -historic battlefield; their trunks afford excellent cover. The River -Tusco, as our readers will have observed, is the dominating feature of -the quadrilateral, which it cuts _en échelon_. The Patagonians boasted -that though our army was acknowledgedly superior to their own, their -commercial position would enable them to weary us out in the field. -Yes, I don’t think!” - - -VII - -EXTRACT FROM A LECTURE DELIVERED BY A PROFESSOR OF MILITARY HISTORY - ONE HUNDRED YEARS LATER, IN THE UNIVERSITY OF LIMA. - -“Among the minor factors of this complicated situation was the -permanent quarrel between Patagonia and Utopia, and though it has been -much neglected by historians, and is, indeed, but a detail upon the -flank of the great struggle of the coalition, a few moments must be -given to the abortive operations in the Tusco Valley. They appear to -have been conducted without any grasp of the main rules of strategy, -each party advancing in a more or less complete ignorance of the -position of the other, their communications parallel, their rate of -advance deplorably slow, and neither possessing the information nor the -initiative to strike at his opponent during a three-weeks’ march, at no -point of which was either army so much as fifty miles from the other. -These farcical three weeks ended in a sort of skirmish difficult to -describe, and apparently confined to the extreme left of the Patagonian -forces. The Utopians here effected some sort of confused advance, -which was soon checked. At the other end of the line they retired -before a partial movement of the enemy, effected without any apparent -object, and certainly achieving no definite result. The total losses -in killed and wounded were less than seven per cent of those engaged. -The next day negotiations were entered into between the two generals; -their weary discussion occupied a whole week, during which hostilities -were suspended. The upshot of the whole thing was the retirement of -the Patagonian Army under guarantees, and in consideration of the -acceptation of the old frontier by the Utopian Government. Politically -the campaign is beneath notice, as both territories were absorbed six -months after in the recasting of the map after the Treaty of Lima, and -the policing of them handed over to the now all-conquering Northern -Power. Even as military history the operations deserve little more -than passing notice, save, perhaps, as an example of the gross yet -ever recurrent folly of placing numerically large commands in the -hands of aged men. Mitza, upon the occasion of this fiasco, was over -seventy-five years of age and long in his dotage, while the Prince -of the Blood who had been chosen to lead (nominally, at least) the -Patagonian Army was, apart from his increasing years, a notorious -drunkard, and what is perhaps worse from a military point of view, -daily subject to long and complete lapses of memory.” - - - - -A Descendant of William Shakespeare - - -It was during the early months of 1909 that I first became acquainted -with a descendant of William Shakespeare the great dramatist, who -happened at that moment to be in London. - -This gentleman (for he was of the male sex) was one of our American -visitors, and was stopping at the Carlton Hotel. His name, as he -assured me, Charlemagne K. Hopper. He resided, when he was at home, in -the rapidly rising township of Bismarckville, Mo., where he added to a -considerable private income the profits of an extensive corn business, -dealing in wheat both white and red, and of both spring and autumn -varieties, maize or Indian corn, oats, rye, buckwheat of every variety, -seed corn, and bearded barley; indeed, no kind of cereal was unfamiliar -to this merchant. His quick eye for the market and the geniality of his -character had (he convinced me) made him friends in every circle. He -has the entrée to the most exclusive coteries of Albany and Buffalo, -and he had that season been received by the patrons of literature in -Park Lane, Clarges Street, and Belgrave Square. - -Mr. Hopper’s descent from the Bard of Avon has been established but -quite recently: these lines are perhaps the first to lay it before the -public, and the discovery is an excellent example of the way in which -two apparently insignificant pieces of evidence may, in combination, -suggest an historical discovery of capital importance. - -It is, of course, common knowledge that Lady Barnard of Abington was -a lineal descendant of William Shakespeare. She died (without issue, -as was until recently supposed) at the end of the seventeenth century. -But two almost simultaneous finds made in the early part of the present -year have tended to modify the old-established conviction that this -lady was the last descendant of the poet. - -The first of these finds was made by Mr. Vesey, of the British Museum, -well known for his monograph on _The Family of Barnard of Abington_. It -consisted in a small diary or notebook belonging to the Lady Barnard in -question, in which, among other entries, was the record of the payment -of twenty guineas made to a “Mrs. M.” just before Christmas of the -year 1678. Mr. Vesey published this document in pamphlet form at the -beginning of March, 1908. - -In the April number of _Cambridgeshire Notes and Queries_ Major Pepper, -of Bellevue Villa, Teversham (not far from the Gog Magog Hills), -published, as a matter of curiosity, a letter which he had purchased -in a sale of MSS., but only so published on the chance that it might -have an interest for those who follow the history of the county. It -was a letter from one Joan Mandrell, the governess of Anne Hall, -praying her correspondent to send “twenty guineas for the payment of -rent.” The interest of this document to the students of local history -lay in the fact that this Anne Hall was the ancestress of the Pooke -family. Joan Mandrell’s letter was addressed upon the back of the -sheet, though the name of the addressee was no longer decipherable, -but the letters “...bington Hall” were, and are, clearly legible, as -also the date. The letter further contains a minute description of -Anne Hall’s return to London from a foreign school and of the writer’s -devotion to the addressee, whom she treats throughout as mother of the -young woman committed to her care. This Anne Hall later married Henry -Pooke, whose son Charles made his fortune in politics under Walpole’s -administration, founding the family and estate of Understoke, which is -so familiar to every Cambridgeshire man. - -More than one student noted the coincidence between these two -publications appearing but a fortnight apart; and at the end of May -a paper was already prepared to be read to the Genealogical Society -showing that the lineage of the poet had been continued in the Pookes. - -So far the matter was of merely antiquarian interest, for Charles -Pooke’s great grandson, General Sir Arthur Pooke, had died in 1823 at -Understoke without issue. It was, however, of some importance to all -those who care for the literary history of their country to know that -the blood of the poet could be traced so far. - -Just before the paper was read a further discovery came in to add a -much greater and more living interest to the matter. - -Mr. Cohen, a charming and cultivated genealogist, whose business is -mainly with America and the Colonies, had been for some months actively -engaged for Mr. Hopper in tracing the arms of his, Mr. Hopper’s, -maternal grandfather--a Mr. Pooke. When Mr. Cohen became acquainted -with the facts mentioned above he cabled to Mr. Hopper, who sent -by return of post copies of certain family documents which clearly -proved that this Mr. Pooke was identical with a younger brother of Sir -Arthur. This younger brother was an erratic and headstrong lad who had -enlisted in early youth under Cornwallis, and had been killed, as it -was believed, at Yorktown. He was as a fact wounded and made prisoner; -he was not killed. He was released at the Peace of 1783, preferred -remaining in the New World to facing his creditors in the Old, married -the daughter of Peter Kymers, of Orange, N.J., and soon afterwards -went West. In 1840 his only daughter Cassiopea, who was then keeping a -small store in Cincinnati, married the Rev. Mr. Aesop Hopper, a local -minister of the Hicksite persuasion. Charlemagne K. Hopper is the only -issue of that marriage. - -The genealogy stands thus: - - - WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE - [+]1616 | (the Immortal Bard) - | - Susannah=+=Dr. John Hall - | - Elizabeth Lady Barnard (of Abington) - | - Anne Hall=+=Henry Pooke - ([+]1703) | - | - Charles Pooke (First Bart.) - [+]1772 | - | - +---------------------+-------------------+ - | | | - William Gen. Sir Arthur Pooke Henry Pooke=+=Maria Kymers - (died in infancy) o.s.p. 1823 [+]1830 | - | - Rev. Aesop Hopper=+=Cassiopea Pooke - [+]1883 | [+]1902 - | - CHARLEMAGNE K. HOPPER - -This family tree is now so well established that a full publication -of the lineage, with a commentary upon the whole romantic story, is -about to appear in one of the reviews from the pen of “Thersites,” a -pseudonym which, as many of our readers are aware, barely hides the -identity of one of our best-known experts upon Foreign Affairs.[1] - -Mr. Hopper did not remain in London beyond the close of the season. -He had proposed to leave for Biskra a week or so after I made his -acquaintance, but the change in the weather decided him to go no -farther south than Palermo, whence he will return by Naples, Rome, -Assisi, Genoa, and Boulogne, visiting on the way the quaint old city -of Strasbourg. He will reach England again some time in the month of -April, 1910, and on his return he proposes to devote some part of -his considerable fortune to the erection of a suitable monument at -Stratford-on-Avon in memory of his great ancestor. This generous gift -will be accompanied by certain conditions, but there is little doubt -that the town will accept the same, and that a fine fountain surrounded -with symbolical figures of Justice, Prudence, and Mercy, and adorned -with medallions of Queens Elizabeth and Victoria, George Washington and -President Roosevelt, will soon adorn the quiet little Warwickshire town. - -Mr. Hopper also proposes to found a Shakespeare Scholarship at -Sidney-Sussex College in Cambridge, and another at Wadham College in -Oxford, each of the value of £300 a year, on the model of the Rhodes -Scholarships, such scholarships to be granted not merely for book work -but for business capacity and physical development. He has also planned -a Chair for the propagation of Shakespearean knowledge in Glasgow, and -he will endow a Reader in Shakespeare to the University of Aberdeen. - -Mr. Hopper is himself no mean _littérateur_, though a characteristic -modesty has hitherto restrained him from publishing his verse, whether -rhyme, blank, or in sonnet form. It is possible that now he is -acquainted with his great descent his reluctance may be overcome and -he may think better of this decision. I may add that Mr. Hopper places -no credence in the Baconian theory, and hopes by diligent search among -his family papers to prove the authenticity of at least the five major -tragedies and _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_. - -Mr. Hopper is a total abstainer; he neither smokes nor chews; his -religious views, always broad and tolerant, incline him strongly -towards the New Theology, and, in common with many other men of -exceptional intelligence, he has been profoundly affected by the -popular translation of Dr. Haeckel’s _Riddle of the Universe_. - -Though delighting in social intercourse, Mr. Hopper has the true -gentleman’s instinct against being lionised, and in particular stands -in dread of the Duchess of Dundee. He has therefore begged me to -insist as little as possible on his identity in anything I thought it -my duty to record in print upon so interesting a matter, and I have so -far acceded to his request as to have refrained from publishing these -lines until he had left our shores; but I make little doubt that on his -return in the spring this missing link between the two branches of the -Anglo-Saxon kin cannot but receive the public recognition he deserves. - - - - -On the Approach to Western England - - -How difficult it is to say what one really feels about the landscapes -and the countrysides and the subtle souls of Europe! I think that all -men who are of European blood feel those countrysides and the soul of -them very strongly; but I think that they feel as I feel now, as I -write, a difficulty of expression. There is something in it like the -difficulty of approaching a personality. One may admire, or reverence, -or even love, but the personality is different from one’s own; it has -a chastity of its own that must be respected, it has its boundaries -and its honour, and one always fears that one will transgress such -boundaries if one so much as speaks of the new thing one has come upon -and desired to describe. - -With distant travel it is not so. One comes far over seas to a quite -strange land and one treats it brutally. One’s appreciation is a sort -of conquest; and you will note that those who speak of the Colonies, -or of America, or of Africa, or of Asia speak of them with a hard -intolerance as of something quite alien, or with a conventional set of -phrases, as of something not worth the real expression of emotion. Now -it is not so with our ancient provinces of Europe. - -A man coming out of the Cis-Alpine Gaul into old Italy across the -Apennines feels something; indeed he feels it! What it is he feels very -few men have written down; none has said it fully. You get out of one -thing into something other when you climb up out of the Valley of the -Parma and cross the High Apennines and look southward into the happy -Garfagnana, and hear the noise of the little Serchio beginning in its -meads. In the same way no one has described (to my knowledge at least) -that shock of desolation and yet of mystery which comes upon a man when -he crosses the River Couesnon and passes from Normandy into Brittany. -Normandy is rich, Brittany is poor. Normandy loves ritual, Brittany -religion. Normandy can make things, Brittany prayers. Normandy lives -by Brittany in the matter of the soul, Brittany not by Normandy in the -matter of the body. What Norman ever gave a Breton anything? You cross -that river and everything changes. The men and women have dreamier -eyes, the little children play more wonderfully, everybody is poor. - -Or, again, the passage from the hard industry of the Lancashire Plain -suddenly on to the moors, where the farming men and women are so quiet -and silent and self-respectful and seem so careful rather to preserve -what they own than to add to it. Or, again, the startling passage -over Carter Fell from the Englishmen of Rede-Dale to the Scotchmen of -Jedburgh; or the sharp passage from the violent, active, sceptical, -cruel, courageous, well-fed, ironical Burgundians into the gentle -Germans of the Vosges: here is a boundary which is not marked in any -political way, and yet how marked it is! - -Now in England we have many such approaches and surprises. I will not -speak of that good change which comes upon a man as he travels south -from Victoria Station and hears, almost at the same time that he first -smells earth, the South Country tongue; nor will I speak of that other -change which perhaps some of my readers know very well, the change from -the active and grasping Cockney into the quiet tenacity of East Anglia. -It is not my province--but if I am not wrong one strikes it within half -an hour in the fast expresses--these people push with quants, they sail -in wherries, they inhabit flat tidal banks, they are at peace. Nor will -I here speak of the Marches and how, between a village and a village, -one changes from the common English parish with the Squire’s house and -the church and the cottages and all, into the hard slate roofs and the -inner flame of Wales. Rather I would speak of something the boundary -of which has never yet been laid down, but which people call (I think) -“The West Country.” - - * * * * * - -One never knows, when one is tackling a thing like this, where one -should first begin to tackle it, or by what end one should take it. -Every man according to his own study, every man according to his own -bent or accident of experience, takes it by his own handle, and the -one man speaks of the language, the other of the hills, another of the -architecture, another of the names. For my part I would desire to speak -of all. - -When one gets over a certain boundary one is in a peculiar district -of this world, a special countryside of Europe, a happy land with a -conviction and a tradition of its own which may not have a name, but -which is in general the West Country, and which by its hills and by its -men and women convinces any true traveller at once of its personality. -More than one man after a dreary wandering southwards through the -Midlands has walked by night up one of its fresh streets to an inn and -cried: “What! Have I come upon Paradise?” And this feeling comes also -when one has climbed up the Cotswold through the little places of stone -and suddenly sees the valley floor of the Severn so full of orchards, -or has come over the flat deserts of the Upper Thames and had revealed -to him the Golden Valley; or, after plodding through Wiltshire, has -smelt an air which told him that not far off were the heavy tides of -that haunted sea which runs between the Welsh hills and the peninsula -of Cornwall and Devon. Men are lost in these seas and are saved in them -perpetually as by miracles: I can appeal, in this print, to how many? -They have been saved by the miracle of that water. Here Arthur was -cast up by the waves: on to that flat salt, in its calm, full of mists, -looked out those who gave us our legend of his Court. - -The boundary into this particular land is not only fetched by men on -foot; in no matter what kind of travel one pursues, one recognises that -boundary in a flash as one traverses it. It is not only the orchards, -nor the abrupt and pointed hills, nor those domestic towns, happy with -memories, nor those clear waters, nor those meadows, bounded by careful -walls of stone, but something much more which tells one that one has -got into the enchanted land. That spirit in it which made the stuff of -our early history, which gave us the landing of Joseph of Arimathea and -the glorious bush of Glastonbury and the cycle of the Round Table and -those good verses with regard to passion unrestrained: - - ... well you wot that of such life - There comes but sore battaille and strife - And blood of men and hard Travail.... - -And the prophecies of Merlin, and the story of Tristan and Iseult and -all the vision of immortality and of resurrection inhabits it still. - -I never can believe (I speak for myself alone) that man can be -dissociated from his earth any more than I can believe that the soul -can be dissociated from the body. When men say to me that there is no -soul, they can go on saying. But when men say that the soul can neglect -the body then there is matter for argument; and when the argument is -finished one finds it is not so. Now thus it is with the earth that -breeds us and into which if we are content to die at home (and since -we must die somewhere, better die there) we should at last return. The -landscapes of Europe make European men, and it is not for nothing that -the climate and the shapes of the hills and the nature of the building -stuff change just where man changes. - -There is enchantment upon every high place of England, but the -enchantment of the Devonshire Moors and of the Tors to the North and -upwards from them is different from the enchantment of the Downs. There -is a great delight in the proper fireplaces of the English people, but -who, thoroughly alive, could mistake a fireplace in the West Riding for -a fireplace on the Western Rother or either of these for a fireplace -a little before Sherborne in the tumbles and the hollows where Dorset -and Somerset meet? There is a richness of the speech and a contentment -of the tongue which any man from the new countries might think common -to all English agricultural men: yet there was a man from Sussex who, -hearing the Sussex tongue in the Choughs at Yeovil, felt himself indeed -come home. Our provinces differ very much. - -I have sometimes wondered whether in the process of time these little -intimate differences of ours will survive. I wish they would! I wish -they would, by the Lord! The Greeks were a little people, yet their -provinces have survived, and the contempt that Aspasia felt for the -Peloponnesus is (or should be) yet recorded. The hill tribes behind -the Phoenician coast were a little people, but the fame of their -religion, of their civil wars, has survived that of the merchants of -Tyre. Rome, Veii, and the others were little places like Arundel and -Pulborough, quite close together; but they were talked of, and men know -much of them to-day. - -I could wish the differences of this island were so known and that -people coming from a long way off would be humble and learn those -differences. Surely a nation grows great in this way, by many provinces -reacting one upon the other, recognised by the general will, sometimes -in conflict with it. At any rate the West Country is a province of -Europe; no one can get into it without touching his youth again and -putting his fingers to earth, and getting sustenance from it, as a man -does when he turns at the turning point of a race and touches earth -with his fingers and is strong again to spring forward. - - - - -The Weald - - -Among the changes that have come upon England with the practice and -facility for rapid travel many would put first the conquest (some would -call it the spoiling) of little-known and isolated stretches of English -landscape; and men still point out with a sort of jealous pride those -districts, such as the upper Cotswolds, which modern travel has not -disturbed. It seems to me that there is another feature attaching to -the facility for travel, and that is this, that men can now tell other -men what their countrysides are like; men can now compare one part of -England with another in a way that once they could not do, and this -facility in communication which so many deplore has so much good about -it at least, in that it permits right judgments. There have been men in -the past who have travelled widely for the mere pleasure of seeing many -parts of their own country--Cobbett was one--but they were rare. As the -towns grew, commercial travelling led men only to the towns, but now -the thing is settling down. Men travel everywhere, all kinds of men, -and no part of England remains of which a man can say that he loves it -without knowing why he loves it, or that its character is indefinable. -So it is with the Weald. - -All that roll of land which lies held between and above the chalk of -South-Eastern