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These are the OCR results for the 1890 published version of the book News from Nowhere written by William Morris. The OCR results have been produced with tesseract.
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<TEI xmlns="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0"><teiHeader><fileDesc><titleStmt><title>Untitled Document</title><author/></titleStmt><editionStmt><edition><date/></edition></editionStmt><publicationStmt><p>no publication statement available</p></publicationStmt><sourceDesc><p>Written by OpenOffice</p></sourceDesc></fileDesc><revisionDesc><listChange><change><name/><date/></change></listChange></revisionDesc></teiHeader><text><body><p>Project Gutenberg Etext of News from Nowhere, by William Morris </p><p>#8 in our series by William Morris </p><p>Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check </p><p>the laws for your country before redistributing these files!!! </p><p>Please take a look at the important information in this header. </p><p>We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an </p><p>electronic path open for the next readers. </p><p>Please do not remove this. </p><p>This should be the first thing seen when anyone opens the book. </p><p>Do not change or edit it without written permission. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.12.12.00*END* </p><p>This etext was produced from the 1908 Longmans, Green, and Co. </p><p>edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk </p><p>NEWS FROM NOWHERE </p><p>or AN EPOCH OF REST </p><p>being some chapters from </p><p>A UTOPIAN ROMANCE </p><p>by William Morris </p><p>CHAPTER I: DISCUSSION AND BED</p><p>Up at the League, says a friend, there had been one night a brisk </p><p>conversational discussion, as to what would happen on the Morrow of </p><p>the Revolution, finally shading off into a vigorous statement by </p><p>various friends of their views on the future of the fully-developed </p><p>new society. </p><p>Says our friend: Considering the subject, the discussion was good-</p><p>tempered; for those present being used to public meetings and after- </p><p>lecture debates, if they did not listen to each others' opinions </p><p>(which could scarcely be expected of them), at all events did not </p><p>always attempt to speak all together, as is the custom of people in </p><p>ordinary polite society when conversing on a subject which interests </p><p>them. For the rest, there were six persons present, and consequently</p><p>six sections of the party were represented, four of which had strong </p><p>but divergent Anarchist opinions. One of the sections, says our</p><p>friend, a man whom he knows very well indeed, sat almost silent at </p><p>the beginning of the discussion, but at last got drawn into it, and </p><p>finished by roaring out very loud, and damning all the rest for </p><p>fools; after which befel a period of noise, and then a lull, during </p><p>which the aforesaid section, having said good-night very amicably, </p><p>took his way home by himself to a western suburb, using the means of </p><p>travelling which civilisation has forced upon us like a habit. As he</p><p>sat in that vapour-bath of hurried and discontented humanity, a </p><p>carriage of the underground railway, he, like others, stewed </p><p>discontentedly, while in self-reproachful mood he turned over the </p><p>many excellent and conclusive arguments which, though they lay at his</p><p>fingers' ends, he had forgotten in the just past discussion. But</p><p>this frame of mind he was so used to, that it didn't last him long, </p><p>and after a brief discomfort, caused by disgust with himself for </p><p>having lost his temper (which he was also well used to), he found </p><p>himself musing on the subject-matter of discussion, but still </p><p>discontentedly and unhappily. "If I could but see a day of it," he</p><p>said to himself; "if I could but see it!" </p><p>As he formed the words, the train stopped at his station, five </p><p>minutes' walk from his own house, which stood on the banks of the </p><p>Thames, a little way above an ugly suspension bridge. He went out of</p><p>the station, still discontented and unhappy, muttering "If I could </p><p>but see it! if I could but see it!" but had not gone many steps </p><p>towards the river before (says our friend who tells the story) all </p><p>that discontent and trouble seemed to slip off him. </p><p>It was a beautiful night of early winter, the air just sharp enough </p><p>to be refreshing after the hot room and the stinking railway </p><p>carriage. The wind, which had lately turned a point or two north of</p><p>west, had blown the sky clear of all cloud save a light fleck or two </p><p>which went swiftly down the heavens. There was a young moon halfway</p><p>up the sky, and as the home-farer caught sight of it, tangled in the </p><p>branches of a tall old elm, he could scarce bring to his mind the </p><p>shabby London suburb where he was, and he felt as if he were in a </p><p>pleasant country place--pleasanter, indeed, than the deep country was </p><p>as he had known it. </p><p>He came right down to the river-side, and lingered a little, looking </p><p>over the low wall to note the moonlit river, near upon high water, go </p><p>swirling and glittering up to Chiswick Eyot: as for the ugly bridge</p><p>below, he did not notice it or think of it, except when for a moment </p><p>(says our friend) it struck him that he missed the row of lights down </p><p>stream. Then he turned to his house door and let himself in; and</p><p>even as he shut the door to, disappeared all remembrance of that </p><p>brilliant logic and foresight which had so illuminated the recent </p><p>discussion; and of the discussion itself there remained no trace, </p><p>save a vague hope, that was now become a pleasure, for days of peace </p><p>and rest, and cleanness and smiling goodwill. </p><p>In this mood he tumbled into bed, and fell asleep after his wont, in </p><p>two minutes' time; but (contrary to his wont) woke up again not long </p><p>after in that curiously wide-awake condition which sometimes </p><p>surprises even good sleepers; a condition under which we feel all our </p><p>wits preternaturally sharpened, while all the miserable muddles we </p><p>have ever got into, all the disgraces and losses of our lives, will </p><p>insist on thrusting themselves forward for the consideration of those </p><p>sharpened wits. </p><p>In this state he lay (says our friend) till he had almost begun to </p><p>enjoy it: till the tale of his stupidities amused him, and the</p><p>entanglements before him, which he saw so clearly, began to shape </p><p>themselves into an amusing story for him. </p><p>He heard one o'clock strike, then two and then three; after which he </p><p>fell asleep again. Our friend says that from that sleep he awoke</p><p>once more, and afterwards went through such surprising adventures </p><p>that he thinks that they should be told to our comrades, and indeed </p><p>the public in general, and therefore proposes to tell them now. But,</p><p>says he, I think it would be better if I told them in the first</p><p>person, as if it were myself who had gone through them; which, </p><p>indeed, will be the easier and more natural to me, since I understand </p><p>the feelings and desires of the comrade of whom I am telling better </p><p>than any one else in the world does. </p><p>CHAPTER II: A MORNING BATH</p><p>Well, I awoke, and found that I had kicked my bedclothes off; and no </p><p>wonder, for it was hot and the sun shining brightly. I jumped up and</p><p>washed and hurried on my clothes, but in a hazy and half-awake </p><p>condition, as if I had slept for a long, long while, and could not </p><p>shake off the weight of slumber. In fact, I rather took it for</p><p>granted that I was at home in my own room than saw that it was so. </p><p>When I was dressed, I felt the place so hot that I made haste to get </p><p>out of the room and out of the house; and my first feeling was a </p><p>delicious relief caused by the fresh air and pleasant breeze; my </p><p>second, as I began to gather my wits together, mere measureless </p><p>wonder: for it was winter when I went to bed the last night, and</p><p>now, by witness of the river-side trees, it was summer, a beautiful </p><p>bright morning seemingly of early June. However, there was still the</p><p>Thames sparkling under the sun, and near high water, as last night I </p><p>had seen it gleaming under the moon. </p><p>I had by no means shaken off the feeling of oppression, and wherever </p><p>I might have been should scarce have been quite conscious of the </p><p>place; so it was no wonder that I felt rather puzzled in despite of </p><p>the familiar face of the Thames. Withal I felt dizzy and queer; and</p><p>remembering that people often got a boat and had a swim in mid- </p><p>stream, I thought I would do no less. It seems very early, quoth I</p><p>to myself, but I daresay I shall find someone at Biffin's to take me. </p><p>However, I didn't get as far as Biffin's, or even turn to my left </p><p>thitherward, because just then I began to see that there was a </p><p>landing-stage right before me in front of my house: in fact, on the</p><p>place where my next-door neighbour had rigged one up, though somehow </p><p>it didn't look like that either. Down I went on to it, and sure</p><p>enough among the empty boats moored to it lay a man on his sculls in </p><p>a solid-looking tub of a boat clearly meant for bathers. He nodded</p><p>to me, and bade me good-morning as if he expected me, so I jumped in </p><p>without any words, and he paddled away quietly as I peeled for my </p><p>swim. As we went, I looked down on the water, and couldn't help</p><p>saying - </p><p>"How clear the water is this morning!" </p><p>"Is it?" said he; "I didn't notice it. You know the flood-tide</p><p>always thickens it a bit." </p><p>"H'm," said I, "I have seen it pretty muddy even at half-ebb." </p><p>He said nothing in answer, but seemed rather astonished; and as he </p><p>now lay just stemming the tide, and I had my clothes off, I jumped in </p><p>without more ado. Of course when I had my head above water again I</p><p>turned towards the tide, and my eyes naturally sought for the bridge, </p><p>and so utterly astonished was I by what I saw, that I forgot to</p><p>strike out, and went spluttering under water again, and when I came </p><p>up made straight for the boat; for I felt that I must ask some </p><p>questions of my waterman, so bewildering had been the half-sight I </p><p>had seen from the face of the river with the water hardly out of my </p><p>eyes; though by this time I was quit of the slumbrous and dizzy </p><p>feeling, and was wide-awake and clear-headed. </p><p>As I got in up the steps which he had lowered, and he held out his </p><p>hand to help me, we went drifting speedily up towards Chiswick; but </p><p>now he caught up the sculls and brought her head round again, and </p><p>said--"A short swim, neighbour; but perhaps you find the water cold </p><p>this morning, after your journey. Shall I put you ashore at once, or</p><p>would you like to go down to Putney before breakfast?" </p><p>He spoke in a way so unlike what I should have expected from a </p><p>Hammersmith waterman, that I stared at him, as I answered, "Please to </p><p>hold her a little; I want to look about me a bit." </p><p>"All right," he said; "it's no less pretty in its way here than it is </p><p>off Barn Elms; it's jolly everywhere