England, the clay and the sand, and the uncontinuous -short trees, the muddy little rivers, the scattered homesteads, the -absence of levels, and almost the absence of true hills, the distant -prospects northwards and southwards of quite another land, the blue -lines and naked heights a day’s journey away against the sky--all that -is the Weald. And it runs from the place where the two lines of chalk -meet in Hampshire beyond Selborne, and beyond Petersfield, right away -to the sea which it sweeps upon in a grand curve, between Pevensey -(which was once the chief port of the Weald) and the heights round -Hastings: for though these heights are in a manner part of the Weald, -yet between them and the chalk again by Folkestone no true Wealden -country lies. - -Unless a man understands the Weald he cannot easily write about the -beginnings of England, and yet historians have not understood it. -Only the men mixed into it and married with it or born upon it have -understood it, and these, I say, until lately were not permitted by -constant travel that judgment by analogy and by contrast which teaches -us the true meaning of things that we had hitherto only instinctively -known. Now a Wealden man can say certain things about his countryside -which are of real value to history and perhaps to politics as well; at -any rate, to politics in that larger sense of patriotism intelligently -appreciating the future of one’s own land. Thus the Wealden man, now -that he knows so much else in England, can tell the historian that the -Weald was never the impenetrable forest which historians would make of -it. It lay in a barrier between the ports of the Channel and the Thames -Valley. But the barrier was not uninhabited; it was not impassable. -Its scattered brushwood was patchy, its soil never permanently marshy -nor ever for long distances difficult for a mounted man or a man on -foot. The Weald from the very beginning had homesteads in it, but it -had not agglomerations of houses, nor had it parishes save in very few -places. If you look at the map now you can see how the old parishes -stretch northward and southward in long strips from the chalk and -loam country up towards the forest ridge which is the centre of the -Weald. Those long strips were the hunting rights of the village folk -and their lords. Of some parishes carved out of the central Weald we -can accurately tell the origin. We know that they were colonised as it -were, cleared, and had their church built for them in the great spurt -of civilisation which marked the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Men -would understand the early history of the Weald better, and with it the -early military history of South-Eastern England, if they would take -one of the old forest paths--as that from Rusper, for instance, which -works its way down, now as a metalled road, now as a green lane, now as -a mere footpath with right of way, past the two old “broad” fords on -the upper Arun and the marshy land east of Pulborough until it gets to -Roundabout, and so to Storrington. All the history of communications in -the Weald is exemplified in such a journey--and it is a journey which, -though it is little more than twenty miles in length, takes quite a -day. You have the modern high road, the green lane of the immediate -past, and in places a mere track of remote antiquity. You see just -how difficult it is to traverse the clay, how the occasional knobs of -sand relieve your going; you can notice the character of the woodland -where it is still untouched, and if you are wise you will notice one -thing above all, and that is the character of the water. Now it is -this which explains the Weald. Many bad bits of clay in Europe have -formed highways for armies--for instance, all that rotten land in the -great bend of the Loire which the Romans called the _Solitarium_, and -which the French called the _Sologne_. But the Weald differs from most -others in this, that good and plentiful water is hard to find. It is -not the muddiness of the streams that is the chief defence of the place -against human travel and habitation; it is the way in which, when rain -has fallen and when water is plentiful, going is difficult, and the -way in which, when a few days of dry weather come, the going becomes -easy, but the water in the little streams disappears. There is evidence -that the Romans, when they built their great military road--perhaps -their only purely military road in Britain--across the Weald skipped -one intervening station which should, upon the analogy of others, have -been present upon it in the heart of the Weald, and pressed the march -in this place to nearly double its usual length. The French armies -do precisely the same thing in the bad lands of the Plain of Chalons -to-day. Wherever there is ancient habitation in the Weald, or rather -upon the fringes of the Weald, there is good, plentiful, and perennial -water; elsewhere the Weald is still what it has been throughout -history--a great rolling place, not deserted, not lonely, and yet not -humanised. It is exactly the place for a seclusion from men, for you -can see some men, but not too many of them; and I have always thought -that King wise, who, when his enemies desired to kill him, wandered -in the Andredsweald. The historians say that he took refuge in the -impassable thickets of the forest. This is bosh. No man can sleep -out in this climate for a season round, nor can any man live without -cooked meat, nor do I see an Anglo-Saxon king living without wine and -a good deal of pomp into the bargain. As to the wine, men might argue, -but as to the pomp, they cannot. I will tell you what this King did -without any doubt. He went from steading to steading and was royally -entertained, and if you ask why it was a refuge for him the answer is -that it was a refuge against the pursuit of many men. - -The Weald is a refuge against the pursuit of many men. It was so then: -it is so now. - -And this leads me to my conclusion. The Weald will never be conquered. -It will always be the Weald. To be conquered is to suffer the will -of another: the Weald will suffer no will but its own. The men of -the Weald drive out men odious to them in manner sometimes subtle, -sometimes brutal, always in the long run successful. Economics break -against the Weald as water breaks against stone. It is not a long walk -from London. Your Londoner in summer comes and builds in it. So foreign -birds their nests. But unlike the foreign birds, he does not return -with each returning spring. For the Weald will welcome the bird for the -pleasure the bird gives it, and drive it out when the pleasure is done. -Now it welcomes the Londoner for his money, and this feature in the -Londoner is not recurrent with the seasons. - -Here is some Latin which I am assured is grammatical and correctly -spelled as well: - - Stat et stabit: manet et manebit, spectator orbis. - -She stands and still shall stand; she remains and shall remain: a -watcher of the generations. - - - - -On London and the Houses in it - - -The aspect of London, as the man who knows it grows older, begins to -take on characters of permanence and characters of change, both of -which are comparable to those of a human life. It is perceived that -certain qualities in the great soul of the place are permanent, and -that the memories of many common details merge after the passage of -years into a general picture which is steadfast and gives unity to the -whole. - -This is especially true of the London skies, and more true, I think, of -the London skies in autumn than at any other season of the year. Men go -home from the City or from the Courts westward at an hour which is that -of sunset, when the river catches more light than at any other time: -the mixture of mist and smoke and of those shapes in our clouds, beyond -the reek of the town, which are determined by the south-west wind -blowing up the line of the valley, make together an impression which -is the most lasting of the landscapes in which we live. These it was -which inspired Turner when he drew them from the deserted room in the -tower of Battersea Church, or from that corner house over the River, -whence he could watch evening after evening the heavy but transparent -colours which enter into the things he painted. Many foreigners, caught -by the glamour of that artist, have missed the source whence his mellow -and declining sunlight was inspired; its source was in these evening -and autumn skies of London. There is a permanence also in the type of -home which London built for more than two centuries, and which was -laid down after the Great Fire, and there is a permanence in the older -stonework. It is difficult or impossible to define what there is in -common between the brown stock brick of London, which is the stuff of -all its background whether of large houses or mean, and the black and -white weathering of Portland stone. Perhaps the unity which seems to -bind them is wholly in the mind, and depends merely upon association, -but it is very strong upon anyone who has grown up from childhood into -middle age surrounded by the vision of this town; and it would seem as -though London was only London because of those rough surfaces of soft -stonework, streaked with white wedges, scaling off the grime of St. -Martin’s, or St. Clement Dane’s, or the fine front of the Admiralty, -and standing out clear against the general brown mass of the streets. -The quite new things have no character at all. One wonders what -cosmopolitan need can have produced them. London never produced them, -with their stone that so often is plaster, and their alien suggestion -of whatever is least national in Paris or New York. London never -produced them. - -The noise of the streets in spite of every change remains the same, -it is the same comforting and distant roar, like the roar of large -waters among hills, which every visitor has noticed, with its sharp -contrast to the rattle and cries of other great capitals. Why it should -be so no one, I think, has discovered, though many have described it, -but it remains an unmistakable thing, and if a London man, who had -travelled and was far away, should be set down by a spirit in London, -not knowing where he was, when he heard through a window high above the -street this distant and continuous roar, he would know that he had come -home. It should surely in theory have disappeared, this chief physical -characteristic of the great place, yet neither the new electricity and -the hissing of the wires, nor the new paving, nor even the new petrol -seem to change it. It is still a confused and powerful and subdued -voice, like a multitude undecided. The silence also does not change. -The way in which in countless spots you pass through an unobserved -low passage, or through an inconspicuous narrow turning, and find -yourself in a deserted place, from which the whole life of London seems -blanketed out, has been to every traveller and to every native part of -the charm and surprise of London. Dickens knew it very well, and makes -of it again and again a dramatic something in his work which stamps it -everywhere with the soul of London. In every decade men growing older -deplore the disappearance of this or that sanctuary of isolation and -silence, but in the aggregate they never disappear; something in the -very character of the people reproduces them continually, and if any -man will borrow the leisure--even a man who knows his London well--to -peer about and to explore for one Saturday afternoon in one square mile -of older London, how many such unknown corners will he not find! The -populace also upon whom all this is founded remain the same. - -What changes in London are the things that also change in the life of -a man, and nothing more than the relationship of particular spots and -particular houses to our own lives. There is perhaps no city in the -world where, under the permanence of the general type, there is so -perpetual a flow and disturbance of association. It has even become -normal to the life of the citizens, and the conception of a fixed home -has left them. Here and there--but more and more rarely with every -year--you may point out a great house which some wealthy family has -chosen to inhabit for some few generations; but fixity of tenure, -tradition, family tradition at least, and sacred hereditary things, -either these were never proper to London or they have gone; it is this -which overspreads a continued knowledge of London with an increasing -loneliness and with memories that find no satisfaction or expression, -but re-enter the heart of a man and do a hurt to him there. - -There are so many strange doors that should be familiar doors. Turning -sometimes into some street where one has turned for years to find at a -very well-known number windows of a certain aspect and little details -in the drab exterior of the house, every one of which was as familiar -as a smile, one is (by the mere association of years and of a gesture -repeated a thousand times) in the act of coming to the steps and of -seeking an entry. The whole place is as much one’s friend and as much -indicative of one’s friend as would be his clothes or his voice or any -other external thing. He is not there, and the house is worse than -empty. London grows full of such houses as a man grows older. Most of -us have other losses sharper still, which men of other cities know less -well, for most of us pass and repass the house where we were born, or -where as children we gathered all the strongest impressions of life. It -is impossible to believe that other souls are inheriting the effect of -those familiar rooms. It is worse than a death; it is a kind of treason. - -I know a house in Wimpole Street of which every part is as familiar -quite as the torn leaves of the old books of childhood, but I have -passed it and repassed it for how many years, forbidden an entrance, -and finding that ancient and fixed friend in league, so to speak, -with strangers. Or, in another manner, which of us does not know a -house like any other house, amid the thousand unmarked houses in the -better streets of the town, but to us quite individual because there -met within it once so many who were for us the history of our time? -It was in that room (where are the three windows) that she received -her guests, retaining on into the last generations of a worse and -degraded time the traditions of a better society. Here came men who -could discuss and reveal things that are now distorted legends, and -whose revelations were real because they came as witnesses: soldiers of -the Crimea, of India, of Italy, and of Algiers, or men who remembered -great actions within the State: actions that were significant through -conviction, before we became what we are. Here was breeding; here were -the just limits of tone and emphasis and change, and here was that -type of intercourse which was surely as great and as good a thing as -Europe or England has known. Who sees that room to-day? What taste has -replaced her taste? What choice of stuff or colour mars the decoration -on the walls? What trash or alien thing takes the place of that careful -elaborate womanly work in which her travels throughout the world were -recorded, and in which the excellent modesty of an art sufficient for -her purpose reproduced in line and in colour the ironic nobility of her -mind and the wide expanse of her learning? We do not know and we cannot -know. The house is neither ours nor hers. To whomever it has passed it -has turned traitor to us who knew. - -It is better, I think, for those who have such memories when the -material things that enshrine them wholly disappear, for then there is -no jar, no agony of contrast between that society which once was and -this which now is, with its quality of wealth and of the uses to which -wealth is put to-day. If we must suffer the intolerable and clumsy -presence of accidental power--power got suddenly, got anyhow, got by -chance, untrained and unworthy--at least may we suffer such things in -their own surroundings, in huge conservatories, with loud music, with -an impression of partial drunkenness all around, and a certainty all -around of intellectual incompetence and of sprawling bodies and souls. -It is better to suffer these new things in such surroundings as may -easily let one believe that one is not in London at all, but on the -Riviera; and let the heat be excessive, and let there be a complete -ignorance of all wine except champagne, and let it be a place where -champagne is supposed to be one wine. Then the frame will suit the -picture, and there will at least be no desecration of material things -by human beings unworthy of the bricks and mortar. I say it is much -better when the old houses disappear, at least the old houses in which -we knew and loved the better people of a better time:--and yet the -youth or childhood in which so many of us saw the last of it is not -thirty years, is barely twenty years dead! - - - - -On Old Towns - - -Every man who has a civilised backing behind him, every man, that is, -born to a citizenship which has history to nourish it, knows, loves, -desires to inhabit, and returns to, the Old Towns; but the more one -thinks of it the more difficult one finds it to determine in what this -appetite consists. - -The love of a village, of a manor, is one thing. You may stand in some -place where you were born or brought up, especially if it be some -place in which you passed those years in which the soul is formed to -the body, between, say, seven years of age and seventeen, and you may -look at the landscape of it from its height, but you will not be able -to determine how much in your strong affection is of man and how much -of God. True, nearly everything in a good European landscape has been -moulded, touched, coloured, and in a sense made by Christian men. It is -like a sort of tapestry which man has worked upon the stuff that God -gave him; but, still, any such landscape from the height of one of our -villages has surely more in it of God than of man. For one thing there -is the sky; and then it must be admitted that the lines of the hills -were there before man touched them, and though the definite outline -of the woods, the careful thinning of them which allows great trees -to grow, the noble choice and contrast of foliage, the sharp edge of -cultivated against forest land, the careful planting of the tallest -kinds of things, pine trees and elms, are all man’s work; and though -the sights of water in between are usually man’s work also, yet in the -air that clothes the scene and in all its major lines, man did not make -it at all: he has but used it and improved it under the inspiration of -That which made the whole. - -But with the Old Towns it is not so. They please us in proportion to -their apparent intensity of effort; the more man has worked the more -can we embed ourselves within them. The more different is every stone -from another, and the more that difference is due to the curious spirit -of man the more are we pleased. We stand in little lanes where every -single thing about us, except the strip of sky overhead, is man’s -work, and the strip of sky overhead becomes what all skies are in all -pictures--something subordinate to man, an ornament. - -One could make a list of the Old Towns and go on for ever: the -sea-light over the red brick of King’s Lynn from the east, and the -other sea-light from the south over that other King’s town, Lyme -Regis; the curious bunch of Rye; the hill of Poitiers all massed up -with history, and in whose uneven alleys all the armies go by, from -the armies of the Gauls to the army that makes a noise about them -to-day: the hill of Lincoln, where one looks up from the Roman Gate -to the towers completing the steep hill; the two hills of Cassel and -of Montreuil, similarly packed with all that men are, have been, -and remain; the quadrated towns, some surely Roman, some certainly -so; Chichester, Winchester, Horsham, Oxford, Chester, and a hundred -others--England is most fruitful in these; the towns that draw their -life from rivers and have high steep walls of stone or brick going -right down into the waters, Albi, Newcastle as it once was; in its own -small way Arundel as it still is; the towns of the great flats, where -men for some reason can best give rein to their fancy, Delft, Antwerp -(that part of it which counts), Bruges, Louvain; Ypres also where the -cooking is so vile. - -One might continue for ever this futile list of towns--this is in -common to them all, that wherever men come across them in travel they -have a sense of home and the soul reposes. - -Nowhere have I found this more than in the curious and to some the -disappointing town of Arles. Arles has about it, more than any other -town I know, the sentiment of protracted human experience. They dig -and find stone tools and weapons. They dig again and find marks of log -huts, bronze pins, and the arms of the Gauls. And then, apparent to -the eye and still living as it were, and still breathing, as it were, -the upper air which is also ours, not buried away like dead things, -but surviving, is Greece, is Rome, is the Dark Ages, is the Middle -Ages, is the Renaissance, is the religious quarrel, is the Eighteenth -Century, is the Revolution, is to-day. I have sometimes thought that -if a man should go to Arles with the desire deliberately to subject -himself at once to the illusion and to the reality of the past, here he -could do so. He could look curiously for a day at the map and see how -the Rhone had swept the place for thousands upon thousands of years, -making it a sort of corner at the head of its great estuary, and later -of its delta; then he might spend the day wondering at the flints and -the way they were chipped, and getting into the minds of the men that -made them. Then he should spend a day with bronze, and then a day with -the Gaulish iron. After that, for as many weeks as he chose, let him -study the stones which Greece and which Rome have still left in the -public places of the city; the half of the frontal of the great temple -built into his hotel; the amphitheatre upon which he suddenly comes as -he wanders up a narrow modern street; the Arenæ. The Dark Ages, which -have left so little in Europe, have here left massive towers in which -the echoes of the fighting linger, and huge rough stones which the Dark -Ages did not quarry but which they moved from the palaces of the Romans -to their own fortresses, and which by their very presence so removed -bring back to one the long generations in which Europe slept healthily -and survived. - -St. Trophime is all the Middle Ages. You may walk quietly round its -cloister and see those ten generations of men, from the hugeness of -the Crusades to the last delicacies of the fifteenth century. The -capitals of the columns go in order, the very earliest touch on that -archaic grotesque which underlies every civilisation, the latest in -their exact realism and their