this time in the morning. I'm</p><p>glad you got up early; it's barely five o'clock yet." </p><p>If I was astonished with my sight of the river banks, I was no less </p><p>astonished at my waterman, now that I had time to look at him and see </p><p>him with my head and eyes clear. </p><p>He was a handsome young fellow, with a peculiarly pleasant and </p><p>friendly look about his eyes,--an expression which was quite new to </p><p>me then, though I soon became familiar with it. For the rest, he was</p><p>dark-haired and berry-brown of skin, well-knit and strong, and </p><p>obviously used to exercising his muscles, but with nothing rough or </p><p>coarse about him, and clean as might be. His dress was not like any</p><p>modern work-a-day clothes I had seen, but would have served very well </p><p>as a costume for a picture of fourteenth century life: it was of</p><p>dark blue cloth, simple enough, but of fine web, and without a stain </p><p>on it. He had a brown leather belt round his waist, and I noticed</p><p>that its clasp was of damascened steel beautifully wrought. In</p><p>short, he seemed to be like some specially manly and refined young </p><p>gentleman, playing waterman for a spree, and I concluded that this </p><p>was the case. </p><p>I felt that I must make some conversation; so I pointed to the Surrey </p><p>bank, where I noticed some light plank stages running down the </p><p>foreshore, with windlasses at the landward end of them, and said, </p><p>"What are they doing with those things here? If we were on the Tay,</p><p>I should have said that they were for drawing the salmon nets; but </p><p>here--" </p><p>"Well," said he, smiling, "of course that is what they ARE for. </p><p>Where there are salmon, there are likely to be salmon-nets, Tay or </p><p>Thames; but of course they are not always in use; we don't want </p><p>salmon EVERY day of the season." </p><p>I was going to say, "But is this the Thames?" but held my peace in my </p><p>wonder, and turned my bewildered eyes eastward to look at the bridge </p><p>again, and thence to the shores of the London river; and surely there </p><p>was enough to astonish me. For though there was a bridge across the</p><p>stream and houses on its banks, how all was changed from last night! </p><p>The soap-works with their smoke-vomiting chimneys were gone; the</p><p>engineer's works gone; the lead-works gone; and no sound of rivetting </p><p>and hammering came down the west wind from Thorneycroft's. Then the</p><p>bridge! I had perhaps dreamed of such a bridge, but never seen such</p><p>an one out of an illuminated manuscript; for not even the Ponte </p><p>Vecchio at Florence came anywhere near it. It was of stone arches,</p><p>splendidly solid, and as graceful as they were strong; high enough </p><p>also to let ordinary river traffic through easily. Over the parapet</p><p>showed quaint and fanciful little buildings, which I supposed to be </p><p>booths or shops, beset with painted and gilded vanes and spirelets. </p><p>The stone was a little weathered, but showed no marks of the grimy </p><p>sootiness which I was used to on every London building more than a </p><p>year old. In short, to me a wonder of a bridge.</p><p>The sculler noted my eager astonished look, and said, as if in answer </p><p>to my thoughts - </p><p>"Yes, it IS a pretty bridge, isn't it? Even the up-stream bridges,</p><p>which are so much smaller, are scarcely daintier, and the down-stream </p><p>ones are scarcely more dignified and stately." </p><p>I found myself saying, almost against my will, "How old is it?" </p><p>"Oh, not very old," he said; "it was built or at least opened, in </p><p>2003. There used to be a rather plain timber bridge before then."</p><p>The date shut my mouth as if a key had been turned in a padlock fixed </p><p>to my lips; for I saw that something inexplicable had happened, and </p><p>that if I said much, I should be mixed up in a game of cross </p><p>questions and crooked answers. So I tried to look unconcerned, and</p><p>to glance in a matter-of-course way at the banks of the river, though </p><p>this is what I saw up to the bridge and a little beyond; say as far </p><p>as the site of the soap-works. Both shores had a line of very pretty</p><p>houses, low and not large, standing back a little way from the river; </p><p>they were mostly built of red brick and roofed with tiles, and </p><p>looked, above all, comfortable, and as if they were, so to say, </p><p>alive, and sympathetic with the life of the dwellers in them. There</p><p>was a continuous garden in front of them, going down to the water's </p><p>edge, in which the flowers were now blooming luxuriantly, and sending </p><p>delicious waves of summer scent over the eddying stream. Behind the</p><p>houses, I could see great trees rising, mostly planes, and looking </p><p>down the water there were the reaches towards Putney almost as if </p><p>they were a lake with a forest shore, so thick were the big trees; </p><p>and I said aloud, but as if to myself - </p><p>"Well, I'm glad that they have not built over Barn Elms." </p><p>I blushed for my fatuity as the words slipped out of my mouth, and my </p><p>companion looked at me with a half smile which I thought I </p><p>understood; so to hide my confusion I said, "Please take me ashore </p><p>now: I want to get my breakfast."</p><p>He nodded, and brought her head round with a sharp stroke, and in a </p><p>trice we were at the landing-stage again. He jumped out and I</p><p>followed him; and of course I was not surprised to see him wait, as </p><p>if for the inevitable after-piece that follows the doing of a service </p><p>to a fellow-citizen. So I put my hand into my waistcoat-pocket, and</p><p>said, "How much?" though still with the uncomfortable feeling that </p><p>perhaps I was offering money to a gentleman. </p><p>He looked puzzled, and said, "How much? I don't quite understand</p><p>what you are asking about. Do you mean the tide? If so, it is close</p><p>on the turn now." </p><p>I blushed, and said, stammering, "Please don't take it amiss if I ask </p><p>you; I mean no offence: but what ought I to pay you? You see I am a</p><p>stranger, and don't know your customs--or your coins." </p><p>And therewith I took a handful of money out of my pocket, as one does </p><p>in a foreign country. And by the way, I saw that the silver had</p><p>oxydised, and was like a blackleaded stove in colour. </p><p>He still seemed puzzled, but not at all offended; and he looked at </p><p>the coins with some curiosity. I thought, Well after all, he IS a</p><p>waterman, and is considering what he may venture to take. He seems</p><p>such a nice fellow that I'm sure I don't grudge him a little over- </p><p>payment. I wonder, by the way, whether I couldn't hire him as a</p><p>guide for a day or two, since he is so intelligent. </p><p>Therewith my new friend said thoughtfully: </p><p>"I think I know what you mean. You think that I have done you a</p><p>service; so you feel yourself bound to give me something which I am </p><p>not to give to a neighbour, unless he has done something special for </p><p>me. I have heard of this kind of thing; but pardon me for saying,</p><p>that it seems to us a troublesome and roundabout custom; and we don't </p><p>know how to manage it. And you see this ferrying and giving people</p><p>casts about the water is my BUSINESS, which I would do for anybody; </p><p>so to take gifts in connection with it would look very queer. </p><p>Besides, if one person gave me something, then another might, and </p><p>another, and so on; and I hope you won't think me rude if I say that </p><p>I shouldn't know where to stow away so many mementos of friendship." </p><p>And he laughed loud and merrily, as if the idea of being paid for his </p><p>work was a very funny joke. I confess I began to be afraid that the</p><p>man was mad, though he looked sane enough; and I was rather glad to </p><p>think that I was a good swimmer, since we were so close to a deep </p><p>swift stream. However, he went on by no means like a madman:</p><p>"As to your coins, they are curious, but not very old; they seem to </p><p>be all of the reign of Victoria; you might give them to some </p><p>scantily-furnished museum. Ours has enough of such coins, besides a</p><p>fair number of earlier ones, many of which are beautiful, whereas </p><p>these nineteenth century ones are so beastly ugly, ain't they? We</p><p>have a piece of Edward III., with the king in a ship, and little </p><p>leopards and fleurs-de-lys all along the gunwale, so delicately </p><p>worked. You see," he said, with something of a smirk, "I am fond of</p><p>working in gold and fine metals; this buckle here is an early piece </p><p>of mine." </p><p>No doubt I looked a little shy of him under the influence of that </p><p>doubt as to his sanity. So he broke off short, and said in a kind</p><p>voice: </p><p>"But I see that I am boring you, and I ask your pardon. For, not to</p><p>mince matters, I can tell that you ARE a stranger, and must come from </p><p>a place very unlike England. But also it is clear that it won't do</p><p>to overdose you with information about this place, and that you had </p><p>best suck it in little by little. Further, I should take it as very</p><p>kind in you if you would allow me to be the showman of our new world </p><p>to you, since you have stumbled on me first. Though indeed it will</p><p>be a mere kindness on your part, for almost anybody would make as </p><p>good a guide, and many much better." </p><p>There certainly seemed no flavour in him of Colney Hatch; and besides </p><p>I thought I could easily shake him off if it turned out that he </p><p>really was mad; so I said: </p><p>"It is a very kind offer, but it is difficult for me to accept it, </p><p>unless--" I was going to say, Unless you will let me pay you</p><p>properly; but fearing to stir up Colney Hatch again, I changed the </p><p>sentence into, "I fear I shall be taking you away from your work--or </p><p>your amusement." </p><p>"O," he said, "don't trouble about that, because it will give me an </p><p>opportunity of doing a good turn to a friend of mine, who wants to </p><p>take my work here. He is a weaver from Yorkshire, who has rather</p><p>overdone himself between his weaving and his mathematics, both indoor </p><p>work, you see; and being a great friend of mine, he naturally came to </p><p>me to get him some outdoor work. If you think you can put up with</p><p>me, pray take me as your guide." </p><p>He added presently: "It is true that I have promised to go up-stream</p><p>to some special friends of mine, for the hay-harvest; but they won't </p><p>be ready for us for more than a week: and besides, you might go with</p><p>me, you know, and see some very nice people, besides making notes of </p><p>our ways in Oxfordshire. You could hardly do better if you want to</p><p>see the country." </p><p>I felt myself obliged to thank him, whatever might come of it; and he </p><p>added eagerly: </p><p>"Well, then, that's settled. I will give my friend call; he is</p><p>living in the Guest House like you, and if he isn't up yet, he ought </p><p>to be this fine summer morning." </p><p>Therewith he took a little silver bugle-horn from his girdle and blew </p><p>two or three sharp but agreeable notes on it; and presently from the </p><p>house which stood on the site of my old dwelling (of which more </p><p>hereafter) another young man came sauntering towards us. He was not</p><p>so well-looking or so strongly made as my sculler friend, being </p><p>sandy-haired, rather pale, and not stout-built; but his face was not </p><p>wanting in that happy and friendly expression which I had noticed in </p><p>his friend. As he came up smiling towards us, I saw with pleasure</p><p>that I must give up the Colney Hatch theory as to the waterman, for </p><p>no two madmen ever behaved as they did before a sane man. His dress</p><p>also was of the same cut as the first man's, though somewhat gayer, </p><p>the surcoat being light green with a golden spray embroidered on the </p><p>breast, and his belt being of filagree silver-work. </p><p>He gave me good-day very civilly, and greeting his friend joyously, </p><p>said: </p><p>"Well, Dick, what is it this morning? Am I to have my work, or</p><p>rather your work? I dreamed last night that we were off up the river</p><p>fishing." </p><p>"All right, Bob," said my sculler; "you will drop into my place, and</p><p>if you find it too much, there is George Brightling on the look out </p><p>for a stroke of work, and he lives close handy to you. But see, here</p><p>is a stranger who is willing to amuse me to-day by taking me as his </p><p>guide about our country-side, and you may imagine I don't want to </p><p>lose the opportunity; so you had better take to the boat at once. </p><p>But in any case I shouldn't have kept you out of it for long, since I </p><p>am due in the hay-fields in a few days." </p><p>The newcomer rubbed his hands with glee, but turning to me, said in a </p><p>friendly voice: </p><p>"Neighbour, both you and friend Dick are lucky, and will have a good </p><p>time to-day, as indeed I shall too. But you had better both come in</p><p>with me at once and get something to eat, lest you should forget your </p><p>dinner in your amusement. I suppose you came into the Guest House</p><p>after I had gone to bed last night?" </p><p>I nodded, not caring to enter into a long explanation which would </p><p>have led to nothing, and which in truth by this time I should have </p><p>begun to doubt myself. And we all three turned toward the door of</p><p>the Guest House. </p><p>CHAPTER III: THE GUEST HOUSE AND BREAKFAST THEREIN</p><p>I lingered a little behind the others to have a stare at this house, </p><p>which, as I have told you, stood on the site of my old dwelling. </p><p>It was a longish building with its gable ends turned away from the </p><p>road, and long traceried windows coming rather low down set in the </p><p>wall that faced us. It was very handsomely built of red brick with a</p><p>lead roof; and high up above the windows there ran a frieze of figure </p><p>subjects in baked clay, very well executed, and designed with a force </p><p>and directness which I had never noticed in modern work before. The</p><p>subjects I recognised at once, and indeed was very particularly </p><p>familiar with them. </p><p>However, all this I took in in a minute; for we were presently within </p><p>doors, and standing in a hall with a floor of marble mosaic and an </p><p>open timber roof. There were no windows on the side opposite to the</p><p>river, but arches below leading into chambers, one of which showed a </p><p>glimpse of a garden beyond, and above them a long space of wall gaily </p><p>painted (in fresco, I thought) with similar subjects to those of the </p><p>frieze outside; everything about the place was handsome and </p><p>generously solid as to material; and though it was not very large </p><p>(somewhat smaller than Crosby Hall perhaps), one felt in it that </p><p>exhilarating sense of space and freedom which satisfactory </p><p>architecture always gives to an unanxious man who is in the habit of </p><p>using his eyes. </p><p>In this pleasant place, which of course I knew to be the hall of the </p><p>Guest House, three young women were flitting to and fro. As they</p><p>were the first of the sex I had seen on this eventful morning, I </p><p>naturally looked at them very attentively, and found them at least as </p><p>good as the gardens, the architecture, and the male men. As to their</p><p>dress, which of course I took note of, I should say that they were</p><p>decently veiled with drapery, and not bundled up with millinery; that </p><p>they were clothed like women, not upholstered like armchairs, as most </p><p>women of our time are. In short, their dress was somewhat between</p><p>that of the ancient classical costume and the simpler forms of the </p><p>fourteenth century garments, though it was clearly not an imitation </p><p>of either: the materials were light and gay to suit the season. As</p><p>to the women themselves, it was pleasant indeed to see them, they </p><p>were so kind and happy-looking in expression of face, so shapely and </p><p>well-knit of body, and thoroughly healthy-looking and strong. All</p><p>were at least comely, and one of them very handsome and regular of </p><p>feature. They came up to us at once merrily and without the least</p><p>affectation of shyness, and all three shook hands with me as if I </p><p>were a friend newly come back from a long journey: though I could</p><p>not help noticing that they looked askance at my garments; for I had </p><p>on my clothes of last night, and at the best was never a dressy </p><p>person. </p><p>A word or two from Robert the weaver, and they bustled about on our </p><p>behoof, and presently came and took us by the hands and led us to a </p><p>table in the pleasantest corner of the hall, where our breakfast was </p><p>spread for us; and, as we sat down, one of them hurried out by the </p><p>chambers aforesaid, and came back again in a little while with a </p><p>great bunch of roses, very different in size and quality to what </p><p>Hammersmith had been wont to grow, but very like the produce of an </p><p>old country garden. She hurried back thence into the buttery, and</p><p>came back once more with a delicately made glass, into which she put </p><p>the flowers and set them down in the midst of our table. One of the</p><p>others, who had run off also, then came back with a big cabbage-leaf </p><p>filled with strawberries, some of them barely ripe, and said as she </p><p>set them on the table, "There, now; I thought of that before I got up </p><p>this morning; but looking at the stranger here getting into your </p><p>boat, Dick, put it out of my head; so that I was not before ALL the </p><p>blackbirds: however, there are a few about as good as you will get</p><p>them anywhere in Hammersmith this morning." </p><p>Robert patted her on the head in a friendly manner; and we fell to on </p><p>our breakfast, which was simple enough, but most delicately cooked, </p><p>and set on the table with much daintiness. The bread was</p><p>particularly good, and was of several different kinds, from the big, </p><p>rather close, dark-coloured, sweet-tasting farmhouse loaf, which was </p><p>most to my liking, to the thin pipe-stems of wheaten crust, such as I </p><p>have eaten in Turin. </p><p>As I was putting the first mouthfuls into my mouth my eye caught a </p><p>carved and gilded inscription on the panelling, behind what we should </p><p>have called the High Table in an Oxford college hall, and a familiar </p><p>name in it forced me to read it through. Thus it ran:</p><p>"Guests and neighbours, on the site of this Guest-hall once stood the </p><p>lecture-room of the Hammersmith Socialists. Drink a glass to the</p><p>memory! May 1962."</p><p>It is difficult to tell you how I felt as I read these words, and I </p><p>suppose my face showed how much I was moved, for both my friends </p><p>looked curiously at me, and there was silence between us for a little </p><p>while. </p><p>Presently the weaver, who was scarcely so well mannered a man as the </p><p>ferryman, said to me rather awkwardly: </p><p>"Guest, we don't know what to call you: is there any indiscretion in</p><p>asking you your name?" </p><p>"Well," said I, "I have some doubts about it myself; so suppose you </p><p>call me Guest, which is a family name, you know, and add William to </p><p>it if you please." </p><p>Dick nodded kindly to me; but a shade of anxiousness passed over the </p><p>weaver's face, and he said--"I hope you don't mind my asking, but </p><p>would you tell me where you come from? I am curious about such</p><p>things for good reasons, literary reasons." </p><p>Dick was clearly kicking him underneath the table; but he was not </p><p>much abashed, and awaited my answer somewhat eagerly. As for me, I</p><p>was just going to blurt out "Hammersmith," when I bethought me what </p><p>an entanglement of cross purposes that would lead us into; so I took </p><p>time to invent a lie with circumstance, guarded by a little truth, </p><p>and said: </p><p>"You see, I have been such a long time away from Europe that things </p><p>seem strange to me now; but I was born and bred on the edge of Epping </p><p>Forest; Walthamstow and Woodford, to wit." </p><p>"A pretty place, too," broke in Dick; "a very jolly place, now that </p><p>the trees have had time to grow again since the great clearing of </p><p>houses in 1955." </p><p>Quoth the irrepressible weaver: "Dear neighbour, since you knew the</p><p>Forest some time ago, could you tell me what truth there is in the </p><p>rumour that in the nineteenth century the trees were all pollards?" </p><p>This was catching me on my archaeological natural-history side, and I </p><p>fell into the trap without any thought of where and when I was; so I </p><p>began on it, while one of the girls, the handsome one, who had been </p><p>scattering little twigs of lavender and other sweet-smelling herbs </p><p>about the floor, came near to listen, and stood behind me with her </p><p>hand on my shoulder, in which she held some of the plant that I used </p><p>to call balm: its strong sweet smell brought back to my mind my very</p><p>early days in the kitchen-garden at Woodford, and the large blue </p><p>plums which grew on the wall beyond the sweet-herb patch,--a </p><p>connection of memories which all boys will see at once. </p><p>I started off: "When I was a boy, and for long after, except for a</p><p>piece about Queen Elizabeth's Lodge, and for the part about High </p><p>Beech, the Forest was almost wholly made up of pollard hornbeams </p><p>mixed with holly thickets. But when the Corporation of London took</p><p>it over about twenty-five years ago, the topping and lopping, which </p><p>was a part of the old commoners' rights, came to an end, and the </p><p>trees were let to grow. But I have not seen the place now for many</p><p>years, except once, when we Leaguers went a pleasuring to High Beech. </p><p>I was very much shocked then to see how it was built-over and </p><p>altered; and the other day we heard that the philistines were going </p><p>to landscape-garden it. But what you were saying about the building</p><p>being stopped and the trees growing is only too good news;--only you </p><p>know--" </p><p>At that point I suddenly remembered Dick's date, and stopped short </p><p>rather confused. The eager weaver didn't notice my confusion, but</p><p>said hastily, as if he were almost aware of his breach of good </p><p>manners, "But, I say, how old are you?" </p><p>Dick and the pretty girl both burst out laughing, as if Robert's </p><p>conduct were excusable on the grounds of eccentricity; and Dick said </p><p>amidst his laughter: </p><p>"Hold hard, Bob; this questioning of guests won't do. Why, much</p><p>learning is spoiling you. You remind me of the radical cobblers in</p><p>the silly old novels, who, according to the authors, were prepared to </p><p>trample down all good manners in the pursuit of utilitarian </p><p>knowledge. The fact is, I begin to think that you have so muddled</p><p>your head with mathematics, and with grubbing into those idiotic old </p><p>books about political economy (he he!), that you scarcely know how to </p><p>behave. Really, it is about time for you to take to some open-air</p><p>work, so that you may clear away the cobwebs from your brain." </p><p>The weaver only laughed good-humouredly; and the girl went up to him </p><p>and patted his cheek and said laughingly, "Poor fellow! he was born </p><p>so." </p><p>As for me, I was a little puzzled, but I laughed also, partly for </p><p>company's sake, and partly with pleasure at their unanxious happiness </p><p>and good temper; and before Robert could make the excuse to me which </p><p>he was getting ready, I said: </p><p>"But neighbours" (I had caught up that word), "I don't in the least </p><p>mind answering questions, when I can do so: ask me as many as you</p><p>please; it's fun for me. I will tell you all about Epping Forest</p><p>when I was a boy, if you please; and as to my age, I'm not a fine </p><p>lady, you know, so why shouldn't I tell you? I'm hard on fifty-six."