refinement, prove the decline of a whole -period of the soul. Lest Arles should take up too much of this short -space, I would remind the reader only of this ironical and striking -thing: that on its gates as you go out of the city northward, you may -see sculptured in marble what the Revolution but--a century ago--took to -be a primal truth common to all mankind. It concerns the sanctity of -property. Consider that doctrine to-day! - -But not Arles, though it is so particular an example, not Delft, not -the old English seaports which so perfectly enshrine our past, not -Coutances which everyone should know, alone explain what the Old Towns -are, but rather a knowledge of them all together explains it. - -The Old Towns are ourselves; they are mankind. In their contortion, in -their ruined regularity, in their familiar oddities, and in their awful -corners of darkness, in their piled experience of the soul which has -soaked right into their stone and their brick and their lime, they are -the caskets of man. Note how the trees that grow by licence from the -crevices of their battlements are a sort of sacramental saving things, -exceptional to the fixed lines about them, and note how the grass -which grows between the setts of their paving stones comes up ashamedly -and yet universally, as good memories do in the oldness of the human -mind, and as purity does through the complexity of living. - -Which reminds me: Once there was a band of men, foolish men, Bohemian -men, indebted men, who went down to paint in a silly manner, and chose -a town of this sort which looked to them very old and wonderful; and -there they squatted for a late summer month and talked the detestable -jargon of their trade. They talked of tones and of values and of the -Square Touch, and Heaven knows what nonsense, the meanwhile daubing -daub upon daub on to the canvas; praising Velasquez (which after all -was right) and ridiculing the Royal Academy. They ridiculed the Royal -Academy. - -Well, now, these men were pleased to see in autumn grass growing -between the setts of the street, especially in one steep street where -they lived. It rejoiced their hearts; they said within themselves, -“This is indeed an Old Town!” But the Town Council of that town -had said among themselves, “What if it become publicly known that -grass grows in our streets? We shall be thought backward; the rich -will not come to visit us. We shall not make so much money, and our -brothers-in-law and others indebted to us will also grow impoverished. -Come! Let us pull up this grass.” - -So they paid a poor man, who would otherwise have starved, the amount -of his food on the condition that he should painfully pull up all the -grass, which he did. - -Then the artists, seeing him at work, paid him more not to pull it -up. Then the Town Council, finding out this, dismissed him from their -employ, and put upon the job a distant man from some outlandish county, -and had him watched, and he pulled up all the grass, every blade of it, -by night, but thoroughly. The next morning the artists saw what had -been done, and they went out by train to another town, and bought grass -seed and also a little garden soil, and the next night they scattered -the soil carefully between the stones and sowed the grass seed; and the -comedy is not yet ended. - -There is a moral to this, but I will not write it down, for in the -first place it may not be a good moral, and in the second place I have -forgotten what it was. - - - - -A Crossing of the Hills - - -When it was nearly noon my companion said to me: - -“By what sign or track do you propose to cross the mountains?” For -the mountains here seem higher than any of highest clouds: the valley -beneath them is broad and full of fields: beyond, a long day off, -stands in a huge white wall the Sierra del Cadi. Yet we must cross -these hills if ever we were to see the secluded and little-known -Andorrans. For the Andorrans live in a sort of cup fenced in on every -side by the Pyrenees; it was on this account that my companion asked me -how I would cross over to their land and by what sign I should find my -way. - -When I had thought a little I answered: - -“By none. I propose to go right up at them, and over unless I find some -accident by which I am debarred.” - -“Why, then,” said he, “let us strike up at once, walking steeply until -we come into a new country.” - -This advice was good, and so, though we had no longer any path, and -though a mist fell upon us, we began walking upwards, and it was like -going up a moor in the West Riding, except that it went on and on and -on, hour after hour, and was so steep that now and then one had to use -one’s hands. - -The mist was all round us; it made a complete silence, and it drifted -in the oddest way, making wisps of vapour quite close to our faces. Nor -had we any guide except the steepness of the hill. For it is a rule -when you are caught in a storm or mist upon the hills, if you are going -up, to go the steepest way, and though in such a fog this often took us -over a knoll which we had to descend again, yet on the whole it proved -a very good rule. It was perhaps the middle of the afternoon, we had -been climbing some five hours, we had ascended some six thousand or -seven thousand feet, when to our vast astonishment we stumbled upon a -sort of road. - -It must here be explained why we were astonished. The way we had come -led nowhere; there were no houses and no men. The Andorrans whom we -were about to visit have no communication northward with the outer -world except a thin wire leading over the hills, by which those who -wish to telephone to them can do so; and of all places in Europe, -Andorra is the place out of which men least desire to get and to -which men least desire to go. It is like that place beyond Death of -which people say that it gives complete satisfaction and from which -certainly no one makes any effort to escape, and yet to which no one is -very anxious to go. When, therefore, we came to this road, beginning -suddenly half way up a bare mountain and appearing unexplained through -the mist, we were astonished. - -It was embanked and entrenched and levelled as would be any great -French military road near the frontier fortresses. There was a little -runnel running underneath the road, conveying a mountain stream; it was -arched with great care, and the arch was made of good hewn stone well -smoothed. But when we came right on to this road we found something -more astonishing still: we found that it was but the simulacrum or -ghost of a road. It was not metalled; it was but the plan or trace or -idea of a road. No horses had ever trod its soft earth, no wheels had -ever made a rut in it. It had not been used at all. Grass covered it. -The explanation of this astonishing sight we did not receive until -we had spoken in their own tongue the next day to the imperturbable -Andorrans. - -It was as though a school of engineers had been turned on here for -fun, to practise the designing of a road in a place where land was -valueless, upon the very summit of the world. - -We two men, however, reasoned thus (and reasoned rightly as it turned -out): - -“The tall and silent Andorrans in a fit of energy must have begun this -road, though later in another fit they abandoned it. Therefore it will -lead towards their country.” - -And as we were very tired of walking up a steep which had now lasted -for so many hours, we determined to follow the large zigzags of this -unknown and magic half-road, and so we did. - -It was the oddest sensation in the world walking in the mist a mile -and more above the habitations of men, upon unmetalled, common earth -which yet had the exact shape of pavements, cuttings, and embankments -upon either side, with no sort of clue as to where it led or as to why -men began to make it, and still less of an argument as to why they had -ceased. - -It went up and up in great long turns and z’s upon the face of the -mountain, until at last it grew less steep; the mist grew colder, and -after a long flat I thought the land began to fall a little, and I said -to my companion: - -“We are over the watershed, and beneath us, miles beneath us, are the -Andorrans.” - -When by the continuance of the fall of the land we were certain of -this we took off our hats, in spite of the fog which still hung round -us very wet and very cold and quite silent, and expected any moment a -revelation. - -We were not disappointed. Indeed, this attitude of the mind is never -disappointed. Without a moment’s warning the air all round us turned -quite bright and warm, a strong gust blew through the whirling vapour, -and we saw through the veil of it the image of the sun. In a moment -his full disc and warmth was on us. The clouds were torn up above us; -the air was immediately quite clear, and we saw before us, stamped -suddenly upon the sight, a hundred miles of the Pyrenees. - -They say that everything is in the mind. If that be true, then he and I -saw in that moment a country which was never yet on earth, for it was -a country which our minds had not yet conceived to be possible, and it -was as new as though we had seen it after the disembodiment of the soul. - -The evening sun from over Spain shone warm and low, and every -conceivable colour of the purples and the browns filled up the mountain -tangle, so that the marvel appeared as though it had been painted -carefully in a minute way by a man’s hand; but the colours were filled -with light, and so to fill colour with light is what art can never do. -The main range ran out upon either side, and the foothills in long -series of peaks and ridges fell beneath it, until, beyond, in what -might have been sky or might have been earth, was the haze of the -plains of Ebro. - -“It is no wonder,” said I to my companion, “that the Andorrans -jealously preserve their land and have refused to complete this road.” - -When I had said that we went down the mountain side. The lower our -steps fell the more we found the wealth and the happiness of men. At -last walls and ploughed land appeared. The fields grew deep, the trees -more sturdy, and under the shelter of peaks with which we had just been -acquainted, but which after an hour or so of descent seemed hopelessly -above us, ran rivers which were already tamed and put to a use. One -could see mills standing upon them. So we went down and down. - -There is no rejuvenescence like this entry into Andorra, and there is -no other experience of the same sort, not even the finding of spring -land after a month of winter sea: that vision of brilliant fields -coming down to meet one after the endless grey waste of the sea. - -It was, I tell you again, a country completely new, and it might have -been of another world, much better than our own. - -So we came at last to the level of the valley, and the first thing we -saw was a pig, and the second was a child, and the third was a woman. -The pig ran at us: for he was lean. The child at first smiled at us -because we were human beings, and then divining that we were fiends who -had violated his sacred home began to cry. The woman drove the pig from -us and took in the child, and in great loneliness and very sad to be so -received we went until we should find men and citizens, and these we -found of our own size, upstanding and very dignified, and recognised -them at once to be of the wealthy and reserved Andorrans. It was clear -by their faces that the _lingua franca_ was well known to them, so I -said to the first in this universal tongue: - -“Sir, what is the name of this village?” - -And he replied: “It is Saldeu.” But this he said in his own language, -which is somewhat more difficult to understand than the _lingua franca_. - -“I take it, therefore,” said I, “that I am in the famous country of -Andorra.” - -To which he replied: “You are not many miles from the very town itself: -you approach Andorra ‘the Old.’” - -The meaning of this I did not at first exactly understand, but as we -went on, the sun having now set, I said to my companion: “Were not -those epithets right which we attached to the Andorrans in our fancy -before we attempted these enormous hills? Were we not right to call -them the smiling and the tall Andorrans?” - -“You are right,” he answered to me, thinking carefully over every word -that he said. “To call them the secluded and the honourable Andorrans -is to describe them in a few words.” - -We then continued our way down the darkening valley, whistling little -English songs. - - - - -The Barber - - -Humanity, my dear little human race, is at once more difficult to get -at and more generally present than you seem to know. You are yourselves -human beings, dear people. Yet how many have so fully understood their -fellows (that is, themselves) that they could exactly say how any man -will behave or why any man behaves as he does? But with that I am not -to-day concerned. I am concerned with another matter, which is the -impossibility of getting away from these brothers of ours, even if we -desire to do so. - -Note you here, humans, that in reality you do not, even the richest of -you, try to get away from your brothers. You do not like solitudes; you -like sham, theatrical solitudes. You like the Highlands on condition -that you have driven away the people rooted there, but also on -condition that you may have there the wine called champagne. Now if you -had seen that wine made, the gathering of the apples in the orchards -of the Rhine and the Moselle, the adding of the sugar, the watching of -the fermentation, and the corking with a curious machine, you would -appreciate that if you insist upon champagne in the Highlands, then -you are certainly taking humanity with you. If you could follow the -thing farther and see them all passing the stuff on, each a little -afraid of being found out, then you would know that as you drank your -champagne in the most solitary valley you had done far from getting -rid of humanity. All the grotesque of man and all his jollity, all his -stupidity and all his sin, went with you into your hermitage and it -would have gone with you anyhow without the champagne. You cannot make -a desert except by staying away from it yourself. All of which leads me -to the Barber. - -First, then, to give you the true framework of that astonishing man. -For exactly thirty-six hours there had been nothing at all in the way -of men; and if thirty-six hours seems but a short time to you as you -read it, it certainly was a mighty long time for me who am writing -this. Of those thirty-six hours the first few had been enlivened (that -is, from five in the morning till about noon) with the sight of a -properly made road, of worked stone, of mown grass, and of all that -my fellow beings are busily at throughout the world. For though I had -not seen a man, yet the marks of men were all around, and at last as I -went into the Uplands I bade farewell to my kind in the shape of an old -rusty pair of rails still united by little iron sleepers, one link of a -Decauville railway which a generation before had led to a now abandoned -mine. - -My way over the mountains lay up a gulley which turned as unexpectedly -as might the street of a mediæval town; and which was quite as narrow -and as enwalled as the street of any city; but instead of houses there -were ugly rocks, and instead of people very probably viewless devils. -Still, though I hated to be away from men I went on because I desired -to cross the high ridge which separated me from a dear pastoral people, -of whom I had heard from poets and of whom I had read in old books. -They were a democracy simple and austere, though a little given to -thieving, and every man was a master of his house and a citizen within -the State. This curious little place I determined to see, though the -approach to it was difficult. There are many such in Europe, but this -one lies peculiarly alone, and is respected, and I might say in a sense -worshipped, by the powerful Government to which it is nominally subject. - -Well, then, I went on up over the ridge and, by that common trick of -mountains, the great height and the very long way somehow missed me; it -grew dark before I was aware, and when I could have sworn I was about -four thousand feet up I was close upon eight thousand. I had hoped to -manage the Farther Valleys before nightfall, but when I found it was -impossible what I did was this: I scrambled down the first four or five -hundred feet of the far side before it was quite dark, until I came -to the beginnings of a stream that leapt from ledge to ledge. It was -not large enough to supply a cottage well, but it would do to camp -by, for all one needs is water, and there was a little brushwood to -burn. Next morning with the first of the light I went on my scramble -downwards--and it was the old story (which everyone who has wandered -in the great mountains of Europe knows so well), I was in the Wrong -Valley. I was used to that sort of thing, and I recognised the signs of -it at once. I made up my mind for a good day’s effort, which, when one -is by oneself, is an exasperating thing; I tried to guess from my map -what sort of error I had made (and failed). I knew that if I followed -running water I should come at last to men. At about three o’clock in -the afternoon I made a good meal of stale bread, wine, and my companion -the torrent, which had now grown to be a sort of river and made as much -noise as though it were a politician. Then I thought I would sleep -a little, and did so (you must excuse so many details, they are all -necessary). It was five when I rose and took up my journey again. I -shouldered the pack and stolidly determined that another night out in -these warmer lowlands would not hurt me, when I saw something which is -quite unmistakable upon the grass of those particular hills, a worn -patch, and another worn patch a yard or two ahead. That meant a road, -and a road means men--sooner or later. - -Sure enough, within half a mile, the worn patches having become now -almost continuous, I rounded a big rock and there was a group of huts. - -There were perhaps two dozen of them, perhaps more. Three-quarters were -built of great logs with large, very flat roofs over them held down by -stones; one quarter were built of the same rough stones, and there was -a tiny church of dirt colour, with two windows; and neither window had -glass in it. I had found men. And I had found something more. - -For as I went down the main street of this Polity (they had “Main -Street” stuck up in their language at the corner of the only possible -mud alley of their town) I saw that blessed sight which sings to the -heart and is one of the thirteen signs of civilisation, a barber’s -pole. It was not very good; it was not planed or polished; the bark was -still upon the chestnut wood of it; but there was a spiral of red round -it in the orthodox fashion, at the end of it a tuft of red wool, and -underneath it in very faded rough letters upon a board the words, “Here -it is barbered.” More was to follow. I confess that I desired to draw, -for beyond the little huts the mountains, once dreadful, now, being -so far above me, compelled my attention. But just as I had sat down -upon a great stone to draw their outline, there appeared through the -disgusting little door under the barber’s pole one of those humans whom -I have mentioned so often in these lines. - -He was about thirty, but he had never known care; his complexion -was pink and white, his eyes were lively, his brown hair was short, -curled, trimmed and oily, and some fifteen degrees from the middle of -his head to the eastward went a very clear white line which was the -parting of his hair. His two little moustaches curled upwards like -rams’ horns; his chin was square and firm, but very full and healthy. -He was looking out for customers. Oh, Humanity, my brothers, Divine -Object of the Positivists, Plaything of the Theologians, Food of the -God of War, Great of Destiny, Victim of Experience, Doubtful of Doom, -Foreknowing of Death, Humanity enslaved, exultant, always on the march, -never arriving, the only thing yet made that can laugh and can cry, -Humanity, in fine, which was generously designed as matter for poets, -hear! He was looking out for customers! Even to the railways of his own -land it was nearly a hundred miles; no one read print; beyond Latin no -foreign language perhaps was known. No vehicle on wheels had ever been -into that place, even the maps were wrong, no one therein had seen a -metalled road, a ship of any kind, nor perhaps one polished stone. But -he was looking out for customers. - -He spotted me. He used no subterfuge; he smiled and beckoned with his -finger, and I went at once, as men do when the Figure appears at the -Doorway of the Feast and beckons some one of the revellers into the -darkness. I obeyed. He put a towel round my neck; he lathered my chin; -I gazed at the ceiling, and he began to shave. - -On the ceiling was an advertisement in the English tongue. I am inured -by this time to the inconceivable stupidity of modern commerce, but (as -the Pwca said to the Acorn) “the like of this I never saw.” There most -certainly was not a man in the whole place who had ever heard of the -English language, nor, I will bet a boot, had anyone been there before -me who did, at any rate not since the pilgrimages stopped. Yet there -was this advertisement staring me in the face, and what it told me to -do was to buy a certain kind of bicycle. It gave no evidence in favour -of the thing. It asserted. It said that this bicycle was the best. -There was a picture of a young man riding on the bicycle, and under it -in very small letters in the language of the country an address where -such bicycles might be bought. The address was in a town as far away as -Bristol is from Hull, and between it was range upon range of mountains, -and never a road. - -I watched this advertisement, and the Barber all the while talked to me -of the things of this world. - -He would have it that I was a stranger. He mentioned the place--it -was about eighty miles away--from which I came. He said he knew it at -once by my accent and my hesitation over their tongue. He asked me -questions upon the politics of the place, and when I could not reply -he assured me that he meant no harm; he knew that politics were not -to be discussed among gentlemen. He recommended to me what barbers -always recommend, and I saw that his bottles were from the ends of the -earth--some French, some German, some American--at least their labels -were. Then when he had shaved me he very politely began to whistle a -tune. - -It was a music-hall tune. I had heard it first eighteen months before -in Glasgow, but it had come there from New York. It was already -beginning to be stale in London--it did not seem very new to the -Barber, for he whistled it with thorough knowledge, and he added trills -and voluntary passages of merit and originality. I asked him how much -there was to pay. He named so considerable a sum that I looked