</p><p>In spite of the recent lecture on good manners, the weaver could not </p><p>help giving a long "whew" of astonishment, and the others were so </p><p>amused by his naivete that the merriment flitted all over their </p><p>faces, though for courtesy's sake they forbore actual laughter; while </p><p>I looked from one to the other in a puzzled manner, and at last said: </p><p>"Tell me, please, what is amiss: you know I want to learn from you.</p><p>And please laugh; only tell me." </p><p>Well, they DID laugh, and I joined them again, for the above-stated </p><p>reasons. But at last the pretty woman said coaxingly -</p><p>"Well, well, he IS rude, poor fellow! but you see I may as well tell </p><p>you what he is thinking about: he means that you look rather old for</p><p>your age. But surely there need be no wonder in that, since you have</p><p>been travelling; and clearly from all you have been saying, in </p><p>unsocial countries. It has often been said, and no doubt truly, that</p><p>one ages very quickly if one lives amongst unhappy people. Also they</p><p>say that southern England is a good place for keeping good looks." </p><p>She blushed and said: "How old am I, do you think?"</p><p>"Well," quoth I, "I have always been told that a woman is as old as </p><p>she looks, so without offence or flattery, I should say that you were </p><p>twenty." </p><p>She laughed merrily, and said, "I am well served out for fishing for </p><p>compliments, since I have to tell you the truth, to wit, that I am </p><p>forty-two." </p><p>I stared at her, and drew musical laughter from her again; but I </p><p>might well stare, for there was not a careful line on her face; her </p><p>skin was as smooth as ivory, her cheeks full and round, her lips as </p><p>red as the roses she had brought in; her beautiful arms, which she </p><p>had bared for her work, firm and well-knit from shoulder to wrist. </p><p>She blushed a little under my gaze, though it was clear that she had </p><p>taken me for a man of eighty; so to pass it off I said - </p><p>"Well, you see, the old saw is proved right again, and I ought not to </p><p>have let you tempt me into asking you a rude question." </p><p>She laughed again, and said: "Well, lads, old and young, I must get</p><p>to my work now. We shall be rather busy here presently; and I want</p><p>to clear it off soon, for I began to read a pretty old book </p><p>yesterday, and I want to get on with it this morning: so good-bye</p><p>for the present." </p><p>She waved a hand to us, and stepped lightly down the hall, taking (as </p><p>Scott says) at least part of the sun from our table as she went. </p><p>When she was gone, Dick said "Now guest, won't you ask a question or </p><p>two of our friend here? It is only fair that you should have your</p><p>turn." </p><p>"I shall be very glad to answer them," said the weaver. </p><p>"If I ask you any questions, sir," said I, "they will not be very </p><p>severe; but since I hear that you are a weaver, I should like to ask </p><p>you something about that craft, as I am--or was--interested in it." </p><p>"Oh," said he, "I shall not be of much use to you there, I'm afraid. </p><p>I only do the most mechanical kind of weaving, and am in fact but a </p><p>poor craftsman, unlike Dick here. Then besides the weaving, I do a</p><p>little with machine printing and composing, though I am little use at </p><p>the finer kinds of printing; and moreover machine printing is </p><p>beginning to die out, along with the waning of the plague of book- </p><p>making, so I have had to turn to other things that I have a taste </p><p>for, and have taken to mathematics; and also I am writing a sort of </p><p>antiquarian book about the peaceable and private history, so to say, </p><p>of the end of the nineteenth century,--more for the sake of giving a </p><p>picture of the country before the fighting began than for anything </p><p>else. That was why I asked you those questions about Epping Forest.</p><p>You have rather puzzled me, I confess, though your information was so </p><p>interesting. But later on, I hope, we may have some more talk</p><p>together, when our friend Dick isn't here. I know he thinks me</p><p>rather a grinder, and despises me for not being very deft with my </p><p>hands: that's the way nowadays. From what I have read of the</p><p>nineteenth century literature (and I have read a good deal), it is </p><p>clear to me that this is a kind of revenge for the stupidity of that </p><p>day, which despised everybody who COULD use his hands. But Dick, old</p><p>fellow, Ne quid nimis! Don't overdo it!"</p><p>"Come now," said Dick, "am I likely to? Am I not the most tolerant</p><p>man in the world? Am I not quite contented so long as you don't make</p><p>me learn mathematics, or go into your new science of aesthetics, and</p><p>let me do a little practical aesthetics with my gold and steel, and </p><p>the blowpipe and the nice little hammer? But, hillo! here comes</p><p>another questioner for you, my poor guest. I say, Bob, you must help</p><p>me to defend him now." </p><p>"Here, Boffin," he cried out, after a pause; "here we are, if you </p><p>must have it!" </p><p>I looked over my shoulder, and saw something flash and gleam in the </p><p>sunlight that lay across the hall; so I turned round, and at my ease </p><p>saw a splendid figure slowly sauntering over the pavement; a man </p><p>whose surcoat was embroidered most copiously as well as elegantly, so </p><p>that the sun flashed back from him as if he had been clad in golden </p><p>armour. The man himself was tall, dark-haired, and exceedingly</p><p>handsome, and though his face was no less kindly in expression than </p><p>that of the others, he moved with that somewhat haughty mien which </p><p>great beauty is apt to give to both men and women. He came and sat</p><p>down at our table with a smiling face, stretching out his long legs </p><p>and hanging his arm over the chair in the slowly graceful way which </p><p>tall and well-built people may use without affectation. He was a man</p><p>in the prime of life, but looked as happy as a child who has just got </p><p>a new toy. He bowed gracefully to me and said -</p><p>"I see clearly that you are the guest, of whom Annie has just told </p><p>me, who have come from some distant country that does not know of us, </p><p>or our ways of life. So I daresay you would not mind answering me a</p><p>few questions; for you see--" </p><p>Here Dick broke in: "No, please, Boffin! let it alone for the</p><p>present. Of course you want the guest to be happy and comfortable;</p><p>and how can that be if he has to trouble himself with answering all </p><p>sorts of questions while he is still confused with the new customs </p><p>and people about him? No, no: I am going to take him where he can</p><p>ask questions himself, and have them answered; that is, to my great- </p><p>grandfather in Bloomsbury: and I am sure you can't have anything to</p><p>say against that. So instead of bothering, you had much better go</p><p>out to James Allen's and get a carriage for me, as I shall drive him </p><p>up myself; and please tell Jim to let me have the old grey, for I can </p><p>drive a wherry much better than a carriage. Jump up, old fellow, and</p><p>don't be disappointed; our guest will keep himself for you and your </p><p>stories." </p><p>I stared at Dick; for I wondered at his speaking to such a dignified- </p><p>looking personage so familiarly, not to say curtly; for I thought </p><p>that this Mr. Boffin, in spite of his well-known name out of Dickens, </p><p>must be at the least a senator of these strange people. However, he</p><p>got up and said, "All right, old oar-wearer, whatever you like; this </p><p>is not one of my busy days; and though" (with a condescending bow to </p><p>me) "my pleasure of a talk with this learned guest is put off, I </p><p>admit that he ought to see your worthy kinsman as soon as possible. </p><p>Besides, perhaps he will be the better able to answer MY questions </p><p>after his own have been answered." </p><p>And therewith he turned and swung himself out of the hall. </p><p>When he was well gone, I said: "Is it wrong to ask what Mr. Boffin</p><p>is? whose name, by the way, reminds me of many pleasant hours passed </p><p>in reading Dickens." </p><p>Dick laughed. "Yes, yes," said he, "as it does us. I see you take</p><p>the allusion. Of course his real name is not Boffin, but Henry</p><p>Johnson; we only call him Boffin as a joke, partly because he is a </p><p>dustman, and partly because he will dress so showily, and get as much </p><p>gold on him as a baron of the Middle Ages. As why should he not if</p><p>he likes? only we are his special friends, you know, so of course we </p><p>jest with him." </p><p>I held my tongue for some time after that; but Dick went on: </p><p>"He is a capital fellow, and you can't help liking him; but he has a </p><p>weakness: he will spend his time in writing reactionary novels, and</p><p>is very proud of getting the local colour right, as he calls it; and </p><p>as he thinks you come from some forgotten corner of the earth, where </p><p>people are unhappy, and consequently interesting to a story-teller, </p><p>he thinks he might get some information out of you. O, he will be</p><p>quite straightforward with you, for that matter. Only for your own</p><p>comfort beware of him!" </p><p>"Well, Dick," said the weaver, doggedly, "I think his novels are very </p><p>good." </p><p>"Of course you do," said Dick; "birds of a feather flock together; </p><p>mathematics and antiquarian novels stand on much the same footing. </p><p>But here he comes again." </p><p>And in effect the Golden Dustman hailed us from the hall-door; so we </p><p>all got up and went into the porch, before which, with a strong grey </p><p>horse in the shafts, stood a carriage ready for us which I could not </p><p>help noticing. It was light and handy, but had none of that</p><p>sickening vulgarity which I had known as inseparable from the </p><p>carriages of our time, especially the "elegant" ones, but was as </p><p>graceful and pleasant in line as a Wessex waggon. We got in, Dick</p><p>and I. The girls, who had come into the porch to see us off, waved</p><p>their hands to us; the weaver nodded kindly; the dustman bowed as </p><p>gracefully as a troubadour; Dick shook the reins, and