at him -doubtfully, but he still smiled, and I paid him. - -I asked him next how far it might be to the next village down the -valley. He said three hours. I went on, and found that he had spoken -the truth. - -In that next village I slept, and I went forward all the next day and -half the next before I came to what you would call a town. But all the -while the Barber remained in my mind. There are people like this all -over the world, even on the edges of eternity. How can one ever be -lonely? - - - - -On High Places - - -All over the world every kind of man has had for the high places of -his country, or for the high places that he has seen in travel (though -these last have made upon him a lesser impression), a sentiment closely -allied to religion and difficult to fit in with common words. It is -upon such sites that sacrifice upon special occasion has been offered. -It is here that you will find rare, unvisited, but very holy shrines -to-day, and even in its last and most degraded form the men of our -modern societies, who are atrophied in such things, spur themselves to -a special emotion by distant voyages in which they can satisfy this -adoration of a summit over a plain. It is not capable of analysis; but -how marvellously it fills the mind. It is not difficult to understand -that monk of the Dark Ages--to be accurate, of the early eleventh -century--who, having doubtless seen Paris a hundred times from the -height of Montmartre, could not believe that the martyrdom of St. Denis -had taken place on the plain. Something primal in him demanded the -high and lonely place as the scene of the foundation of the Church of -Lutetia, and he would have it that St. Denis was martyred there. All -the popular stories were with him, and the legend arose. Up and down -Europe, wherever there are hills, you will find upon conspicuous crags -or little peaks, upon the loneliest ridges, a chapel. There is one such -on a hill near Remiremont; there is another at Roncesvalles; there is -another on the high platform at Portofino; there is another on the -very height called Holy Cross above Urgel. In its way, St. Martha’s -in Surrey is of that kind. There are hundreds everywhere throughout -Christendom, and they witness to this need of man for which, I say, -there is no name. - -I have heard of a mountain in Ireland, in the west of that country, to -the summit of which upon a certain day of the year the people and the -priests will go together, and Mass will be said in the open air upon -that height. And so it is in several places of the Vosges and of the -Pyrenees, and in one or two, I believe, of the foothills of the Alps. -Everywhere men associate the exaltation of the high places with worship. - -It is to be noticed that where men cannot satisfy this emotion by -the spectacle of distant hills, or by the presence of nearer ones -which they can climb upon occasion, they remedy the defect either in -their architecture or with their trees. The people of Northern France -lacked height in their landscape, and in their forests the trees were -neither of the sort nor stature which commonly satisfy the need of -which I speak. Their architecture supplies it. It has reached its most -tremendous expression in Beauvais, its most stately in Flanders. No -man well understands what height can be in architecture unless he -has watched one of the great Flemish steeples from a vantage point -upon another. They are sufficiently amazing when you see them, as they -were meant to be seen, from the flat pastures outside the city walls. -But where most you can appreciate the way in which they make up the -impression of the Netherlands is from a platform such as that of Delft, -halfway up the tower just below the bells. You look out to an horizon -which is that of a misty sea, land absolutely level, and here and there -the line between earth and sky is cut by these shafts of human effort -whose purpose it is--and they achieve it--to give high places to a -plain. So also Strasburg stands up in that great river plain of which -it is the centre, and so Salisbury towers above the central upland of -South England. And so Chichester over the deep loam of the sea plain -of Sussex. You will further note that as you approach the mountains -this attempt grows less in human effort, and is replaced by something -else. At Bordeaux on the great flat sweep of the river, with the level -vineyards all round about, you have a mighty spire, sprung probably -from English effort and looking down the river as a landmark and a -feature in the sky. But close against the Pyrenees, nay when, two days’ -walking south of the city, you first begin to see those mountains, -height fails you in architecture. You have not got it at Dax, nor in -the splendid and deserted aisles of Auch, nor in the complicated detail -of St. Bertrand; nor is there any example of it in Perpignan; but at -Narbonne again, where what you have to look at are the flat approaches -of the sea, height comes in in a peculiar way; it is the height not -of towers, but of walls. It has been remarked by many that effect of -this kind is lacking in Italy; but in Italy, wherever you may be, you -have the mountains. South of the Sierra Guadarama there in no attempt -to diversify the line of the horizon in this fashion. There is nothing -in Madrid to which a man looks up in order to satisfy this need for -the high places, nor in the churches of the villages round about. -The millions spent upon the Escorial were spent with no such object; -but then, south of those mountains, the range stands up in a steep -escarpment and everywhere is master of the plain. To the North, where -they sink away more gradually and form no crest upon which the eye can -repose, at once man supplies for himself the uplifting of the face -which his soul must have, and the glorious vision of Segovia is proof -of it. The castle and the cathedral of that famous city are like a tall -ship riding out to sea; or they are like a man preaching from a rock -with uplifted hands; or they are like the miraculous appearance of some -divine messenger standing facing one above the steeps of the hill. - -It is so in all the places I can remember; it is so in the Valley of -the Ebro, where Saragossa raises a tall nave and the tall columns of -the Pilar, whereas, if you go northward and begin to see the hills -this feature fails. It is not apparent in Huesca; Jaca, right under the -High Pyrenees, has none of it. I can remember exceptions; one place, -among the most famous in Europe, which was built for a mountain kingdom -and under the influence of mountaineers, though it stands in a plain. -And that is Brou, which seems to be made for mountains rather than -for the plain. And there are many modern errors in the matter due to -the copying of some style pedantically and to the absence of native -inspiration. The chief of these is Lourdes, whose hideous basilica -ought never to have attempted height in the midst of those solemn -hills. But the history of man when he is dealing with his shrines is a -history of perpetual betterment, and some day Lourdes will be replaced -by a much worthier thing. The crypt is already excellent, and many -good changes in European building have begun with the crypt. There -are errors, I say, of this sort due to the modern divorce between -personality and production, and there are accidents, though rare, like -that of Brou, where a mountain building is set in a plain, though -hardly ever a building of the plains in the mountains. But for the -most part, and taking Europe as a whole, the rule holds good. Consider -the church called L’Epine. It is not high, but every line of it is -designed to give the effect of height, and the farther you are from it -the more it seems to soar, and the greyer it gets the more finely is it -drawn upwards. It stands in the roll of those vast Catalaunian plains -where twice the fate of Europe has been decided; where first Attila -was rolled backwards, and where more than a thousand years after the -armies destined to destroy the Revolution failed. It is the mark and -the centre of that plain. But as you get towards the Mountain of Rheims -on the north, the Argonne upon the east, the note of height in stone is -withdrawn. The Argonne is low, the Mountain of Rheims, though high and -noble, is hardly a true mountain, but each uplifts the face. - -Among the many misfortunes of men confined to this island, in the great -cities of it, it may be counted a good fortune that they have, more -than most men bound by modern industry, the opportunity of the high -places. Lancashire especially has them at its doors, and anyone who -will talk much to Lancashire folk will find how greatly the presence of -the moors still enters into their lives. Notably is this true of the -Peak just to the east of the great industrial plain, and the sense of -height and the satisfaction of it is perhaps nowhere more splendidly -met than by the spectacle of that plain beneath a winter sunset as one -sees it from the height of the road above Glossop, if it be a Sunday -evening when the smoke is not dense, because for twenty-four hours the -factories have been silent. The smoke then hangs in wreaths like light -clouds against the sunset and one perceives in a very marvellous and -sudden fashion beneath one the life of industrial England. It is an -aspect of the country not easily forgotten. And everywhere Englishmen -have presented to them this effect of height within a smaller compass -than the men of other European nations. For in the other nations men -are either of the mountains or of the plains. But here the isolated and -numerous masses of old rocks in Wales, in Cumberland, and just north -of the Midlands, and the sharp escarpments of the five ranges of the -chalk that radiate from Salisbury Plain, and the isolated ridge of the -Malverns, and the wall of the Cotswolds over the Vale of Severn, make -it so that nearly all those who live on this island, and especially -those who live in the busiest part of it, have their line of hills -before them. East Anglia and the Fens are an exception, and much of the -Valley of the Thames as well. And here comes in the lack of London. -London has no high places. It is the chief misfortune in the aspect -of the city. It was not always so. Popular instinct was very powerful -here. Since the Surrey hills had not their escarpment turned towards -the Thames, and since looking nowhere round could the Londoner get -height, he made it for himself, and the Gothic London of the Middle -Ages was a mass of spires, chief and glorious above which was the -highest spire in all Europe, higher than Strasburg and higher than -Cologne, old St. Paul’s. It stood up on its hill above the river, and -gave unity to all that scheme of spires below. Neglect began the ruin, -the Great Fire did the rest, and height in London has disappeared. The -tall houses and narrow gorges of streets that are the characteristic -of Paris and of Edinburgh are unknown to London. Here and there the -sense of which I speak is satisfied. Coming up Ludgate Hill, for -instance, and seeing the mass of St. Paul’s above it, or in one place -where, as you come out of a narrow Westminster street, the upshooting -of the repetitive lines of Victoria Tower suddenly strike you. But as -a whole height is lacking here. Nor in so vast a place, now fixed in -certain traditions, can it be supplied. It is a pity. - - - - -On Some Little Horses - - -All the upland was full of little horses, little ponies of the upland. -They looked with curious and interested eyes at man, but none of them -had known his command. When men passed them riding they saw that there -was some alliance between men and their brothers, and they asked news -of it. Then they bent their heads down again soberly, to graze on the -new pasture, and the wind blew through their manes and their tails; -they were happy beasts, thinking of nothing, and knowing nothing but -themselves, yet in their movements and the look of their eyes one could -see what the skies were round them, and what the world--they were so -much a part of it all. - -In the hollows of the forest there were not many birds, not nearly as -many as one had heard in the Weald, but one great hawk circled up in -spirals against the wind. The wind was blowing splendidly through an -air quite blue and clear for many miles, and growing clearer as the -afternoon advanced in gladness. It was a sea wind that had been a gale -the day before, but during the night everything had changed in South -England, and the principal date of the year was passed, the date which -is the true beginning of the year. The mist of the morning had scudded -before thick Atlantic weather; by noon it was lifted into clouds, by -mid-afternoon those clouds were large, heralding clouds of Spring -against an unbounded capacity of sky. There was no longer any struggle -between them and the gale; they went together in procession over the -country and towards the east. - -The ridges of the land, like great waves, rolled in also from the -westward; they were clearer and they were sharper with every hour, -until at last the points of white chalk pits upon hills a day’s ride -away showed clearly under the sunlight, and a man could see the trees -even upon the horizon line. - -The water that one passed in the long ride seemed to grow clearer, -and the woods to have more echoes. Then, whatever in the mind turned -to memory, as the mind of all men does in Spring when they have done -with their own springtime, turned to memory transformed and was full -of visions; and whatever of the mind turned to the future, as most of -the mind must do in men of any age when the vigour of the Almighty is -abroad, looked at it through a veil which was magical. - -It seemed as though under the growing sunlight the change that had -come, the touch, the spell, was a thing appreciable in moments of time -and growing as one watched. You would have said that all the forest -was wakening. The flowers you would have said, and especially the -daffodils, had just broken from the bud, and evergreens that had been -in leaf all winter you would have said had somehow put on a new green. -The movement of the wind in the branches of the beeches did not seem to -move them but to find a movement responding to its own, and the colour -of those branches against the blue sky and touched by the sun as it -grew low was full of vivid promise. If it be not too much to ascribe a -mood to all inanimate and animate things, there was a mood about one -which was a complete forgetfulness of decay, a sort of trampling upon -it, a rising out of it, and a using of it into life: a using of it up -into life. - -Over three ridges of land to the southward lay the sea. When the sea is -in movement before a clear wind that is not a storm, and under a clear, -sharp sky, its movement may be perceived for miles and miles. No one -can see the waves, but the distant belt is shot with a pattern which -one feels so far as the eye commands it, and that belt is alive, and it -is a moving thing. Moreover, the high sea downs, the great chalk lifts -of that shore of the world, are different on such days from what they -are upon any others, and receive life from the sea that made them. All -that world upon that morning you would have said was not only receiving -gifts from the sea, but was itself apparently born from the sea, lived -by the air of it, and had been engendered in the depths of it before -ever men were on earth. - -And of the sea also were the little horses. - -When the Spring took them they would suddenly gallop forward without -any purpose beyond their wanton pleasure, and arch their necks towards -the ground, and bound as a wave bounds; or they would go together, -first one starting, then a comrade, then half a dozen of the herd, with -a short but easy gait which exactly recalled the movement of salt water -under the call of the wind: the movement of salt water where the deeps -are, following and following and following, before it rises to break -upon the shallows, or to turn back on its course along the eddies of -hidden streams. - -Anyone seeing the little horses was ready to believe that they had come -from the Channel and not from the land at all, but that divine mares -had bred them which moved over the tops of the waves, and that their -sires flew invisibly along with the south-west wind. The heather bent -a little beneath their rapid raids, and when they swerved, halted, and -lifted up their heads to let the breeze blow out their manes, then they -became, even more thoroughly than before, things of the Channel and of -the bowling air. They were full of gladness. - -The little horses did not know that they were owned by men; and if now -and then men gave them food in the cold weather, or now and then saw to -the housing of them, or now and then marked them with a mark, a short, -forgotten pain, all these things they took like any other brief and -passing accidents of fate. It was not man that had made their home, -nor man that ordered the things they saw and used. They had not in -anything about them that look which animals have when they have learned -that man is of all things upon earth the fullest of sorrow, nor that -which beasts have, when they have seen in man, without understanding -it, what a principal poet has called “the hideous secret of his -mirth”--though “hideous” is an unfair word, for the secret sorrow of -man is closely allied with something Divine in his destiny. Such beasts -as are continually the companions of our souls and of whom another -poet has said that they are “subject and dear to man,” take from him -invariably something of his foreknowledge of death. And you may see in -the patient oxen of the mountains and even in the herded sheep of the -Downs something of man’s burden as they take their lives along. But -most you will see what price is paid by those who accompany us when -you watch dogs and find that, apart from the body, they can suffer, as -we can suffer, and sometimes suffer to the death. So dogs that have -known men know loneliness also, and make, as men make, for distant -lights at night, and are not happy without living homes. Two things -only they have not, which are speech and laughter. And those animals -which men deal with continually come also into an easy or an uneasy -subservience to him, and you may note their hesitation where there is -an unaccustomed duty, and you may note their beginnings of panic when -men are not there to decide some difficult thing for them. - -These little horses of which I write had as yet known none of these -things, and anyone who looked at them closely could see what it was -that the saints meant by “innocence in Nature.” There was no evil in -them at all, and the good that was in them was a simple good, of the -earth and of the place in which they lived. There, away northward, it -was the Downs; eastward and westward, the Forest; southward, under -the sunlight, the Sea. That was all the little horses knew; and the -man who in such a place and at that moment in the springtime could -remember nothing more was very much more blessed than any other of his -kind. But later he must remember Acheron; and what he will bear beyond -Acheron--the consequence of things done. - -Not so the Little Horses. - - - - -On Streams and Rivers - - -There is a pass called the Bon Agua, and also Bon Aigo, which leads -from the heights of the Catalans to those other heights of Aragon, -or as some would say of Bearn, for the pass is from the south of the -mountains to the north; on the northern side one knows why it is called -Bon Agua, because one sees many thousands of feet below one the little -bracelet, the little chain, of the young Garonne. - -Do not mistake me, there are two sources of the Garonne. That which is -most famous does the most famous thing; for it rises on the far side -of the mountains and it plunges into a pond, quite a little pond. Then -it cascades underground, through dark passages of which no one knows -anything, and comes out beyond the main chain of the hills to join its -other quieter sister from the Bon Agua. This startling source, I say, -is the most famous, because it does the most startling things, though -not more wonderful than what a Yorkshire river does, for there is a -Yorkshire river in the West Riding which runs into the pond called -Mallam Tarn and reappears afterwards beyond a rocky ridge; but this -Garonne of which I speak goes right under high and silent mountains -where there are no men, and this is a feat performed, I think, by no -other river, not even by the Rhone, which also is lost for the time -underground (though few people know it), nor by the River Mole, which -plays at being lost and never quite is, and certainly has not the -courage to attempt the tunnelling of any hill, though it is proud to be -called the “snouzling Mole,” which, by the way, it was first called in -the year 1903--but I digress, and I must return to the Bon Agua. - -Well, then, there I say under the Bon Agua runs the quieter of the two -streams which unite in the Val D’Aran to form the Garonne, and there -it was that a companion of mine seeing that little stream looked at it -with profound sadness, and said--the things which shall be the text of -what I have to say here. For he said: - -“Poor little Garonne! Innocent and lovely little Garonne! I have never -seen a stream so small, nor so pure, nor so young, nor so far from men. -But you are on your way to things you do not know. For first of all -you will join that boasting sister of yours which has come from under -the hills, and can talk of nothing else; and then you will go past the -King’s Bridge being no longer among kind and silent Spaniards, and you -will have entered the territory of the Republic which is fierce and -evil, and you will grow greater and wider and not more happy until you -will come to the perfectly detestable town of Toulouse.... Thence after -you will have no pleasure, but only a certain grandeur to be passing -through the Gascon fields, and all your desire will be for the sea in -which at last you shall merge and be lost. And so strong will be your -desire for that dissolution that you will be willing to mix your name -with another name, to marry the Dordogne, and then you will die and you -will be glad of it.” - -This is the way my friend spoke to the Garonne when he saw it first -rising in the hills. He did not sing it as he might have sung it, the -song it best likes to hear, which is called, “Had the Garonne but -wished!” Nor did he try to console it with any flap-doodle about the -common lot of rivers, knowing well that some rivers were happier and -some less happy. But he spoke to the Garonne as to something that could -hear and know. Now this is what men have always done to rivers. - -It is in this way that rivers have acquired names, not only among men -but among gods; and it is in this way that they convey a fate to the -countrysides of which they are the souls. - -There is no country of which