we were off. </p><p>CHAPTER IV: A MARKET BY THE WAY</p><p>We turned away from the river at once, and were soon in the main road </p><p>that runs through Hammersmith. But I should have had no guess as to</p><p>where I was, if I had not started from the waterside; for King Street </p><p>was gone, and the highway ran through wide sunny meadows and garden- </p><p>like tillage. The Creek, which we crossed at once, had been rescued</p><p>from its culvert, and as we went over its pretty bridge we saw its </p><p>waters, yet swollen by the tide, covered with gay boats of different </p><p>sizes. There were houses about, some on the road, some amongst the</p><p>fields with pleasant lanes leading down to them, and each surrounded </p><p>by a teeming garden. They were all pretty in design, and as solid as</p><p>might be, but countryfied in appearance, like yeomen's dwellings; </p><p>some of them of red brick like those by the river, but more of timber </p><p>and plaster, which were by the necessity of their construction so </p><p>like mediaeval houses of the same materials that I fairly felt as if </p><p>I were alive in the fourteenth century; a sensation helped out by the </p><p>costume of the people that we met or passed, in whose dress there was</p><p>nothing "modern." Almost everybody was gaily dressed, but especially</p><p>the women, who were so well-looking, or even so handsome, that I </p><p>could scarcely refrain my tongue from calling my companion's </p><p>attention to the fact. Some faces I saw that were thoughtful, and in</p><p>these I noticed great nobility of expression, but none that had a </p><p>glimmer of unhappiness, and the greater part (we came upon a good </p><p>many people) were frankly and openly joyous. </p><p>I thought I knew the Broadway by the lie of the roads that still met </p><p>there. On the north side of the road was a range of buildings and</p><p>courts, low, but very handsomely built and ornamented, and in that </p><p>way forming a great contrast to the unpretentiousness of the houses </p><p>round about; while above this lower building rose the steep lead- </p><p>covered roof and the buttresses and higher part of the wall of a </p><p>great hall, of a splendid and exuberant style of architecture, of </p><p>which one can say little more than that it seemed to me to embrace </p><p>the best qualities of the Gothic of northern Europe with those of the </p><p>Saracenic and Byzantine, though there was no copying of any one of </p><p>these styles. On the other, the south side, of the road was an</p><p>octagonal building with a high roof, not unlike the Baptistry at </p><p>Florence in outline, except that it was surrounded by a lean-to that </p><p>clearly made an arcade or cloisters to it: it also was most</p><p>delicately ornamented. </p><p>This whole mass of architecture which we had come upon so suddenly </p><p>from amidst the pleasant fields was not only exquisitely beautiful in </p><p>itself, but it bore upon it the expression of such generosity and </p><p>abundance of life that I was exhilarated to a pitch that I had never </p><p>yet reached. I fairly chuckled for pleasure. My friend seemed to</p><p>understand it, and sat looking on me with a pleased and affectionate </p><p>interest. We had pulled up amongst a crowd of carts, wherein sat</p><p>handsome healthy-looking people, men, women, and children very gaily </p><p>dressed, and which were clearly market carts, as they were full of </p><p>very tempting-looking country produce. </p><p>I said, "I need not ask if this is a market, for I see clearly that </p><p>it is; but what market is it that it is so splendid? And what is the</p><p>glorious hall there, and what is the building on the south side?" </p><p>"O," said he, "it is just our Hammersmith market; and I am glad you </p><p>like it so much, for we are really proud of it. Of course the hall</p><p>inside is our winter Mote-House; for in summer we mostly meet in the </p><p>fields down by the river opposite Barn Elms. The building on our</p><p>right hand is our theatre: I hope you like it."</p><p>"I should be a fool if I didn't," said I. </p><p>He blushed a little as he said: "I am glad of that, too, because I</p><p>had a hand in it; I made the great doors, which are of damascened </p><p>bronze. We will look at them later in the day, perhaps: but we</p><p>ought to be getting on now. As to the market, this is not one of our</p><p>busy days; so we shall do better with it another time, because you </p><p>will see more people." </p><p>I thanked him, and said: "Are these the regular country people?</p><p>What very pretty girls there are amongst them." </p><p>As I spoke, my eye caught the face of a beautiful woman, tall, dark- </p><p>haired, and white-skinned, dressed in a pretty light-green dress in</p><p>honour of the season and the hot day, who smiled kindly on me, and </p><p>more kindly still, I thought on Dick; so I stopped a minute, but </p><p>presently went on: </p><p>"I ask because I do not see any of the country-looking people I </p><p>should have expected to see at a market--I mean selling things </p><p>there." </p><p>"I don't understand," said he, "what kind of people you would expect </p><p>to see; nor quite what you mean by 'country' people. These are the</p><p>neighbours, and that like they run in the Thames valley. There are</p><p>parts of these islands which are rougher and rainier than we are </p><p>here, and there people are rougher in their dress; and they </p><p>themselves are tougher and more hard-bitten than we are to look at. </p><p>But some people like their looks better than ours; they say they have </p><p>more character in them--that's the word. Well, it's a matter of</p><p>taste.--Anyhow, the cross between us and them generally turns out </p><p>well," added he, thoughtfully. </p><p>I heard him, though my eyes were turned away from him, for that </p><p>pretty girl was just disappearing through the gate with her big </p><p>basket of early peas, and I felt that disappointed kind of feeling </p><p>which overtakes one when one has seen an interesting or lovely face </p><p>in the streets which one is never likely to see again; and I was </p><p>silent a little. At last I said: "What I mean is, that I haven't</p><p>seen any poor people about--not one." </p><p>He knit his brows, looked puzzled, and said: "No, naturally; if</p><p>anybody is poorly, he is likely to be within doors, or at best </p><p>crawling about the garden: but I don't know of any one sick at</p><p>present. Why should you expect to see poorly people on the road?"</p><p>"No, no," I said; "I don't mean sick people. I mean poor people, you</p><p>know; rough people." </p><p>"No," said he, smiling merrily, "I really do not know. The fact is,</p><p>you must come along quick to my great-grandfather, who will </p><p>understand you better than I do. Come on, Greylocks!" Therewith he</p><p>shook the reins, and we jogged along merrily eastward. </p><p>CHAPTER V: CHILDREN ON THE ROAD</p><p>Past the Broadway there were fewer houses on either side. We</p><p>presently crossed a pretty little brook that ran across a piece of </p><p>land dotted over with trees, and awhile after came to another market </p><p>and town-hall, as we should call it. Although there was nothing</p><p>familiar to me in its surroundings, I knew pretty well where we were, </p><p>and was not surprised when my guide said briefly, "Kensington </p><p>Market." </p><p>Just after this we came into a short street of houses: or rather,</p><p>one long house on either side of the way, built of timber and </p><p>plaster, and with a pretty arcade over the footway before it. </p><p>Quoth Dick: "This is Kensington proper. People are apt to gather</p><p>here rather thick, for they like the romance of the wood; and </p><p>naturalists haunt it, too; for it is a wild spot even here, what </p><p>there is of it; for it does not go far to the south: it goes from</p><p>here northward and west right over Paddington and a little way down </p><p>Notting Hill: thence it runs north-east to Primrose Hill, and so on;</p><p>rather a narrow strip of it gets through Kingsland to Stoke-Newington </p><p>and Clapton, where it spreads out along the heights above the Lea </p><p>marshes; on the other side of which, as you know, is Epping Forest </p><p>holding out a hand to it. This part we are just coming to is called</p><p>Kensington Gardens; though why 'gardens' I don't know." </p><p>I rather longed to say, "Well, _I_ know"; but there were so many </p><p>things about me which I did NOT know, in spite of his assumptions, </p><p>that I thought it better to hold my tongue. </p><p>The road plunged at once into a beautiful wood spreading out on </p><p>either side, but obviously much further on the north side, where even </p><p>the oaks and sweet chestnuts were of a good growth; while the </p><p>quicker-growing trees (amongst which I thought the planes and </p><p>sycamores too numerous) were very big and fine-grown. </p><p>It was exceedingly pleasant in the dappled shadow, for the day was </p><p>growing as hot as need be, and the coolness and shade soothed my </p><p>excited mind into a condition of dreamy pleasure, so that I felt as </p><p>if I should like to go on for ever through that balmy freshness. My</p><p>companion seemed to share in my feelings, and let the horse go slower </p><p>and slower as he sat inhaling the green forest scents, chief amongst </p><p>which was the smell of the trodden bracken near the wayside. </p><p>Romantic as this Kensington wood was, however, it was not lonely. We</p><p>came on many groups both coming and going, or wandering in the edges </p><p>of the wood. Amongst these were many children from six or eight</p><p>years old up to sixteen or seventeen. They seemed to me to be</p><p>especially fine specimens of their race, and enjoying themselves to </p><p>the utmost; some of them were hanging about little tents pitched on </p><p>the greensward, and by some of these fires were burning, with pots </p><p>hanging over them gipsy fashion. Dick explained to me that there</p><p>were scattered houses in the forest, and indeed we caught a glimpse </p><p>of one or two. He said they were mostly quite small, such as used to</p><p>be called cottages when there were slaves in the land, but they were </p><p>pleasant enough and fitting for the wood. </p><p>"They must be pretty well stocked with children," said I, pointing to </p><p>the many youngsters about the way. </p><p>"O," said he, "these children do not all come from the near houses, </p><p>the woodland houses, but from the country-side generally. They often</p><p>make up parties, and come to play in the woods for weeks together in </p><p>summer-time, living in tents, as you see. We rather encourage them</p><p>to it; they learn to do things for themselves, and get to notice the </p><p>wild creatures; and, you see, the less they stew inside houses the </p><p>better for them. Indeed, I must tell you that many grown people will</p><p>go to live in the forests through the summer; though they for the </p><p>most part go to the bigger ones, like Windsor, or the Forest of Dean, </p><p>or the northern wastes. Apart from the other pleasures of it, it</p><p>gives them a little rough work, which I am sorry to say is getting </p><p>somewhat scarce for these last fifty years." </p><p>He broke off, and then said, "I tell you all this, because I see that</p><p>if I talk I must be answering questions, which you are thinking, even </p><p>if you are not speaking them out; but my kinsman will tell you more </p><p>about it." </p><p>I saw that I was likely to get out of my depth again, and so merely </p><p>for the sake of tiding over an awkwardness and to say something, I </p><p>said - </p><p>"Well, the youngsters here will be all the fresher for school when </p><p>the summer gets over and they have to go back again." </p><p>"School?" he said; "yes, what do you mean by that word? I don't see</p><p>how it can have anything to do with children. We talk, indeed, of a</p><p>school of herring, and a school of painting, and in the former sense </p><p>we might talk of a school of children--but otherwise," said he, </p><p>laughing, "I must own myself beaten." </p><p>Hang it! thought I, I can't open my mouth without digging up some new </p><p>complexity. I wouldn't try to set my friend right in his etymology;</p><p>and I thought I had best say nothing about the boy-farms which I had </p><p>been used to call schools, as I saw pretty clearly that they had </p><p>disappeared; so I said after a little fumbling, "I was using the word </p><p>in the sense of a system of education." </p><p>"Education?" said he, meditatively, "I know enough Latin to know that </p><p>the word must come from educere, to lead out; and I have heard it </p><p>used; but I have never met anybody who could give me a clear </p><p>explanation of what it means." </p><p>You may imagine how my new friends fell in my esteem when I heard </p><p>this frank avowal; and I said, rather contemptuously, "Well, </p><p>education means a system of teaching young people." </p><p>"Why not old people also?" said he with a twinkle in his eye. "But,"</p><p>he went on, "I can assure you our children learn, whether they go </p><p>through a 'system of teaching' or not. Why, you will not find one of</p><p>these children about here, boy or girl, who cannot swim; and every </p><p>one of them has been used to tumbling about the little forest ponies- </p><p>-there's one of them now! They all of them know how to cook; the</p><p>bigger lads can mow; many can thatch and do odd jobs at carpentering; </p><p>or they know how to keep shop. I can tell you they know plenty of</p><p>things." </p><p>"Yes, but their mental education, the teaching of their minds," said </p><p>I, kindly translating my phrase. </p><p>"Guest," said he, "perhaps you have not learned to do these things I </p><p>have been speaking about; and if that's the case, don't you run away </p><p>with the idea that it doesn't take some skill to do them, and doesn't </p><p>give plenty of work for one's mind: you would change your opinion if</p><p>you saw a Dorsetshire lad thatching, for instance. But, however, I</p><p>understand you to be speaking of book-learning; and as to that, it is </p><p>a simple affair. Most children, seeing books lying about, manage to</p><p>read by the time they are four years old; though I am told it has not </p><p>always been so. As to writing, we do not encourage them to scrawl</p><p>too early (though scrawl a little they will), because it gets them </p><p>into a habit of ugly writing; and what's the use of a lot of ugly </p><p>writing being done, when rough printing can be done so easily. You</p><p>understand that handsome writing we like, and many people will write</p><p>their books out when they make them, or get them written; I mean </p><p>books of which only a few copies are needed--poems, and such like, </p><p>you know. However, I am wandering from my lambs; but you must excuse</p><p>me, for I am interested in this matter of writing, being myself a </p><p>fair-writer." </p><p>"Well," said I, "about the children; when they know how to read and </p><p>write, don't they learn something else--languages, for instance?" </p><p>"Of course," he said; "sometimes even before they can read, they can </p><p>talk French, which is the nearest language talked on the other side </p><p>of the water; and they soon get to know German also, which is talked </p><p>by a huge number of communes and colleges on the mainland. These are</p><p>the principal languages we speak in these islands, along with English </p><p>or Welsh, or Irish, which is another form of Welsh; and children pick </p><p>them up very quickly, because their elders all know them; and besides </p><p>our guests from over sea often bring their children with them, and </p><p>the little ones get together, and rub their speech into one another." </p><p>"And the older languages?" said I. </p><p>"O, yes," said he, "they mostly learn Latin and Greek along with the </p><p>modern ones, when they do anything more than merely pick up the </p><p>latter." </p><p>"And history?" said I; "how do you teach history?" </p><p>"Well," said he, "when a person can read, of course he reads what he </p><p>likes to; and he can easily get someone to tell him what are the best </p><p>books to read on such or such a subject, or to explain what he </p><p>doesn't understand in the books when he is reading them." </p><p>"Well," said I, "what else do they learn? I suppose they don't all</p><p>learn history?" </p><p>"No, no," said he; "some don't care about it; in fact, I don't think </p><p>many do. I have heard my great-grandfather say that it is mostly in</p><p>periods of turmoil and strife and confusion that people care much </p><p>about history; and you know," said my friend, with an amiable smile, </p><p>"we are not like that now. No; many people study facts about the</p><p>make of things and the matters of cause and effect, so that knowledge </p><p>increases on us, if that be good; and some, as you heard about friend </p><p>Bob yonder, will spend time over mathematics. 'Tis no use forcing</p><p>people's tastes." </p><p>Said I: "But you don't mean that children learn all these things?"</p><p>Said he: "That depends on what you mean by children; and also you</p><p>must remember how much they differ. As a rule, they don't do much</p><p>reading, except for a few story-books, till they are about fifteen </p><p>years old; we don't encourage early bookishness: though you will</p><p>find some children who WILL take to books very early; which perhaps </p><p>is not good for them; but it's no use thwarting them; and very often </p><p>it doesn't last long with them, and they find their level before they </p><p>are twenty years old. You see, children are mostly given to</p><p>imitating their elders, and when they see most people about them </p><p>engaged in genuinely amusing work, like house-building and street- </p><p>paving, and gardening, and the like, that is what they want to be </p><p>doing; so I don't think we need fear having too many book-learned</p><p>men." </p><p>What could I say? I sat and held my peace, for fear of fresh</p><p>entanglements. Besides, I was using my eyes with all my might,</p><p>wondering as the old horse jogged on, when I should come into London </p><p>proper, and what it would be like now. </p><p>But my companion couldn't let his subject quite drop, and went on </p><p>meditatively: </p><p>"After all, I don't know that it does them much harm, even if they do </p><p>grow up book-students. Such people as that, 'tis a great pleasure</p><p>seeing them so happy over work which is not much sought for. And</p><p>besides, these students are generally such pleasant people; so kind </p><p>and sweet tempered; so humble, and at the same time so anxious to </p><p>teach everybody all that they know. Really, I like those that I have</p><p>met prodigiously." </p><p>This seemed to me such very queer talk that I was on the point of </p><p>asking him another question; when just as we came to the top of a </p><p>rising ground, down a long glade of the wood on my right I caught </p><p>sight of a stately building whose outline was familiar to me, and I </p><p>cried out, "Westminster Abbey!" </p><p>"Yes," said Dick, "Westminster Abbey--what there is left of it." </p><p>"Why, what have you done with it?" quoth I in terror. </p><p>"What have WE done with it?" said he; "nothing much, save clean it. </p><p>But you know the whole outside was spoiled centuries ago: as to the</p><p>inside, that remains in its beauty after the great clearance, which </p><p>took place over a hundred years ago, of the beastly monuments to </p><p>fools and knaves, which once blocked it up, as great-grandfather </p><p>says." </p><p>We went on a little further, and I looked to the right again, and </p><p>said, in rather a doubtful tone of voice, "Why, there are the Houses </p><p>of Parliament! Do you still use them?"</p><p>He burst out laughing, and was some time before he could control </p><p>himself; then he clapped me on the back and said: </p><p>"I take you, neighbour; you may well wonder at our keeping them </p><p>standing, and I know something about that, and my old kinsman has </p><p>given me books to read about the strange game that they played there. </p><p>Use them! Well, yes, they are used for a sort of subsidiary market,</p><p>and a storage place for manure, and they are handy for that, being on </p><p>the waterside. I believe it was intended to pull them down quite at</p><p>the beginning of our days; but there was, I am told, a queer </p><p>antiquarian society, which had done some service in past times, and </p><p>which straightway set up its pipe against their destruction, as it </p><p>has done with many other buildings, which most people looked upon as </p><p>worthless, and public nuisances; and it was so energetic, and had </p><p>such good reasons to give, that it generally gained its point; and I </p><p>must say that when all is said I am glad of it: because you know at</p><p>the worst these silly old buildings serve as a kind of foil to the </p><p>beautiful ones which we build now. You will see several others in</p><p>these parts; the place my great-grandfather lives in, for instance, </p><p>and a big building called St. Paul's. And you see, in this matter we</p><p>need not grudge a few poorish buildings standing, because we can </p><p>always build elsewhere; nor need we be anxious as to the breeding of </p><p>pleasant work in such matters, for there is always room for more and </p><p>more work in a new building, even without making it pretentious. For</p><p>instance, elbow-room WITHIN doors is to me so delightful that if I </p><p>were driven to it I would most sacrifice outdoor space to it. Then,</p><p>of course, there is the ornament, which, as we must all allow, may </p><p>easily be overdone in mere living houses, but can hardly be in mote- </p><p>halls and markets, and so forth. I must tell you, though, that my</p><p>great-grandfather sometimes tells me I am a little cracked on this </p><p>subject of fine building; and indeed I DO think that the energies of </p><p>mankind are chiefly of use to them for such work; for in that </p><p>direction I can see no end to the work, while in many others a limit </p><p>does seem possible." </p><p>CHAPTER VI: A LITTLE SHOPPING</p><p>As he spoke, we came suddenly out of the woodland into a short street </p><p>of handsomely built houses, which my companion named to me at once as </p><p>Piccadilly: the lower part of these I should have called shops, if</p><p>it had not been that, as far as I could see, the people were ignorant </p><p>of the arts of buying and selling. Wares were displayed in their</p><p>finely designed fronts, as if to tempt people in, and people stood </p><p>and looked at them, or went in and came out with parcels under their </p><p>arms, just like the real thing. On each side of the street ran an</p><p>elegant arcade to protect foot-passengers, as in some of the old </p><p>Italian cities. About halfway down, a huge building of