this is more true than it is true of -England. Englishmen of this time--or at least of the time just -past--perpetually and rightly complained that somehow or other they -missed themselves. Some took refuge in a dream of a sort of a mystical -England which was not there. Others reposed in the idea of an older -England which may once have been; others, more foolish, hoped to find -England again in something overseas. None of these would have suffered -their error had they learnt England down English waters, seeing the -great memories of England reflected in the English rivers, and meeting -them in the silence and the perfection of the streams. But our roads -first, and then our railways, our commerce which is from ports, and -which must go direct towards them, our life, which is now in vast -cities independent of streams, has made us neglect these things. - -Consider such a list as this: Arundel when you see it as you come up -Arun on the full flood tide. Chichester as you see it on the flood tide -from Chichester harbour. Durham as you see it coming down under that -cliff with the Cathedral as massive as the rock. Chester as you see it, -sailing up the Dee with a light north wind from the sea. Gloucester -as you see it from the Severn. Or Winchester as you pull, if you can -pull, or paddle which is easier, against the clear and violent thrust -of the Itchin. Canterbury as you see it from above or from below, upon -the easy water of the Stour; and Lincoln as you see it from its little -ditch--and I wonder how many men now journey up in any fashion from -Boston! So Norwich from the Yare. So Bramber for that matter from a -place where the Adur grows narrow; and what a sight Bramber must have -been when the Castle stood whole upon the hill, physically blocking the -advance into the Weald. - -There is only one stream left, the Thames, which we still know, -and we very rightly know it; but we love it only for giving us one -experience which we might, if we chose, repeat up and down England -everywhere. There is no country in the world like this for rivers. The -tide pushes up them to the very Midlands, from every sea. There is -nothing of the history of England but is on a river, and as England is -an island of birds, so is it more truly an island of rivers. Consider -the River Eden, which is so difficult to descend; the Wiltshire Avon -and the Hampshire Avon, and those little branch streams the Thame, the -Cherwell, and the Evenlode. - -Best of all, I think, as a memory or an experience is the Ouse, which -runs from Bedford to the Wash, and has upon it the astonishing monument -of Ely. Here is a river which no one can descend without feeling as -he descends it the change of English provinces from the Midlands to -the sea. He should start at Bedford; then he will pass through fields -where tall elms give to the plains something more than could be given -them by distant hills. The river runs between banks of deep grass -in summer. It is contented everywhere; and as you go you are in the -middle of a thousand years. You pass villages that have not changed; -you carry your boat over weirs where there are mills, always shaded by -large trees. Once in a day, at the most, you find an unchanging town: -Huntingdon is such an one, or St. Ives, where I do believe the people -are kinder than in any other town. Then, as you still go on, the land -takes on another character. You begin to know that England is not only -rich and full of fields but also was made by the sea. For you come to -great flats--and that rather suddenly--where, as at sea, the sky is -your contemplation. You notice the light, the colour, and the shapes -of clouds. The birds that wheel and scream over these spaces seem to -be sea birds. You expect at any moment to hear beyond the dead line of -the horizon the sound of surf and to see the glint of live water. Above -such a waste rises, on what is called “an island,” and is in truth “an -island,” the superb strength of Ely. - -No one has seen Ely who has not seen it from the Ouse. It is a hill -upon a hill, and now permanently present in the midst of loneliness. It -is something made with a framework all around of accidental marsh and -emptiness. Thenceafter the Ouse goes on. You get through and down the -deep step of a lock, and beyond it is the salt water and busy energy -that comes and goes from the sea. Very deep banks, alive with the salt -and the swirl of the tide, shut in the boat for miles, and there are -very high bridges uniting village to village above one, till at last -the whole thing broadens, and one sees under the sunlight the roofs and -the spars of King’s Lynn; and, if one has no misadventure, one ends the -journey at some narrow quay at a narrow lane of that delightful port -and town. - -There is one English river out of at least thirty others. I wish that -all were known! That journey down the Ouse is three days’ journey--but -it is such a slice of time and character and history as teaches you -most you need know upon this Island. Only I warn anyone attempting it, -let the boat be light and let it be shallow, and be ready to sleep in -it; it is only thus that you can know an English river, and if you can -draw, why it will be a greater pleasure. It is very cheap. - - - - -On Two Manuals - - -Flaubert, I believe, designed once to publish a Dictionary of Errors, -and would actually have set about it had he not found the subject -growing much too vast for any human pen. He also designed a reference -book, or rather anthology, of follies, stupidities, rash judgments, and -absurdities, but never lived to complete this great task. Now, reading -this, I have wondered whether two little books might not be written -which should prove useful severally to the undergraduate and to the -politician. I do not say to the schoolboy, for no book yet written -ever was or ever will be useful to him. But for the undergraduate a -useful book might be written which I shall presently describe, and -which would make a sort of foundation for all his studies. So also for -the politician a second book might be written which should be of the -greatest service. Let me now describe these two books. Perhaps among -those who read this there will be so many men of leisure and learning -as can in combination give the world the volumes I imagine. - -The first book should be called “Modern Thought,” and in this, without -praise or blame and without any wandering into metaphysics or religion, -the young fellow should be plainly taught to distinguish the certain -from the uncertain. I know of nothing in which academic training just -now is more at fault. That training seems to consist in two branches. -First, the setting down of a very great number of things each equally -certain with the last and all forming together one huge amorphic body -or lump of assertion; second, a whole sheaf of theories, the whole fun -of which consists in the fact that no one of them can positively be -proved but that all are guesswork. These theories change from year to -year, and while they are defended with a passion astonishing to those -who live in a larger world, there is no pretence that they are true. -The whole business of them is quite obviously a game. Consider, for -instance, history. A lad is taught that William the Conqueror won at -Hastings in 1066; that the opinion of the English people was behind -the little wealthy clique that put an end to the Stuarts; that London -heartily sympathised with the seven Bishops; that all Parliamentary -institutions grew up on the soil of this island in the thirteenth -century from Saxon origins; and that four people called Hengist, and -Horsa, and Aella, and Cerdic led a great number of Germans to various -points of this Island, killed the people living there and put the -Germans in their stead. Now of these assertions, all of which he is to -receive with equal certitude, all dogmatically affirmed, all taught to -him as brute bits of truth--some, as that about Hastings, are rigidly -true; some, such as the attitude of London towards the seven Bishops, -are morally certain (though hardly capable of definite proof); some, -as the weight of public opinion behind the Whigs, debatable though -probable; some, like the Hengist and Horsa business, almost certainly -mere legends--and so forth. It is to be noted that, if you are to teach -at all, you must always have in your teaching some admixture of this -error. No one can exactly balance the degree of probability attaching -to each separate statement; there is no time to array all the evidence, -and if there were, the mind of the student could not carry it. Each -teacher, moreover, will have a scheme of values somewhat different from -his neighbour’s; but even if some admixture of the error I speak of be -necessary, at least let the student be warned that it exists. For if he -is not so warned one of two things will happen: either he will believe -all he is told, with the most appalling results to himself, and, should -he later become powerful, to the whole nation (we are seeing something -of that in economics to-day), or he will (as the cleverer undergraduate -usually does) become sceptical of all he hears; he will begin to -wonder, having once found his teacher out in, let us say, the absurdity -of pretending that Parliamentary institutions were peculiar to Britain, -whether the Battle of Hastings were really fought in 1066 or no. -When he has discovered, as any boy of education, travel, and common -sense will discover, that the Normans were not Scandinavians, but -Frenchmen, he will be led to reason that perhaps William the Conqueror -never existed at all. This mood of universal scepticism is even more -dangerous than that of bovine assurance, more dangerous to character, -that is, and more dissolving of national strength. - -As with the assertions so with the theories. There was a theory, for -instance, that a tenure of land existed in ancient England by which -this land was the common property of all, and was called the land -of the “folk.” Then this theory burst, and another theory swelled, -which was that the “folk land” meant the land held by customary -right as distinguished from land held by charter. Again, there was a -theory that an original Saxon tendency to breed large landowners had -gradually prevailed over feudal tenure. This theory burst, and another -theory swelled, which was that the large units of land grew up by an -accidental interpretation of Roman law. - -In the book I propose all these theories could be very simply dealt -with. The student should be warned that they are theories, and theories -only, that their whole point and value is that they are not susceptible -to positive proof; that what makes them amusing and interesting is the -certitude that one can go on having a good quarrel about them, and the -inner faith that when one is tired of them one can drop them without -regret. Older men know this, but young men often do not, and they will -take a theory in the Academies and make a friend of it, and at last, as -it were, another self, and clasp it close to their souls and intertwine -themselves with it, only to find towards thirty that they have been -hugging a shade. - -So much, then, for this first book. It would not need to be more than -a little pocket volume of fifty or sixty pages, and a young man should -have it to refer to at any moment of his studies. One of its maxims -would be to look up the original evidence upon which anything he was -told was based. Another rule he would find in it would be to underline -all such words as “seems,” “probably,” and so forth, and watch in his -books the way in which they gradually turn, as the argument proceeds, -into “is” and “certainly.” He would also be warned before reading the -work of any authority to remember that that authority was a human -being, to look up his biography, if possible to meet him personally, -to find out what general knowledge he had and what impression he made -upon the casual man that met him. How many men have written histories -of a campaign and yet have been proved at a dinner-table ignorant of -the range of artillery during their period! How many men have learnedly -criticised the style of Rousseau upon a knowledge of French very much -inferior to that of most governesses! I at Oxford knew a don who -exposed and ridiculed the legend of the Girondins, but throughout his -remarks pronounced their title with a hard _g_. - -As for the politicians, their little guide-book through life should -be of another sort. In this the first and most valuable part would -deal with political judgment and prophecy. The utmost care would be -taken by the author to show how valueless is any determination of the -future, and how crass the mind which predicts with confidence. Since so -very few men happen to have made lucky shots, it would be the peculiar -care of the author in a loving manner to collect all the follies and -misjudgments which these same men had made upon other grave matters. -And, in general, the reader would be left very certain that every -pompous prophecy he heard was a piece of folly. Next in the book would -come examples of all that political men have said and done which they -most particularly desired to have forgotten. This would serve a twofold -purpose, for first it would amuse and instruct the politician as he -read it, since the misfortunes of others are delightful to human kind, -and, secondly, it would show him that he could not himself trust to -the effect of time, and that his natural desire to turn his coat or to -pretend to some policy he did not understand would at last be judged as -it deserved. In the third and final portion of the book the politician -would be given a list of interesting truths, with regard to the matter -of his trade. It would be proved to him in a few sentences that his -decisions depend upon various difficult branches of study, and by a few -suggested questions he would be convinced of his ignorance therein. The -shortness of human life would be insisted upon, with examples showing -how a man having painfully reached power was stricken with paralysis -or died in torment. The ludicrous miscarriage of great plans would be -laid before him, and, better still, the proof that the most successful -adventures had proceeded almost entirely from chance, and surprised no -one more than their authors. - -At the end of the book would be a certain number of coupons permitting -the reader to travel to many places which politicians commonly ignore, -and there would be a list of the sights that he should see. As, for -instance, the troops of such and such a nation upon the march, the -artillery of such another at firing practice, and the opinion expressed -by the populace in taverns in such and such a town. Then at the end -would come a number of common phrases such as _cui bono_, _persona -grata_, _toujours perdrix_, _double entendre_, _sturm und drang_, etc., -with their English equivalents, if any, and their approximate meaning, -when they possess a meaning. Upon the last page would be a list of -the duties of a Christian man and a short guide to general conduct in -conversation with the rich. - -Armed with these manuals, the youth and manhood of a nation would at -once and vastly change. You would find young men recently proceeded -from the University filled with laudable doubts arising from the -vastness of God’s scheme, and yet modestly secure in certain essential -truths such as their own existence and that of an objective universe, -the voice of conscience, and the difference between right and wrong. -While among those of more mature years, who were controlling the -energies of the State, there would appear an exact observance of real -things, an admitted inability to know what would happen fifty or even -twenty years hence, and a habit of using plain language which they and -their audience could easily understand; of using such language tersely, -and occasionally with conviction. - -But this revolution will not take place. The two books of which I speak -will not be written. And if anyone doubts this, let him sit down and -try to frame the scheme of one, and he will soon see that it is beyond -any man’s power. - - - - -On Fantastic Books - - -There has fallen upon criticism since perhaps a century ago, and with -increasing weight, a sort of gravity which is in great danger of -becoming tomfoolery at last: as all gravity is in danger of becoming. - -No one dares to discuss all that lighter thing which is the penumbra -of letters, and, what is more, no man of letters dares to whisper -that letters themselves are not often much more than a pastime to the -reader, and are only very rarely upon a level with good and serious -speculation: never upon a level with philosophy: still less upon a -level with religion. It is perhaps even a mark of the eclipse of -religion when any department of mere intellectual effort can raise -itself as high as literature has raised itself in its own eyes; and -since all expression now (or nearly all) is through the pen literature -thus suffering from pride can impose its pride upon the world. - -Two things alone correct this pride: first, that those who practise -the trade of literature starve if they are austere or run into debt if -they are not; secondly, that now and then one of the inner circle gives -the thing away--for instance, Mr. Andrew Lang in his excellent and -never-to-be-forgotten remarks delivered only last year at the dinner of -the Royal Literary Fund. This Member of our Union said (with how much -truth!) that the writers of stories should remember they were writers -of stories and not teachers and preachers. And the same might be said -to others of the Craft. If a man has had granted to him by the Higher -Powers a jolly little lyric, why, that is a jolly little lyric. He -should bow and scrape to those who gave it to him and hand it on to -his fellow-men for a dollar. But it does not make him a god, and if it -gives him so much as a swelled head it makes him intolerably wearisome. -More tolerable are the victors of campaigns discussing at table their -successes in the field than poets who forget their Muse: for to their -Muse alone, or to those who sent her, do they owe what they are, as -may very clearly be seen in the case of those whose Muse has deserted -them and flown again up to her native heaven; nor is any case more -distressing than that of ----. - -All of which leads me to the Fantastic Books. One, two, a dozen at the -most, in all the history of the world have ranked with the greatest. -Rabelais is upon the summit, and the _Sentimental Journey_ will live -for some hundreds of years, but how many others are there which men -remember? There is a sort of conspiracy against them led by the few -intelligent vicious in league with the numerous and virtuous fools; -and thus the salt of the Fantastic Books, which is as good as the salt -of the sea, is lost to the most of mankind. - -Men sit in front of the writers of Fantastic Books fair and squarely -with their hands on their knees, their eyes set, their mouths glum, -their souls determined, and say: - -“Come now, Fantastic Book, are you serious or are you not serious?” - -And when the Fantastic Book answers “I am both.” - -Then the man gets up with a sigh and concludes that it is neither. Yet -the Fantastic Book was right, and if people were only wise they would -salt all their libraries with Fantastic Books. - -Note that the Fantastic Books are not of necessity jocose books or -ribald books, nor even extravagant books. If I had meant to write about -extravagant books, _quâ_ extravagant, you may be certain I should have -chosen that word. Rabelais is extravagant and so is Sterne, but not -on account of their extravagance are they fantastic. The note of the -Fantastic Book is an easy escape from the world. It is not imagination, -though imagination is a necessary spring to it: it is that faculty by -which the mind travels, as it reads, whether through space or through -time or through _quality_. A book is a Fantastic Book, though time and -space be commonplace enough, though the time be to-day and the place -Camberwell, if only the mind perpetually travels, seeing one after -another unexpected things in the consequence of human action or in the -juxtaposition of emotions. - -There is a category of Fantastic Books most delightful, and never to -my thinking overdone, which deals with journeys to worlds beyond the -earth. I confess that I care nothing whether they are well written -or ill written; so long as they are written in any language that I -can understand I will read them; and to day as I write I have before -me a notable collection of such, every one of which I have read over -and over again. I remember one called the _Anglo-Saxon Conquest of -the Solar System_ or words to that effect; another of a noble kind, -called _Thuka of the Moon_. I only mention the two together by way -of contrast; and I remember one in which somebody or other went to -Mars and went mad, but I forget the title. Be they as well written -as the _First Men in the Moon_, which is or will be a classic, or as -ill written as a book which I may not mention because there is a law -forbidding any one to tell unpleasant truths, so long as they concern -voyages to the Planets they are worth reading. - -Then, also, there is the future. The _Time Machine_ is, perhaps, the -chief of them; but writers who travel into the future, good or bad, are -all delightful. - -You may say that they are also always a little boring because they -always try to teach a lesson or to prophesy. That is true, but when -you have comforted yourself with the firm conviction that prophecies -of this kind are invariably and wildly wrong the disturbance which -they cause in your mind will disappear. I have among my most treasured -books one of the early nineteenth century, called _Revelations of the -Dead Alive_, in which the end of our age and its opinions upon _that_ -age are presented, and it is all wrong! But it is very entertaining -all the same. Most ridiculous but not least entertaining of such books -are the Socialist books, the books showing humanity in the future all -Socialist and going on like sticks. There is, indeed, another type of -mournful Socialist book much more real and much more troubling, in -which Socialism has failed, and the mass of men go on like slaves; but -no matter. A prophecy (when it is scientific) is always and invariably -absolutely and totally wrong:--and a great comfort it is to remember -_that_! - -Yet another sort of Fantastic Book is your Journey to Hell or to -Heaven. There is one I have read and re-read. It is called _The Outer -Darkness_. I shall never cease to read it. It is a journey to a sort -of Hell, and these are as a rule more entertaining than the Heavenly -journey, though why I cannot tell. Does the same hold true of Dante? - -Lastly, and much the most rare and much the most valued of all are the -books which are fantastic, though they cling to the present and to -things