the kind I</p><p>was now prepared to expect told me that this also was a centre of </p><p>some kind, and had its special public buildings. </p><p>Said Dick: "Here, you see, is another market on a different plan</p><p>from most others: the upper stories of these houses are used for</p><p>guest-houses; for people from all about the country are apt to drift </p><p>up hither from time to time, as folk are very thick upon the ground, </p><p>which you will see evidence of presently, and there are people who </p><p>are fond of crowds, though I can't say that I am." </p><p>I couldn't help smiling to see how long a tradition would last. Here</p><p>was the ghost of London still asserting itself as a centre,--an </p><p>intellectual centre, for aught I knew. However, I said nothing,</p><p>except that I asked him to drive very slowly, as the things in the </p><p>booths looked exceedingly pretty. </p><p>"Yes," said he, "this is a very good market for pretty things, and is </p><p>mostly kept for the handsomer goods, as the Houses-of-Parliament </p><p>market, where they set out cabbages and turnips and such like things, </p><p>along with beer and the rougher kind of wine, is so near." </p><p>Then he looked at me curiously, and said, "Perhaps you would like to </p><p>do a little shopping, as 'tis called." </p><p>I looked at what I could see of my rough blue duds, which I had </p><p>plenty of opportunity of contrasting with the gay attire of the </p><p>citizens we had come across; and I thought that if, as seemed likely, </p><p>I should presently be shown about as a curiosity for the amusement of</p><p>this most unbusinesslike people, I should like to look a little less </p><p>like a discharged ship's purser. But in spite of all that had</p><p>happened, my hand went down into my pocket again, where to my dismay </p><p>it met nothing metallic except two rusty old keys, and I remembered </p><p>that amidst our talk in the guest-hall at Hammersmith I had taken the </p><p>cash out of my pocket to show to the pretty Annie, and had left it </p><p>lying there. My face fell fifty per cent., and Dick, beholding me,</p><p>said rather sharply - </p><p>"Hilloa, Guest! what's the matter now? Is it a wasp?"</p><p>"No," said I, "but I've left it behind." </p><p>"Well," said he, "whatever you have left behind, you can get in this </p><p>market again, so don't trouble yourself about it." </p><p>I had come to my senses by this time, and remembering the astounding </p><p>customs of this country, had no mind for another lecture on social </p><p>economy and the Edwardian coinage; so I said only - </p><p>"My clothes--Couldn't I? You see--What do think could be done about</p><p>them?" </p><p>He didn't seem in the least inclined to laugh, but said quite </p><p>gravely: </p><p>"O don't get new clothes yet. You see, my great-grandfather is an</p><p>antiquarian, and he will want to see you just as you are. And, you</p><p>know, I mustn't preach to you, but surely it wouldn't be right for </p><p>you to take away people's pleasure of studying your attire, by just </p><p>going and making yourself like everybody else. You feel that, don't</p><p>you?" said he, earnestly. </p><p>I did NOT feel it my duty to set myself up for a scarecrow amidst </p><p>this beauty-loving people, but I saw I had got across some </p><p>ineradicable prejudice, and that it wouldn't do to quarrel with my </p><p>new friend. So I merely said, "O certainly, certainly."</p><p>"Well," said he, pleasantly, "you may as well see what the inside of </p><p>these booths is like: think of something you want."</p><p>Said I: "Could I get some tobacco and a pipe?"</p><p>"Of course," said he; "what was I thinking of, not asking you before? </p><p>Well, Bob is always telling me that we non-smokers are a selfish lot, </p><p>and I'm afraid he is right. But come along; here is a place just</p><p>handy." </p><p>Therewith he drew rein and jumped down, and I followed. A very</p><p>handsome woman, splendidly clad in figured silk, was slowly passing </p><p>by, looking into the windows as she went. To her quoth Dick:</p><p>"Maiden, would you kindly hold our horse while we go in for a </p><p>little?" She nodded to us with a kind smile, and fell to patting the</p><p>horse with her pretty hand. </p><p>"What a beautiful creature!" said I to Dick as we entered. </p><p>"What, old Greylocks?" said he, with a sly grin. </p><p>"No, no," said I; "Goldylocks,--the lady." </p><p>"Well, so she is," said he. "'Tis a good job there are so many of</p><p>them that every Jack may have his Jill: else I fear that we should</p><p>get fighting for them. Indeed," said he, becoming very grave, "I</p><p>don't say that it does not happen even now, sometimes. For you know</p><p>love is not a very reasonable thing, and perversity and self-will are </p><p>commoner than some of our moralist's think." He added, in a still</p><p>more sombre tone: "Yes, only a month ago there was a mishap down by</p><p>us, that in the end cost the lives of two men and a woman, and, as it </p><p>were, put out the sunlight for us for a while. Don't ask me about it</p><p>just now; I may tell you about it later on." </p><p>By this time we were within the shop or booth, which had a counter, </p><p>and shelves on the walls, all very neat, though without any pretence </p><p>of showiness, but otherwise not very different to what I had been </p><p>used to. Within were a couple of children--a brown-skinned boy of</p><p>about twelve, who sat reading a book, and a pretty little girl of </p><p>about a year older, who was sitting also reading behind the counter; </p><p>they were obviously brother and sister. </p><p>"Good morning, little neighbours," said Dick. "My friend here wants</p><p>tobacco and a pipe; can you help him?" </p><p>"O yes, certainly," said the girl with a sort of demure alertness </p><p>which was somewhat amusing. The boy looked up, and fell to staring</p><p>at my outlandish attire, but presently reddened and turned his head, </p><p>as if he knew that he was not behaving prettily. </p><p>"Dear neighbour," said the girl, with the most solemn countenance of </p><p>a child playing at keeping shop, "what tobacco is it you would like?" </p><p>"Latakia," quoth I, feeling as if I were assisting at a child's game, </p><p>and wondering whether I should get anything but make-believe. </p><p>But the girl took a dainty little basket from a shelf beside her, </p><p>went to a jar, and took out a lot of tobacco and put the filled </p><p>basket down on the counter before me, where I could both smell and </p><p>see that it was excellent Latakia. </p><p>"But you haven't weighed it," said I, "and--and how much am I to </p><p>take?" </p><p>"Why," she said, "I advise you to cram your bag, because you may be </p><p>going where you can't get Latakia. Where is your bag?"</p><p>I fumbled about, and at last pulled out my piece of cotton print </p><p>which does duty with me for a tobacco pouch. But the girl looked at</p><p>it with some disdain, and said - </p><p>"Dear neighbour, I can give you something much better than that </p><p>cotton rag." And she tripped up the shop and came back presently,</p><p>and as she passed the boy whispered something in his ear, and he </p><p>nodded and got up and went out. The girl held up in her finger and</p><p>thumb a red morocco bag, gaily embroidered, and said, "There, I have </p><p>chosen one for you, and you are to have it: it is pretty, and will</p><p>hold a lot." </p><p>Therewith she fell to cramming it with the tobacco, and laid it down</p><p>by me and said, "Now for the pipe: that also you must let me choose</p><p>for you; there are three pretty ones just come in." </p><p>She disappeared again, and came back with a big-bowled pipe in her </p><p>hand, carved out of some hard wood very elaborately, and mounted in </p><p>gold sprinkled with little gems. It was, in short, as pretty and gay</p><p>a toy as I had ever seen; something like the best kind of Japanese </p><p>work, but better. </p><p>"Dear me!" said I, when I set eyes on it, "this is altogether too </p><p>grand for me, or for anybody but the Emperor of the World. Besides,</p><p>I shall lose it: I always lose my pipes."</p><p>The child seemed rather dashed, and said, "Don't you like it, </p><p>neighbour?" </p><p>"O yes," I said, "of course I like it." </p><p>"Well, then, take it," said she, "and don't trouble about losing it. </p><p>What will it matter if you do? Somebody is sure to find it, and he</p><p>will use it, and you can get another." </p><p>I took it out of her hand to look at it, and while I did so, forgot </p><p>my caution, and said, "But however am I to pay for such a thing as </p><p>this?" </p><p>Dick laid his hand on my shoulder as I spoke, and turning I met his </p><p>eyes with a comical expression in them, which warned me against </p><p>another exhibition of extinct commercial morality; so I reddened and </p><p>held my tongue, while the girl simply looked at me with the deepest </p><p>gravity, as if I were a foreigner blundering in my speech, for she </p><p>clearly didn't understand me a bit. </p><p>"Thank you so very much," I said at last, effusively, as I put the </p><p>pipe in my pocket, not without a qualm of doubt as to whether I </p><p>shouldn't find myself before a magistrate presently. </p><p>"O, you are so very welcome," said the little lass, with an </p><p>affectation of grown-up manners at their best which was very quaint. </p><p>"It is such a pleasure to serve dear old gentlemen like you; </p><p>especially when one can see at once that you have come from far over </p><p>sea." </p><p>"Yes, my dear," quoth I, "I have been a great traveller." </p><p>As I told this lie from pure politeness, in came the lad again, with </p><p>a tray in his hands, on which I saw a long flask and two beautiful </p><p>glasses. "Neighbours," said the girl (who did all the talking, her</p><p>brother being very shy, clearly) "please to drink a glass to us </p><p>before you go, since we do not have guests like this every day." </p><p>Therewith the boy put the tray on the counter and solemnly poured out </p><p>a straw-coloured wine into the long bowls. Nothing loth, I drank,</p><p>for I was thirsty with the hot day; and thinks I, I am yet in the </p><p>world, and the grapes of the Rhine have not yet lost their flavour; </p><p>for if ever I drank good Steinberg, I drank it that morning; and I </p><p>made a mental note to ask Dick how they managed to make fine wine </p><p>when there were no longer labourers compelled to drink rot-gut </p><p>instead of the fine wine which they themselves made.</p><p>"Don't you drink a glass to us, dear little neighbours?" said I. </p><p>"I don't drink wine," said the lass; "I like lemonade better: but I</p><p>wish your health!" </p><p>"And I like ginger-beer better," said the little lad. </p><p>Well, well, thought I, neither have children's tastes changed much. </p><p>And therewith we gave them good day and went out of the booth. </p><p>To my disappointment, like a change in a dream, a tall old man was </p><p>holding our horse instead of the beautiful woman. He explained to us</p><p>that the maiden could not wait, and that he had taken her place; and </p><p>he winked at us and laughed when he saw how our faces fell, so that </p><p>we had nothing for it but to laugh also - </p><p>"Where are you going?" said he to Dick. </p><p>"To Bloomsbury," said Dick. </p><p>"If you two don't want to be alone, I'll come with you," said the old </p><p>man. </p><p>"All right," said Dick, "tell me when you want to get down and I'll </p><p>stop for you. Let's get on."