known. In these I would include imaginary people in the Islands -and in the Arctic, and even those which introduce half-rational beasts, -for such books depend for their character not upon the matter of the -fantasy, but upon the manner. There is a book called _Ninety North_, -for instance, which is all about a race of people at the North Pole, -but the power of the book resides not in the distance of the scene, but -in the vision of the writer and in the little irony that trickles down -every page. - -Who collects them or preserves them--the Fantastic Books? No one, I -think. They are not catalogued under a separate Heading. They puzzle -the writers of Indices; they bewilder Librarians. They must be grouted -out of the mass of rubbish as Pigs in the Perigord grout out truffles. -There is no other way. - -Also, in the Perigord, truffles are hunted with Hounds. - - - - -The Unfortunate Man - - -To all those who doubt the power of chance in human affairs; to all -Stoics, Empiricists, Monists, Determinists, and all men whatsoever that -terminate in this fashion, Greeting: Read what follows: - -There was a man I used to know whose business it was to succeed in -life, and who had made a profession of this from the age of nineteen. -His father had left him a fortune of about £600 a year, which he still -possesses, but, with that exception, he has been made by the gods a -sort of puffball for their amusement, the sort of thing they throw -about the room. It was before his father’s death that a determination -was taken to make him the land agent at the house of a cousin, who -would give him a good salary, and it was arranged, as is the custom in -that trade, that he should do nothing in return but dine, smoke, and -ride about. The next step was easy. He would be put into Parliament, -and then, by quiet, effective speaking and continual voting, he would -become a statesman, and so grow more and more famous, and succeed more -and more, and marry into the fringes of one of the great families, and -then die. - -To this happy prospect was his future turned when he set out, not upon -the old mare but upon the new Arab which his father had foolishly -bought as an experiment, to visit his cousin’s home and to make -the last arrangements. And note in what follows that every step in -the success-business came off, and yet somehow the sum total was -disappointing, and at the present moment one can very definitely say -that he has not succeeded. - -He set out, I say, upon the new Arab, going gently along the sunken -road that leads to the Downs, when a man carrying a faggot at the end -of a pitchfork seemed to that stupid beast a preternatural apparition, -and it shied forward and sideways like a knight’s move, so that the -Unfortunate Man fell off heavily and hurt himself dreadfully. When the -Arab had done this it stood with its beautiful tail arched out, and -its beautiful neck arched also, looking most pitifully at its fallen -rider, and with a sadness in its eye like that of the horse in the -Heliodorus. The Unfortunate Man got on again, feeling but a slight pain -in the right shoulder. But what I would particularly have you know is -this: that the pain has never wholly disappeared, and is perhaps a -little worse now after twenty years than it has been at any previous -time. Moreover, he has spent quite £350 in trying to have it cured, and -he has gone to foreign watering-places, and has learnt all manner of -names, how that according to one man it is rheumatism, and according -to another it is suppressed gout, and according to another a lesion. -But the point to him is the pain, and this endures. - -Well, then, he rode over the Down and came out through the Combe to his -cousin’s house. The gate out of the field into the park was shut, and -as he leaned over to open it he dropped his crop. I am ashamed to say -that--it was the only act of the kind in his career, but men who desire -to succeed ought not to act in this fashion--he did not get down to -pick it up because he was afraid that if he did he might not be able to -get on to the horse again. With infinite trouble, leaning right down -over the horse’s neck, he managed to open the gate with his hands, but -in doing so he burst his collar, and he had to keep it more or less in -place by putting down his chin in a ridiculous and affected attitude. -His hopes of making a fine entry at a pretty ambling trot, that perhaps -his cousin would be watching from the window, were already sufficiently -spoilt by the necessity he was under of keeping his collar thus, when -the accursed animal bolted, and with the speed of lightning passed -directly in front of a little lawn where his cousin, his cousin’s wife, -and their little child were seated admiring the summer’s day. It was -not until the horse had taken him nearly half a mile away that he got -him right again, and so returned hot, dishevelled, and very miserable. - -But they received him kindly, and his cousin’s wife, who was a most -motherly woman, put him as best she could at his ease. She even got him -another collar, knowing how terrible is the state of the soul when the -collar is burst in company. And he sat down with them to make friends -and discuss the future. He had always heard that among the chief -avenues to success is to play with and be kind to the children of the -Great, so he smiled in a winning manner at his cousin’s little boy, -and stretching out his arms took the child playfully by the hand. A -piercing scream and a sharp kick upon the shin simultaneously informed -him that he had fallen into yet another misfortune, and the boy’s -mother, though she was kindness itself, was startled into speaking -to him very sharply, and telling him that the poor lad suffered from -a deeply cut finger which was then but slowly healing. He made his -apologies in a nervous but sincere manner, and in doing so was awkward -enough to upset the little table which they had carried out upon the -lawn, and upon which had been set the cups and saucers for tea. The -whole thing was exceedingly annoying. - -In this way did the Unfortunate Man enter the great arena of modern -political life. - -You must not imagine that he failed to obtain the sinecure which his -father had sent him to secure. As I have already said, the failure of -the Unfortunate Man was not a failure in major plans but in details. -There may have been some to whom his career appeared enviable or -even glorious, but Fate always watched him in a merry mood, and he -was destined to suffer an interior misery which never failed to be -sharpened and enlivened by the innumerable accidents of life. - -He obtained for his cousin from the North of Scotland a man of sterling -capacity, whose methods of agriculture had more than doubled the income -of a previous employer; but as luck would have it this fellow, whose -knowledge of farming was quite amazing, was not honest, and after -some few months he had absconded with a considerable sum of money. A -well which he had advised to be dug failed to find water for some two -hundred feet, and then after all that expense fell in. He lamed one of -his cousin’s best horses by no fault of his own; the animal trod upon -a hidden spike of wood and had to be shot; and in doing his duty by -upbraiding a very frousty old man who was plunging about recklessly -just where a lot of she (or hen) pheasants were sitting on their eggs -he mortally offended the chief landowner of the neighbourhood, who -was none other than the frousty old man himself, and who was tramping -across the brushwood to see his cousin upon most important matters. -It was therefore in a condition of despair that his cousin finally -financed him for Parliament. The constituency which he bought after -some negotiations was a corrupt seaport upon the coast of Rutlandshire -(here is no libel!). He was at first assured that there would be no -opposition, and acting upon this assurance took the one brief holiday -which he had allowed himself for five years. The doctor, who was -anxious about his nerves, recommended a sea voyage of a week upon a -ship without wireless apparatus. He landed in Jamaica to receive a -telegram which informed him that a local gentleman of vast influence, -eccentric, and the chief landowner in the constituency, had determined -to run against him, and which implored him to cable a considerable sum -of money, though no such sum was at his disposal. - -In the earthquake the next day he luckily escaped from bodily injury, -but his nerves were terribly shaken. Thenceforward he suffered from -little tricks of grimace which were to him infinitely painful, but to -others always a source of secret, sometimes of open, merriment. He -returned and fought the election. He was elected by a majority of 231, -but not until he had been twice blackmailed, and had upon at least -three occasions given money to men who afterwards turned out to have no -vote. I may say, to put the matter briefly, that he retained the seat -uninterruptedly until the last election, but always by tiny majorities -at the expense of infinite energy, sweating blood, as it were, with -anxiety at every poll, and this although he was opposed by the most -various people. It was Fate! - -He spoke frequently in the House of Commons, and always unsuccessfully, -until one day a quite unexpected accident of war in a foreign country -gave him his opportunity. It so happened that the Unfortunate Man knew -all about this country; he had read every book published upon it; it -was the one thing upon which he was an authority. And ridiculous as -had been his numerous efforts to engage the attention of the august -assembly, upon this matter at least his judgment was eagerly expected. -The greatest courtesy was shown him, the Government arranged that he -should speak at the most telling time of the debate, and when he rose -it was before a full House, strained to an eager attention. - -He struck an attitude at once impressive and refined, stretched forth -his hand in a manner that gave promise of much to come, and was -suddenly seized with an immoderate fit of coughing. An aged gentleman, -a wool merchant by profession, who sat immediately behind him, thought -to do a kindly thing by slapping him upon the back, being ignorant of -that Shoulder Trouble with which the jolly reader is acquainted. And -the Unfortunate Man, in the midst of his paroxysm of coughing, could -not restrain a loud cry of anguish. Confused interruptions, rising -to a roar of protest, prevented him from going further, and he was -so imprudent, or rather so wretchedly unlucky, as to be stung into a -violent expression of opinion directed towards another member sitting -upon his immediate left, a moneylender by trade and very sensitive. -This fellow alone had heard the highly objectionable word which the -Unfortunate Man had let drop. It is a word very commonly used by -gentlemen in privacy, but rare, indeed, or rather wholly unused on -the public occasions of our dignified political life. In vain did -those about the moneylender pull at his skirts and implore him not to -rise. He was white with passion. He rose and appealed to the Chair. He -reiterated the offensive expression in the clearest and most articulate -fashion, apologising to the horrified assembly for having to sully -the air it breathed by the necessary repetition of so abominable an -epithet, and he demanded the correction of the monster in human form -who had descended to use it. The reprimand which the Unfortunate Man -received from the Chair was lengthy and severe, and from that day -forward he determined that the many omens of ill-fortune which had -marked his life had reached their turn. He was too proud to resign, -but his caucus, in spite of further considerable gifts of money, -indignantly repudiated their Member, and when the election came he had -not the courage to face it. - -He is now living, broken and prematurely aged, in a brick house -which he has built for himself in a charming part of the County of -Surrey. He has recently discovered that the title to his freehold -is insecure: an action is pending. Meanwhile, a spring of water has -broken out under the foundations of the building, and some quarter of -a mile before its windows, obscuring the view of the Weald in which he -particularly delighted, a very large factory with four tall chimneys -is in process of erection. These things have depressed him almost to -the verge of despair, and he can only forget his miseries in motoring. -He is continually fined for excessive speed, though by nature the most -cautious of men, and terrified by high speeds, and I learn only to-day -that as he was getting ready to go into Guildford to dispute a further -fine before the Bench a backfire has put his wrist out of joint, and he -suffers intolerable pain. _Militia est Vita Hominis!_ - - - - -The Contented Man - - -Lucifer, for some time a bishop in Southern Italy (you did not know -that, but it is true nevertheless, and you will find his name in the -writings of Duchesne, and he took part in councils; nay, there was a -time when I knew the very See of which he was bishop, but the passage -of years effaces all these things)--Lucifer, I say, laid it down in -his System of Morals that contentment was a virtue, and said that it -could be aimed at and acquired positively, just as any other virtue -can. Then there are others who have said that it was but a frame of -mind and the result of several virtues; but these are the thinkers. The -great mass of people are willing to say that contentment is strictly -in proportion to the amount of money one may have, and they are wrong. -I remember now there was a Sultan, or some such dignitary, in Spain, -who counted the days of his life which had been filled with content, -and found that they were seventeen. He was lucky; there are not many -of us who can say the same. Then once a man told me this story about -contentment, which seemed to me full of a profound meaning. It seems -there was once an old gentleman who was possessed of something over -half a million pounds, a banker, and this old gentleman every night of -his life would go through certain little private books of his, compare -them with the current list of prices, and estimate to a penny what he -was worth before he slept. It was always a great pleasure to him to -note the figures growing larger, and a great pain to him to note the -rare occasions when they had shrunk a little in twenty-four hours. It -so happened that this old gentleman lost a considerable sum of money -which he had imprudently lent to a distant and foreign country too much -praised in the newspapers, and he worried so much over the loss that -he became ill and could not go to his office. His sons kept on the -business for him, and every succeeding week they lost more and more -of the money. But such was their filial piety that every night they -gave the old gentleman false information, and that in some detail, so -that he could put down his little rows of figures and see them growing -larger night after night. You see, it was not the wealth that he -desired, it was the increase in the little rows of figures; the wealth -he consumed was the same; he wore the same clothes, he ate the same -food, he lived in the same house as before, and he had for a companion -eternally one or another of the two nurses provided by the doctor. The -figures increasing regularly as they did filled him with a greater and -a greater joy. After two years of this business he came to die, but -his passing was a very happy one: he blessed his sons fervently and -told them that nothing had more comforted his old age than their sober -business sense; they had nearly doubled the family fortune during their -short administration of it; he congratulated them and was now ready to -go to his God in peace. Which he did, and two weeks after the petition -in bankruptcy was presented by the young people themselves, always the -more decent way of doing it: but the old man had died content. - -Which parable leads up to the point at which I should have begun all -this, which is, that once in my life, in the year 1901, during a -heavy fog in the early morning of the month of November, in London, -I met a perfectly contented man. He was the conductor of an omnibus. -These vehicles depended in those days entirely on the traction of -horses. They were therefore slow, and as the night, or rather the -early morning, was foggy (it was a little after one) people going -Westward--journalists for instance, who are compelled to be up at -such hours--did not choose to travel in this way. There was no one in -the ’bus but myself. I sat next the door as it rumbled along; there -was one of those little faint oil lamps above it which are unique in -Christendom for the small amount of light they give. It was impossible -to read, but by the slight glimmer of it I saw suddenly revealed like -a vision the face of that really happy man. It was a round face, -framed in a somewhat slovenly hat and coat collar, but not slovenly in -feature, though not severe. And as its owner clung to the rail and -swung with the movements of the ’bus he whistled softly to himself a -genial little air. It was not I but he that began the conversation. -He told me that few things were a greater blessing in life than gas -fires, especially if one could regulate the amount of gas by a penny in -the slot. He pointed out to me that in this way there were never any -disputes as to the amount of gas used, and he also said that it kept a -man from the curse of credit, which was the ruin of so many. I told him -that in my house there was no gas, but that his description almost made -me wish there was. And so it did, for he went on to tell me how you -could cook any mortal thing with any degree of heat and at any speed by -the simple regulation of a tap. - -It may be imagined how anxious I was on meeting so rare a being to go -more deeply into the matter and to find out on what such happiness -reposed; but I did not know where to begin, because there are always -some questions which men do not like asked, and unless one knows all -about a man’s life one does not know what those questions are. Luckily -for me, he volunteered. He told me that he was married and had eight -children. He told me his wages, which were astonishingly low, his hours -of labour, which were incredibly long, and he further told me that on -reaching the yard that night he would have to walk a mile to his home. -He said he liked this, because it made him sleep, and he added that -in his profession the great difficulty was to get enough exercise. He -told me how often a day off was allowed him and how greatly he enjoyed -it. He told me the rent which he paid for his two rooms, which appeared -to be one-third of his income, and congratulated himself upon the -cheapness and commodity of the place; and so he went on talking as we -rumbled down the King’s Road, going farther and farther and farther -West. My day would end in a few hundred yards; his not for a mile or -two more. Yet his content was far the greater, and it affected me, I am -sorry to say, with wonder rather than with a similar emotion of repose -and pleasure. - -The next part of his conversation discovered what you will often -find in the conversation of contented men (or, rather, of partially -contented men, for no other absolutely contented man have I ever met -except this one), that is, a certain good-humoured contempt for those -who grumble. He told me that the drivers of ’buses were never happy; -they had all that life can give: high wages, fresh open-air work, the -dignity of controlling horses, and, what is perhaps more important, -ceaseless companionship, for not only had they the companionship of -chance people who would come and sit on the front seats of the ’bus -outside, but they could and did make appointments with friends who -would come and ride some part of the way and talk to them. Then, -again, as their work was more skilled, their tenure of it was more -secure, nor were they constrained to shout “Liverpool Street” at the -top of their voices for hours on end, nor to say “Benk, Benk, Benk” in -imitation of the pom-pom. Nevertheless they grumbled. He was careful to -tell me that they were not really unhappy. What he condemned in them -was rather the habit and, as it were, the fashion of grumbling. It -seemed as though no weather pleased them; it was always either too hot -or too cold; they took no pleasure in the healthy English rain beating -upon their faces, and warm spring days seemed to put them in a worse -humour than ever. He condemned all this in drivers. - -When we had come to the corner of my street in Chelsea as I got out I -offered him a cigar which I had upon me. He told me he did not smoke. -He was going on to tell me that he did not drink, and would, I had no -doubt, if he had had further leisure, have told me his religion, his -politics, and much more about himself; but though the ’buses in those -days would wait very long at street corners they would not wait for -ever, and that particular ’bus rumbled and bumped away. I looked after -it a little wistfully, for fear that I might never see a happy man -again. And I walked down my street towards my home more slowly than -usual, thinking upon the thing that I had just experienced. - -I confess I found it a very difficult matter. That experience not -only challenged all that I had heard of happiness, but also re-awoke -the insistent and imperative question which men put to their gods and -which never receives an answer. Ecstasy is independent of all material -conditions whatsoever. That great sense of rectitude which so often -embitters men but permits them to support pain is independent of -material conditions also. But these are not contented moods: oblivion -is ready to every man’s hand, and even the most unfortunate secure a -little sleep, and even the most tortured slaves know that at last, for -all the rules and fines and regulations of the workshop, they cannot -be forbidden to die; but such a prospect is not equivalent to content. -Further, there is a philosophy, rarely achieved but conspicuous in -every rank of fortune, which so steadily regards all external accident -as to remain indifferent to the strain of living and even to be, -to some extent, master of physical pain. But that philosophy, that -mournful philosophy which I have heard called “the permanent religion -of mankind,” is not content: on the contrary, it is very close indeed -to despair. It is the philosophy of which the Roman Empire perished. It -is the philosophy which, just because it utterly failed to satisfy the -heart of man, powerfully accelerated the triumph of the Church, as the -weight and pressure of water powerfully accelerate the rise of a man’s -body through it, to the sunlight and the air above, which are native -and necessary to him. No, it was not the philosophy of the Stoics -which had laid a foundation for the ’bus-conductor’s soul. - -I could not explain that content of his in any way save upon the -hypothesis that he was mad. - - - - -The Missioner - - -In one of those great halls which the winter darkens and which are -proper to the North, there sat a group of men, kindly and full of the -winter night and of their food and drink, upon which for many hours -they had regaled together, and not only full of song, but satiated -with it, so long and so loudly had they sung. They all claimed descent -from the Gods, but in varying degrees, and their Chief was descended -from the father of the Gods, by no doubtful lineage, for it was his -granfer’s mother to whom a witch in the woods had told the story of her -birth. - -In the midst of them as they so sat, a large fire smouldered, but -having been long lit, sent up so strong a shaft of rising air as drew -all smoke with it, towering to a sort of open cage upon the high roof -tree of that hall whence it could escape to heaven. - -I say they were tired of song and filled with many good things, but -chiefly with companionship. They had landed but recently from the sea; -the noise of the sea was in their ears as they so sat round the fire, -still talking low, and a Priest who was among them refused to interpret -the sound; but he said in a manner that some mocked doubtfully, others -heard with awe, that the sea never sounded save upon nights when the -Gods were abroad. He was the Priest of a lesser God, but he was known -throughout the fleet of those pirate fishermen for his great skill in -the interpretation of dreams, and he could tell by the surface of the -water in the nightless midsummer where the shoals were to be found. - -He said that on that night the Gods were abroad, and, indeed, the -quality of the wind as it came down the gulf of the fjord provoked such -a fancy, for it rose and fell as though by a volition, and sometimes -one would have said that it was a quiet night, and, again, a moment -after, one heard a noise like a voice round the corners of the great -beams, and the wind pitied or appealed or called. Then a man who was a -serf, but very skilled in woodwork, lying among the serfs in the outer -ring beyond the fire in the straw, called up and said: “Lords, he is -right; the Gods have come down from the Dovrefield; they are abroad. -Let us bless our doors.” - -It was when he had so spoken that upon the main gate of that Hall (a -large double engine of foot-thick pine swung upon hinges wrought many -generations ago by the sons of the Gods) came a little knocking. It was -a little tapping like the tapping of a bird. It rang musically of metal -and of hollow metal; it moved them curiously, and a very young man who -was of the blood said to his father: “Perhaps a God would warn us.” - -The keeper of the door was a huge and kindly man, foolish but good -for lifting, with whom by daylight children played, and who upon such -evenings lay silent and contented enough to hear his wittier fellows. -This serf rose from the straw and went to unbar. But the Chief put his -hand forward, and bade him stay that they might still hear that little -tapping. Then he lowered his hand and the gate was swung open. - -Cold came with it for a moment, and the night air; light, and as though -blown before that draught, drifted into the hall a tall man, very -young, who bowed to them with a gesture they did not know, and first -asked in a tongue they could not tell, whether any man might interpret -for him. - -Then one old man who was their pilot and who had often run down into -the vineyard lands, sometimes for barter, sometimes for war, always -for a wage, said two words or three in that new tongue, hesitatingly. -His face was wrinkled and hard; he had very bright but very pale grey -eyes that were full of humility. He said three words of greeting which -he had painfully learned twenty years before, from a priest, upon the -rocks of Brittany, who had also given him smooth stones wherewith to -pray; and with these smooth stones the old Pilot continually prayed -sometimes to the greater and sometimes to the lesser Gods. His wife -had died during the first war between Hrolf and the Twin Brothers; he -had come home to find her dead and sanctified, and, being Northern, he -had since been also a silent man. This Pilot, I say, quoted the words -of greeting in the strange tongue. Then the tall young stranger man -advanced into the circle of the firelight and made a sign upon his head -and his breast and his shoulders, which was like the sign of the Hammer -of Thor, and yet which was not the sign of the Hammer of Thor. When he -had done this, the Pilot attempted that same sign, but he failed at -it, for it was many years since he had been taught it upon the Breton -coast. He knew it to be magical and beneficent, and he was ashamed to -fail. - -The Chief of those who were descended from the Gods and were seated -round the fire, turned to the Priest and said: “Is this a guest, a -stranger sent, or is he a man come as an enemy who should be led out -again into the night? Have you any divination?” - -“I have no divination,” said the Priest. “I cannot tell one thing or -the other, nor each from the other in the case of this young man. But -perhaps he is one of the Gods seeking shelter among men, or perhaps he -is a fancy thing, warlock, but not doing evil. Or perhaps he is from -the demons; or perhaps he is a man like ourselves, and seeking shelter -during some long wandering.” - -When the Chief heard this he asked the Pilot, not as a man possessing -divine knowledge, but as one who had travelled and knew the sea, -whether he knew this Stranger and whence he came. To which the Pilot -answered: - -“Captain, I do not know this young man nor whence he comes, nor any -of his tribe, nor have I seen any like him save once three slaves who -stood in a market-place of the Romans in a town that was subject to -a great lord who was a Frank and not a Breton, and who was hated by -the people of his town so that later they slew him. Then these three -slaves were loosened, and they came to the house of the Priest of the -Gods of that country, and they told me the name of the people whence -they sprang. But I have forgotten it. Only I know that it is among the -vineyard lands. There the day and the night are equally divided all the -year long, and if the snow falls it falls gently and for a very little -while, and there are all manner of birds, and those people are very -rich, and they have great houses of stone. Now I believe this Stranger -to be a man like ourselves, born of a woman, and coming northward upon -some purpose which we do not know. It may be for merchandise, or it may -be for the love of singing and of telling stories to men.” - -When he had said this they all looked at the Stranger and they saw that -he had with him a little instrument that was not known to them, for it -was a flute of metal. It was of silver, as they could see, long drawn -and very delicately made, and with this had he summoned at the gate. - -The Chief then brought out with his own hands a carven chair, on which -he seated the Stranger, and he put into his right hand a gold cup taken -from the Romans in a city of the Franks, upon which was faintly carved -a cross, and round the rim of which were four precious stones, an -emerald, a ruby, an amethyst, and a diamond; and going to a skin which -he had taken in a Gascon raid, he poured out wine into that chalice and -went down upon one knee as is proper to strangers when they are to be -entertained, and put a cloth over his arms and bade him drink. But when -the young man saw the cross faintly carved upon the cup and the four -precious stones at the corners of it, he shuddered a little and put it -aside as though it were a sacred thing, at which they all marvelled. -Yet he longed for the wine. And they, understanding that in some way -this ornament was sacred to his Gods, gently took it from him and -through courtesy put it aside upon a separate place which was reserved -for honourable vessels, and poured him other wine into a wooden stoop; -and this he drank, holding it out now to one and now to another, but -last and chiefly to their Captain; and as he drank it he drank it with -signs of amity. - -Then by way of payment for so much kindness he took his silver flute -and blew upon it shrill notes, all very sweet, and the sweeter for -their choice and distance one from another, until they listened, -listening every man with those beside him like one man, for they had -never heard such a sound; and as he played one man saw one thing in his -mind and one another thing; for one man saw the long and easy summer -seas that roll after a prosperous boat filled with spoil, whether of -fishes or of booty, when the square sail is taken aft by a warm wind -in the summer season, and the high mountains of home first show beyond -the line of the sea. And another man saw a little valley, narrow, with -deep pasture, wherein he had been bred and had learned to plow the -land with horses before ever he had come to the handling of a tiller -or the bursting of water upon the bows. And another saw no distinct -and certain thing, but vague and pleasurable hopes fulfilled, and the -advent of great peace. And another saw those heights of the hills to -which he ever desired to return. - -But the old Pilot, straining with wonder in his eyes as the music rose, -thought confusedly of all that he had seen and known; of the twirling -tides upon the Breton coast and of the great stone towns, of the -bright vestments of the ordered armies in the market-places and of the -vineyard land. - -When the Stranger had ceased so to play upon his instrument they -applauded, as their custom was, by cries, some striking the armour upon -the ground so that it rang, and by gesture and voice they begged him -play again. - -The second time he played all those men heard one thing: which was a -dance of young men and women together in some country where there was -little fear. The tune went softly, and was softly repeated, full of the -lilt of feet, and when it was ended they knew that the dance was done. - -This time they were so pleased that they waited a little before they -would applaud, but the old Pilot, remembering more strongly than ever -the vineyard land, moved his right hand back and forward with delight -as in some way he would play music with it, and thus by a communication -of heart to heart stirred in that Stranger a new song; and taking up -his flute for the third time he blew upon it a different strain, at -which some were confused, others hungry in their hearts, though they -could not have told you why, but the old Pilot saw great and gracious -figures moving over a land subject to blessedness; he saw that in -the faces of these figures (which were those of the Immortals) stood -present at once a complete satisfaction and a joyous energy and a -solution of every ill. “These,” he said to himself in the last passion -of the music, “these are true Gods.” But suddenly the music ceased, and -with it the vision also. - -For the great pleasure which the Flute Player had given them they -desired to keep him in their company, and so they did for three full -years. That is, the winter long, the seed time, and the time of -harvest; and the next harvest also, and another harvest more, during -which time he played them many tunes, and learnt their tongue. - -Now, his Gods were his own, but he pined for the lack of their worship -and for Priests of his own sort, and when he would explain these in -his own manner some believed him, but some did not believe him. And to -those who believed him he brought a man from the South, from beyond -the Dovrefield, who baptised them with water: as for those who would -not have this they looked on, and kept to their own decree: but there -was as yet no division among them. A little while after the third -harvest, hearing that the fleet, which was of twelve boats, would make -for Roman land, he begged to go with it, for he was sick for his own, -but first he made them take an oath that they would molest none, nor -even barter with any, until they had landed him in his own land. The -Chief took this oath for them, and though his oath was worth the oath -of twelve men, twelve other men swore with him. In this way the oath -was done. So they took the Flute Player for three days over the sea -before the wind called Eager, which is the north-east wind, and blows -at the beginning of the open season; they took him at the beginning of -the fourth year since his coming among them, and they landed him in a -little boat in a seaport of the Franks, on Roman land.... - -The Faith went over the world as very light seed goes upon the wind, -and no one knows the drift on which it blew; it came to one place and -to another, and to each in a different way. It came, not to many men, -but always to one heart, till all men had hold of it. - - - - -The Dream - - -The experience I am about to set down was perhaps the result, and at -any rate it was the sequel, of a conversation engaged between three men -in London in the year 1903. - -Of these three men one was returned but recently from South Africa, -where he had seen all too much of the war; another was a kindly, -wealthy, sober sort of man, young, virtuous, and full of inquiry; the -third was a hack. - -It was about the season of Easter and of spring, when actually and -physically one can feel and handle the force of life about one, all -ready to break bounds; but these young men (for no one of them was -yet of middle age) preferred to talk of things more shadowy and less -certain than the air and the life and the English spring all around. -Things more shadowy and less certain, but to the mind of youth, being -a vigorous mind things fixed and absorbing; destiny, for instance, and -the nature of man. - -Not one of these three, however, affirmed in this conversation (which -I so well remember!) any definite scheme. They spoke in terms of -violent opinion, of argument, and of analogy, but none of the three -came forward with a faith or even with a philosophy from which one -felt he could not be shaken. The more remarkable was it, therefore, -that one of them on his return in the early morning to his rooms, -after this young and long conversation of a mixed sort, such as men -entering upon life will often indulge, should have suffered and should -have remembered an exact and even terrible vision. It would indeed be -inexplicable that he should have suffered such a thing as a consequence -of his waking thoughts, though, if there be influences upon minds other -than the influences they themselves can bring--if there be influences -from without, and other wills determining our dreams--then what next -followed is less difficult to comprehend. For, when he had fallen -asleep, it seemed to him at once that he was in the midst of a very -gay and pleasant company in a sort of palace whereof the vast room in -which he stood was one out of very many that opened one into the other -in sequence. The crowd, and he with it, went forward slowly towards -a banquet which he heard was prepared. He did not see among those he -spoke to, and who spoke to him, any face with which he was familiar or -to which he could attach a name; and yet he seemed to know them all, -in that curious inconsequence of dreams, and one in especial, at some -distance from him, which seemed to have been lost once, and now to be -seen again through the crowd, was a face the sight of which moved in -him a very passionate memory: yet it was no early memory. - -So they went forward, and soon they were all seated at a table of -enormous length, so long that its length seemed to have some purpose -about it; and at the farther end of this table was a door leading out -of that hall. It was a door not very large for so magnificent a space; -such a door as a man or woman could easily open with a common gesture, -and pass through and shut behind them quickly. - -Now, for the first time, when they were eating and drinking, it seemed -to him that the conversation took on meaning, and a more consecutive -meaning than is usual in dreams; when, just as that new phase of his -dream had begun, one of the guests, a little to the left of the place -opposite to him, a woman of middle age who had been somewhat silent, -rose without apology, and without warning left her place he hardly knew -how, and passed out of the room through the door that he had noticed. -It shut behind her. No one mentioned or noticed her going, but in a -little while another and another had risen and had gone. And still as -each guest departed, some in the midst of a sentence, some during a -silence in the talk, there increased upon him an appalling sense of -unusual things; it was appalling to him that no one said good-bye, that -none of the fellows of those who so departed turned to them or noticed -their going, and that none of those who so departed returned or made -any promise to return. Next he noticed with an increasing ill-ease, by -some inconsequence of his dream, that when he watched the departure of -a guest (as the others did not) he saw the empty chair and the gap left -in the ranks; but when he looked again after speaking to some other to -the right or left the gap was somehow less defined, and when he looked -yet again it was no longer to be noticed or perceived; though it could -not be said that the chair was filled or was removed, but in some way -the absence of the man or woman who had been there ceased to be marked, -and it was as though they had never been present at all. It was not -often that he cared to look for more than a moment at one or another -of these risings from the feast; yet in the moment’s observation he -could see very different things. Some rose as though in terror; some as -though in weariness; some startled, as at a sudden command which they -alone could hear; some in a natural manner as though at an appointed -moment. But there was no order or method in their going: only all went -through that door. - -His mind was now oppressed by the change which comes in dreams, and -turns them sometimes from phantasy to horror. There sat opposite -him a man somewhat older than himself, with a face vigorous and yet -despairing, not without energy, and trained in self-command. And this -man answered his thoughts at once, as thoughts are answered in dreams. -He said that it was of no use wondering why any guest left that feast, -nor what there was, if there was anything, beyond the door through -which this inconsequential passage was made. Even as he was saying -this he himself, suddenly looking towards it with an expression of -extreme sadness and abandonment, rose abruptly, bowed to no one, and -went out. At his departure the dreamer heard a little sigh, and he -who had sighed said that doors of their nature led from one place to -another, and then he tittered a little as though he had said a clever -thing. Then another, a large happy man, laughed somewhat too loudly, -and said that only fools discussed what none could know. A third, still -upon that same theme, said in fixed, contented manner, that, in the -nature of things, nothing was beyond the door. At which, the first -who had spoken tittered again, and said doors of their nature led -somewhere. Even as he said it his eyes filled with tears, and he also -rose and went out. - -For the first time during this increasing pressure of mystery and -disaster (for so the dreamer felt it) he watched the figure of that -guest; none of his companions about him dared or chose to do so; but -the dreamer fixedly watched, and he saw the figure going down the long -perspective of the hall very rapidly and very directly. It did not -hesitate nor look back for one moment, it passed through--it was gone. - -The dreamer suddenly felt the wine of that feast, the words spoken -round him, more full of meaning and of novelty; the noise of speech, -though more confused, was more pleasing and louder; the candles were -far more bright. He had forgotten, or was just forgetting, all that -other mood of his dream, when it seemed to him that in a sense all -that converse was struck dumb. He heard no sound; he was cut off. -Their hands still moved, their eyes and lips framed words and repeated -glances, but around him, and for him, there was silence. The candles -burned bright through the length of the room, and brightest, as in a -guiding manner, towards the end of it where was the Door. He felt a -thrill pass from his face. He rose and walked directly--no one speaking -to him or noticing him at all--down the long, narrow space behind their -chairs. It took him but a moment, innumerable as were those whom he -must pass. His hand was upon the latch; with his head bent forward -somewhat, and downwards, in the attitude of a man hurrying, he passed -through. And, not knowing what he did, but doing it as though by habit, -he shut the door between him and the feast, and immediately he was in a -complete and utterly silent darkness. But he still was. - - - - -The Silence of the Battlefields - - -Whoever has had occasion, whether for study or for curiosity, to -visit many of the battlefields of Europe, must have been especially -struck by their silence. There are many things combining to produce -this impression, but when all have been accounted for, something over -remains. Thus it is true that in any countryside the contrast between -the noise of the great fight that fills one’s mind and the natural -calm of woods and of fields must penetrate the mind; and, again, it -is evident that any piece of land which one closely examines, noting -all its details for the purposes of history, must seem more lonely and -deserted than those general views in which the eye comprehends so much -of the work of man; because all this special watching of particular -corners, noting of ranges and the rest, make one’s progress slow, keep -one’s eyes close fixed to things more or less near, and thus allow one -to appreciate how far between men are save in the towns. But there -is more than this. It can be proved that there is more. For the same -sense of complete loneliness does not take a man in other similar -work. He does not feel it when he is surveying for a map nor when he -is searching for an historic site other than that of battle. But the -battlefields are lonely. - -Some few, especially in this crowded island, are not lonely. Life has -overtaken them, spreading outwards from the towns. By what a curious -irony, for instance, the racecourse at Lewes, with a shouting throng -of men as the horses go by, corresponds precisely to the place where -must have been the thickest of the advance on Montfort’s right as he -led them to attack the King. Evesham is not lonely. Battle is full of -houses and of villas, and the chief centre of the fight is in a garden. - -But for the most part the great battlefields are lonely; and their -loneliness is unnatural and oppressive. In some way they repel men. -Trasimene is the lonely shore of a marsh. One would imagine that a -place so famous would be in some way visited. One of the great sewers -of cosmopolitan travel runs close by; one would imagine that the -historic interest of the place would bring men from that railway to -the shore upon which so very nearly the Orientals destroyed us. There -is no such publicity. Sitting at evening near those reeds, where the -great fight was fought, one has a feeling, rare in Italy, commoner in -the north, of complete isolation. There is nothing but water and the -evening sky, and it is so mournful that one might imagine it a place to -which things doomed would come to die. - -Roncesvalles, which means so little in the military history of Europe -and so much in her literature, is a profound gorge, cleft right into -the earth 3000 feet, and clothed with such mighty beech woods that -for these alone, apart from its history, one might imagine it to be -perpetually visited. It is not visited. No house is near it, save the -huddled huts round the gloomy place of pilgrimage upon the farther -side of the pass. A silence more profound, a sense of recession more -complete, is not to be discovered upon any of the great roads of -Europe--for one of the great roads goes by the place where Roland died, -but very few travel along it. - -Toulouse is popular and noisy; surrounded by so many small market -gardens and so busy and humming a Southern life (detestable to quiet -men!) that you might think no site near it was touched with loneliness. -But there is such a site. It is the crest beyond the city where -Wellington’s victory was won. More curious still, Waterloo, at the very -gates of Brussels, within a stone’s throw, one may say, of building -sites for suburbs, is the only lonely place in its neighbourhood. That -valley, or rather that little dip which is so great in military history -and yet which did so little to change the general movement of the -world, is the one deserted set of fields that you can find for a long -way round. And the soil of Belgium, a gridiron of railways, stuffed -with industry, a place where one short walk takes you from a town to -a town anywhere throughout the little State, is still remarkable for -the way in which its battlefields seem to fend off the presence of -man. The plateau of Fleurus, the marshy banks of Jemappes, the roll of -Neerwinden, all illustrate what I mean. - -If one considers in what two places since Christendom was Christendom -most was done to save Christendom from destruction, one will fix upon -the Catalaunian Fields and upon that low tableland in the fork of the -two rivers between Poitiers and Tours. In the first Attila was broken, -Asia from the East; in the second the Mohammedan, Asia from the South. -The Catalaunian Fields have a bleakness amazing to the traveller. -Nothing perhaps so near so much wealth is so utterly alone. Great folds -of empty land that will grow little, that only lately were planted -with stunted pine trees that they might at least grow something, -weary the eye. One dead straight road, Roman in origin, Gallic in its -continuance, drives right across the waste. It is there that the Huns -were broken. It is from that point that their sullen retreat eastward -was permitted, as was permitted in 1792 the retreat eastward of the -Royal Armies from their check in that same plain at Valmy; and Valmy -also is intensely lonely, a bare ridge despoiled to-day even of its -mill, and the little chapel raised to the soul of Kellerman hides -itself away so that you do not see it until you are close upon the -place. - -Poitiers has the same loneliness. The Mohammedan had ridden up from the -Pyrenees, ricochetted from the walls of Toulouse, but poured on like -a flood into the centre of Gaul. Charles the Hammer broke him in the -fields beyond Vouneuil. The district is populous and the Valley of the -Clain is full of pastures and among the tenderest of European valleys, -but as you drift down stream and approach this place the plateau upon -the right above you grows bare, and it was there, so far as modern -scholarship can be certain, that the last effort of the Arabs was -forced back. - -That other battle of Poitiers among the vineyards, the Black Prince’s -battle, one would imagine, could not seem lonely, for it was fought in -the midst of tilled land full of vineyards and right above the great -high road which leads south-east from the town. But lonely it is, and -if you will go up the little gully where the head of the French column -advanced against the English archers upon the high land above, you will -not find a man to tell you the memories of the place. - -Creçy was fought close to a county town; but the same trick of -landscape or of influence is also played there. The town hides itself -in a little hollow upon the farther flank of a hill, and though the -right of Edward’s line reposed upon it, and though it was within a -bowshot of the houses that the boy his son was pressed so hard, yet -Creçy hides away from the battlefield. And as you come in by the -eastern road, which takes you all along the crest of the English -position, there is nothing before you but a naked and a silent land, -falling in a dip to where the first of the French charge failed, and -rising in long empty lengths of fallow and of grass to where you can -see, a single mark for the eye in so much loneliness, the rude cross -standing on the place where the blind King of Bohemia fell. - -Loneliest of all, with a loneliness which perpetually haunts me -whenever I write of it, is that battlefield which I know best and have -most closely studied. It is the battlefield on which, as I believe, -more was done to affect both military and general history than on any -other--the battlefield of Wattignies. Here the Revolution certainly -stood, to go under with the fall of Maubeuge, which was at the last -gasp for food, or, with the raising of that siege, to go forward. By -the success at Wattignies the siege was raised. In military history -also it is of great account, for at Wattignies for the first time the -great mind of Carnot, the darting, aquiline mind of that man whose -school of tactics produced Napoleon, first dealt with an army. At -Wattignies for the first time the concentration at the fullest expense -of fatigue, of overwhelming force upon one point of the objective, -came into play and was successful. Such tactics needed the Infantry -which as a fact were used in their development. Still, they were new. -Now, Wattignies, where so much was done to change the art of war and -to transform Europe, is as lonely as anything on earth. Lines of high -trees, a wood almost uncultivated (a rare thing in France), a swept, -wintry upland without a house or a barn, a little huddled group of poor -steadings round a tiny church, and against it all the while rain and -hard weather driving from the French plains below: that is Wattignies. -Up through those sunken ways by which Duquesnoy’s division charged -you will not meet a single human being, and that heath over which the -emigrant nobles countercharged for the last time under the white flag -is similarly bereft of men. Nowhere do you more feel the unnatural -loneliness of those haunted places of honour than in this which I -believe to be the chief one of all the European fields. - - - - -Novissima Hora - - -Time, which is to the mind a function of the mind, stretches and -contracts, as all men know, when the mind impelled by forces not its -own demands the expansion or the lessening of time. Thus in a moment, -as the foolish physicists can prove, long experiences of dreams are -held; and thus hours upon hours of other men’s lives are lost to us -for ever when we lie in profound sleep; and I knew a man who, sleeping -through a morning upon the grassy side of a hill many years ago, slept -through news that seemed to have ruined him and his, and slept on to a -later moment when the news proved false and the threat of disaster was -lifted; during those hours of agony there had been for him no time. - -They say that with men approaching dissolution some trick of time is -played, or at least that when death is very near indeed the whole scale -and structure of thought changes, just as some have imagined (and it is -a reasonable suspicion) that the common laws governing matter do not -apply to it in some last stage of tenuity, so the ordered sequence of -the mind takes on something fantastic and moves during such moments in -a void. - -So must it have been with that which I will now describe. - -A man lay upon a bed of a common sort in a room which was bare of -ornament. But he had forgotten the room. He was a man of middle age, -corpulent, and one whose flesh and the skin of whose flesh had sagged -under disease. His eyes were closed, his mouth, which was very fine, -delicate, and firm, alone of his features preserved its rigour. Those -features had been square and massive, their squareness and their -strength the more emphasised by the high forehead with its one wisp of -hair. But though the strength of character remained behind the face, -the muscular strength had left it, for that body had suffered agony. - -The man so lying was conscious of little; the external world was -already beyond his reach. He knew that somehow he was not suffering -pain, and the mortal fatigue that oppressed him had, in that unexpected -absence of pain, some opportunity for repose. Neither his room nor what -was left of companionship round him, nor the voices that he knew and -loved, nor those others that he knew too well and despised, reached his -senses. For many years the air in which he had lived and in which he -was now perishing had been to him in his captivity a mournful delight. -It was a tropical air, but enlivened by the freshness of the sea and -continually impelled in great sea winds above him. Now he felt that -air no longer, and might have been so many thousand miles away in -the place where he had been born, or many thousand miles more, in the -snows of a great campaign, or under the violent desert sun of certain -remembered battles; it was all one to him, for he only held to life by -one thread within, and outer things had already left him. - -Within, however, his mind in that last weakness still busily turned; -no longer considering as it had considered during the activity of a -marvellous life what answers the great questions propounded to the soul -of man should receive, still less noting practical and immediate needs -or considering set problems. His mind for once, almost for the first -time, was this last time seeing things go by. - -First he saw dull pageantries which had been the common stuff of his -life, and he was confused by half-remembered, half-restored, faint -cheers of distant crowds, colours, and gold, and the twin flashes -of gems and of steel. And through it now and then strains of solemn -music, and now and then the tearing cry of bronze: the bugles. All -these sensations, confused and blurred, re-arose, and as they re-arose, -welling up into him like a mist, there re-arose those permanent -concomitants of such things. He felt again the nervous dread of folly -and mishap, wondered upon the correctness of his conduct, whether he -had not given offence somewhere to someone ... whether he had not been -the subject of criticism by some tongue he feared. And as all that part -of his great life returned to him, his face even in that extremity -showed some faint traces of concern such as it had borne when in truth -and in the body he had moved in the midst of a Court. - -Next, like shadows disappearing, all that ghostly hubbub passed, but -before he could be alone another picture succeeded, and he thought to -feel beneath him the rolling of the sea. He was a young man looking -for land, with others standing behind upon the deck, watching him -in envy because of the miracles he was to do with armed men when he -should touch the shore. And yet he was not a young man. He was a man -already weighted with disappointment and with loss of love, and with -some confused conception of breaking under an immense strain; and those -who were on the deck behind him watching him, watched him with awe and -with pity, and with a sort of dread that did not relieve his spirit. -So young and old in the same moment, he felt in the brain the swinging -of a ship’s deck. So he strained for land, a land where he should -conquer, and at the same time it was a land where he should be utterly -alone, and utterly forget, and be filled with nothing but defeat. The -contradiction held him altogether. - -Then this movement also steadied and changed, and he had the sensation -of a man walking up some steep hill, some hill too steep. He was -leading a horse and the horse stumbled. It was bitterly cold, but he -did not feel the cold: the roaring and the driving round him in the -snow. Next he was in the saddle; there was a little eminence from -which he saw a plain. Slight as the beast was his seat galled him. He -sat his mount badly, and he dreaded lest it should start with him as it -had started the day before. But even as he so worried himself on his -bad horsemanship, all his mind changed at quite another sight. - -For in the plain below that little height the great battalions went -forward, rank upon rank upon rank; it was a review and it was a -battle and it was a campaign. Mad imagery! the uniforms were the -uniforms of gala, the drum-majors went before the companies of the -Guard, gigantic, twirling their gigantic staves; the lifted trumpets -of the Cuirassiers sounded as though upon some great stage, for the -mere glory of the sound. And mass upon mass, regular, instinct with -purpose, innumerable, the army passed below. There was no end to it. -He knew, he was certain, as he strained his eyes, that it would never -end. It was afoot, and it would march for ever. Far off, beyond the -line, upon the flank of it, distant and terrible went the packed mass -of the guns, and you could hear faintly amid the other noises of the -advance the clatter-clank-clank of the limber. And from so far off he -saw the leading sabres of commanders saluting him from his old arm. -Here again was a mixture for him of things that do not mix in the true -world: Glory and Despair. This endless army was his, and yet would go -on beyond him. It was his and not his. There was room upon the colours -for a million names of victories, but every victory in some way carried -the stamp of defeat. And yet seeing all that pageant as the precursor -of failure, he saw it also as something constructive. He thought of -wood that burns and is consumed, but is the fuel of a flame of fire and -all that fire can do. - -As he so thought, like a wind and a spirit blowing through the whole -came some vast conception of a God. And once again the mixed, the -dual feeling seized him, more greatly than before. It was a God that -drove them all, and him. And that God was in his childhood, and he -remembered his childhood very clearly. It was something of which he had -been convinced in childhood, a security of good.... Look how the army -moved!... - -And now it had halted. - -Here his mind failed, and he had died. It was Napoleon. - - - - -On Rest - - -There was a priest once who preached a sermon to the text of “Abba, -Father.” On that text one might preach anything, but the matter that he -chose was “Rest.” He was not yet in middle age, and those who heard him -were not yet even young. They could not understand at all the moment -of his ardent speech, and even the older men, seeing him to be but in -the central part of life, wondered that he should speak so. His eyes -were illuminated by the vision of something distant; his heart was not -ill at ease, but, as it were, fixedly expectant, and he preached from -his little pulpit in that little chapel of the Downs, with rising and -deeper powers of the voice, so that he shook the air; yet all this -energy was but the praise or the demand for the surcease of energy, and -all this sound was but the demand for silence. - -It is a thing, I say, incomprehensible to the young, but gradually -comprehended as the years go droning by, that in all things (and in -proportion to the intensity of the life of each) there comes this -appetite for dissolution and for repose: I do not mean that repose -beyond which further effort is demanded, but something final and -supreme. - -This priest, a year or so after he had appealed with his sermon before -that little country audience in the emptiness of the Downs, died. He -had that which he desired, Rest. But what is it? What is the nature of -this thing? - -Note you how great soldiers, when their long campaigns are done, are -indifferent to further wars, and look largely upon the nature of -fighting men, their objects, their failures, their victories, their -rallying, their momentary cheers. Not that they grow indifferent to -that great trade which is the chief business of a State, the defence or -the extension of the common weal; but that after so much expense of all -the senses our God gave them, a sort of charity and justice fills their -minds. I have often remarked how men who had most lost and won, even in -arms, would turn the leisured part of their lives to the study of the -details of struggle, and seemed equally content to be describing the -noble fortunes of an army, whether it were upon the crest of advancing -victory, or in the agony of a surrender. This was because the writers -had found Rest. And throughout the history of Letters--of Civilisation, -and of contemporary friends, one may say that in proportion to the -largeness of their action is this largeness and security of vision at -the end. - -Now, note another thing: that, when we speak of an end, by that very -word we mean two things. For first we mean the cessation of Form, and -perhaps of Idea; but also we mean a goal, or object, to which the -Form and the Idea perpetually tended, without which they would have -had neither meaning nor existence, and in which they were at last -fulfilled. Aristotle could give no summing up but this to all his -philosophy, that there was a nature, not only of all, but of each, -and that the end determined what that nature might be; which is also -what we Christians mean when we say that God made the world; and -great Rabelais, when his great books were ending, could but conclude -that all things tended to their end. Tennyson also, before he died, -having written for so many years a poetry which one must be excused in -believing considerable, felt, as how many have felt it, the thrumming -of the ebb tide when the sea calls back the feudal allegiance of the -rivers. I know it upon Arun bar. The Flood, when the sea heaves up -and pours itself into the inland channels, bears itself creatively, -and is like the manhood of a man--first tentative, then gathering -itself for action, then sweeping suddenly at the charge. It carries -with it the wind from the open horizon, it determines suddenly, it -spurs, and sweeps, and is victorious; the current races; the harbour is -immediately full. - -But the ebb tide is of another kind. With a long, slow power, whose -motive is at once downward steadily towards its authority and its -obedience and desire, it pushes as with shoulders, home; and for many -hours the stream goes darkly, swiftly, and steadily. It is intent, -direct, and level. It is a thing for evenings, and it is under an -evening when there is little wind, that you may best observe the symbol -thus presented by material things. For everything in nature has in -it something sacramental, teaching the soul of man; and nothing more -possesses that high quality than the motion of a river when it meets -the sea. The water at last hangs dully, the work is done; and those -who have permitted the lesson to instruct their minds are aware of -consummation. - -Men living in cities have often wondered how it was that the men in the -open who knew horses and the earth or ships and the salt water risk so -much--and for what reward? It is an error in the very question they -ask, rather than in the logical puzzle they approach, which falsifies -their wonder. There is no reward. To die in battle, to break one’s -neck at a hedge, to sink or to be swamped are not rewards. But action -demands an end; there is a fruit to things; and everything we do (here -at least, and within the bonds of time) may not exceed the little -limits of a nature which it neither made nor acquired for itself, but -was granted. - -Some say that old men fear death. It is the theme of the debased and -the vulgar. It is not true. Those who have imperfectly served are ready -enough; those who have served more perfectly are glad--as though there -stood before them a natural transition and a condition of their being. - -So it says in a book “all good endings are but shining transitions.” -And, again, there is a sonnet which says: - - We will not whisper: we have found the place - Of silence and the ancient halls of sleep, - And that which breathes alone throughout the deep - The end and the beginning; and the face - Between the level brows of whose blind eyes - Lie plenary contentment, full surcease - Of violence, and the ultimate great peace - Wherein we lose our human lullabies. - - Look up and tell the immeasurable height - Between the vault of the world and your dear head; - That’s Death, my little sister, and the Night - That was our Mother beckons us to bed: - Where large oblivion in her house is laid - For us tired children now our games are played. - -Indeed, one might quote the poets (who are the teachers of mankind) -indefinitely in this regard. They are all agreed. What did Sleep and -Death to the body of Sarpedon? They took it home. And every one who -dies in all the Epics is better for the dying. Some complain of it -afterwards I will admit; but they are hard to please. Roland took it as -the end of battle; and there was a Scandinavian fellow caught on the -north-east coast, I think, who in dying thanked God for all the joy he -had had in his life--as you may have heard before. And St. Anthony of -Assisi (not of Padua) said, “Welcome, little sister Death!” as was his -way. And one who stands right up above most men who write or speak said -it was the only port after the tide-streams and bar-handling of this -journey. - -So it is; let us be off to the hills. The silence and the immensity -that inhabit them are the simulacra of such things. - - - - - WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD. - PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH - - - - -FOOTNOTE: - - -[1] Mr. H. Abrahims, of Eastcheap and The Firs, Guildford, Surrey. - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - - -Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - -Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - -Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of On Everything, by Hilaire Belloc - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON EVERYTHING *** - -***** This file should be named 61076-0.txt or 61076-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/0/7/61076/ - -Produced by Tim Lindell, David E. 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