</p><p>So we got under way again; and I asked if children generally waited </p><p>on people in the markets. "Often enough," said he, "when it isn't a</p><p>matter of dealing with heavy weights, but by no means always. The</p><p>children like to amuse themselves with it, and it is good for them, </p><p>because they handle a lot of diverse wares and get to learn about </p><p>them, how they are made, and where they come from, and so on. </p><p>Besides, it is such very easy work that anybody can do it. It is</p><p>said that in the early days of our epoch there were a good many </p><p>people who were hereditarily afflicted with a disease called </p><p>Idleness, because they were the direct descendants of those who in </p><p>the bad times used to force other people to work for them--the </p><p>people, you know, who are called slave-holders or employers of labour </p><p>in the history books. Well, these Idleness-stricken people used to</p><p>serve booths ALL their time, because they were fit for so little. </p><p>Indeed, I believe that at one time they were actually COMPELLED to do </p><p>some such work, because they, especially the women, got so ugly and </p><p>produced such ugly children if their disease was not treated sharply, </p><p>that the neighbours couldn't stand it. However, I'm happy to say</p><p>that all that is gone by now; the disease is either extinct, or </p><p>exists in such a mild form that a short course of aperient medicine </p><p>carries it off. It is sometimes called the Blue-devils now, or the</p><p>Mulleygrubs. Queer names, ain't they?"</p><p>"Yes," said I, pondering much. But the old man broke in:</p><p>"Yes, all that is true, neighbour; and I have seen some of those poor </p><p>women grown old. But my father used to know some of them when they</p><p>were young; and he said that they were as little like young women as </p><p>might be: they had hands like bunches of skewers, and wretched</p><p>little arms like sticks; and waists like hour-glasses, and thin lips </p><p>and peaked noses and pale cheeks; and they were always pretending to </p><p>be offended at anything you said or did to them. No wonder they bore</p><p>ugly children, for no one except men like them could be in love with </p><p>them--poor things!" </p><p>He stopped, and seemed to be musing on his past life, and then said: </p><p>"And do you know, neighbours, that once on a time people were still </p><p>anxious about that disease of Idleness: at one time we gave</p><p>ourselves a great deal of trouble in trying to cure people of it. </p><p>Have you not read any of the medical books on the subject?" </p><p>"No," said I; for the old man was speaking to me. </p><p>"Well," said he, "it was thought at the time that it was the survival </p><p>of the old mediaeval disease of leprosy: it seems it was very</p><p>catching, for many of the people afflicted by it were much secluded, </p><p>and were waited upon by a special class of diseased persons queerly </p><p>dressed up, so that they might be known. They wore amongst other</p><p>garments, breeches made of worsted velvet, that stuff which used to </p><p>be called plush some years ago." </p><p>All this seemed very interesting to me, and I should like to have </p><p>made the old man talk more. But Dick got rather restive under so</p><p>much ancient history: besides, I suspect he wanted to keep me as</p><p>fresh as he could for his great-grandfather. So he burst out</p><p>laughing at last, and said: "Excuse me, neighbours, but I can't help</p><p>it. Fancy people not liking to work!--it's too ridiculous. Why,</p><p>even you like to work, old fellow--sometimes," said he, </p><p>affectionately patting the old horse with the whip. "What a queer</p><p>disease! it may well be called Mulleygrubs!" </p><p>And he laughed out again most boisterously; rather too much so, I </p><p>thought, for his usual good manners; and I laughed with him for </p><p>company's sake, but from the teeth outward only; for _I_ saw nothing </p><p>funny in people not liking to work, as you may well imagine. </p><p>CHAPTER VII: TRAFALGAR SQUARE</p><p>And now again I was busy looking about me, for we were quite clear of </p><p>Piccadilly Market, and were in a region of elegantly-built much </p><p>ornamented houses, which I should have called villas if they had been </p><p>ugly and pretentious, which was very far from being the case. Each</p><p>house stood in a garden carefully cultivated, and running over with </p><p>flowers. The blackbirds were singing their best amidst the garden-</p><p>trees, which, except for a bay here and there, and occasional groups </p><p>of limes, seemed to be all fruit-trees: there were a great many</p><p>cherry-trees, now all laden with fruit; and several times as we </p><p>passed by a garden we were offered baskets of fine fruit by children </p><p>and young girls. Amidst all these gardens and houses it was of</p><p>course impossible to trace the sites of the old streets: but it</p><p>seemed to me that the main roadways were the same as of old. </p><p>We came presently into a large open space, sloping somewhat toward </p><p>the south, the sunny site of which had been taken advantage of for </p><p>planting an orchard, mainly, as I could see, of apricot-trees, in the </p><p>midst of which was a pretty gay little structure of wood, painted and</p><p>gilded, that looked like a refreshment-stall. From the southern side</p><p>of the said orchard ran a long road, chequered over with the shadow </p><p>of tall old pear trees, at the end of which showed the high tower of </p><p>the Parliament House, or Dung Market. </p><p>A strange sensation came over me; I shut my eyes to keep out the </p><p>sight of the sun glittering on this fair abode of gardens, and for a </p><p>moment there passed before them a phantasmagoria of another day. A</p><p>great space surrounded by tall ugly houses, with an ugly church at </p><p>the corner and a nondescript ugly cupolaed building at my back; the </p><p>roadway thronged with a sweltering and excited crowd, dominated by </p><p>omnibuses crowded with spectators. In the midst a paved be-</p><p>fountained square, populated only by a few men dressed in blue, and a </p><p>good many singularly ugly bronze images (one on the top of a tall </p><p>column). The said square guarded up to the edge of the roadway by a</p><p>four-fold line of big men clad in blue, and across the southern </p><p>roadway the helmets of a band of horse-soldiers, dead white in the </p><p>greyness of the chilly November afternoon--I opened my eyes to the </p><p>sunlight again and looked round me, and cried out among the </p><p>whispering trees and odorous blossoms, "Trafalgar Square!" </p><p>"Yes," said Dick, who had drawn rein again, "so it is. I don't</p><p>wonder at your finding the name ridiculous: but after all, it was</p><p>nobody's business to alter it, since the name of a dead folly doesn't </p><p>bite. Yet sometimes I think we might have given it a name which</p><p>would have commemorated the great battle which was fought on the spot </p><p>itself in 1952,--that was important enough, if the historians don't </p><p>lie." </p><p>"Which they generally do, or at least did," said the old man. "For</p><p>instance, what can you make of this, neighbours? I have read a</p><p>muddled account in a book--O a stupid book--called James' Social </p><p>Democratic History, of a fight which took place here in or about the </p><p>year 1887 (I am bad at dates). Some people, says this story, were</p><p>going to hold a ward-mote here, or some such thing, and the </p><p>Government of London, or the Council, or the Commission, or what not </p><p>other barbarous half-hatched body of fools, fell upon these citizens </p><p>(as they were then called) with the armed hand. That seems too</p><p>ridiculous to be true; but according to this version of the story, </p><p>nothing much came of it, which certainly IS too ridiculous to be </p><p>true." </p><p>"Well," quoth I, "but after all your Mr. James is right so far, and </p><p>it IS true; except that there was no fighting, merely unarmed and </p><p>peaceable people attacked by ruffians armed with bludgeons." </p><p>"And they put up with that?" said Dick, with the first unpleasant </p><p>expression I had seen on his good-tempered face. </p><p>Said I, reddening: "We HAD to put up with it; we couldn't help it."</p><p>The old man looked at me keenly, and said: "You seem to know a great</p><p>deal about it, neighbour! And is it really true that nothing came of</p><p>it?" </p><p>"This came of it," said I, "that a good many people were sent to </p><p>prison because of it." </p><p>"What, of the bludgeoners?" said the old man. "Poor devils!"</p><p>"No, no," said I, "of the bludgeoned." </p><p>Said the old man rather severely: "Friend, I expect that you have</p><p>been reading some rotten collection of lies, and have been taken in </p><p>by it too easily." </p><p>"I assure you," said I, "what I have been saying is true." </p><p>"Well, well, I am sure you think so, neighbour," said the old man, </p><p>"but I don't see why you should be so cocksure." </p><p>As I couldn't explain why, I held my tongue. Meanwhile Dick, who had</p><p>been sitting with knit brows, cogitating, spoke at last, and said </p><p>gently and rather sadly: </p><p>"How strange to think that there have been men like ourselves, and </p><p>living in this beautiful and happy country, who I suppose had </p><p>feelings and affections like ourselves, who could yet do such </p><p>dreadful things." </p><p>"Yes," said I, in a didactic tone; "yet after all, even those days </p><p>were a great improvement on the days that had gone before them. Have</p><p>you not read of the Mediaeval period, and the ferocity of its </p><p>criminal laws; and how in those days men fairly seemed to have </p><p>enjoyed tormenting their fellow men?--nay, for the matter of that, </p><p>they made their God a tormentor and a jailer rather than anything </p><p>else." </p><p>"Yes," said Dick, "there are good books on that period also, some of </p><p>which I have read. But as to the great improvement of the nineteenth</p><p>century, I don't see it. After all, the Mediaeval folk acted after</p><p>their conscience, as your remark about their God (which is true) </p><p>shows, and they were ready to bear what they inflicted on others; </p><p>whereas the nineteenth century ones were hypocrites, and pretended to </p><p>be humane, and yet went on tormenting those whom they dared to treat </p><p>so by shutting them up in prison, for no reason at all, except that </p><p>they were what they themselves, the prison-masters, had forced them </p><p>to be. O, it's horrible to think of!"</p><p>"But perhaps," said I, "they did not know what the prisons were </p><p>like." </p><p>Dick seemed roused, and even angry. "More shame for them," said he,</p><p>"when you and I know it all these years afterwards. Look you,</p><p>neighbour, they couldn't fail to know what a disgrace a prison is to </p><p>the Commonwealth at the best, and that their prisons were a good step </p><p>on towards being at the worst." </p><p>Quoth I: "But have you no prisons at all now?"</p><p>As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I felt that I had made a </p><p>mistake, for Dick flushed red and frowned, and the old man looked </p><p>surprised and pained; and presently Dick said angrily, yet as if </p><p>restraining himself somewhat - </p><p>"Man alive! how can you ask such a question? Have I not told you</p><p>that we know what a prison means by the undoubted evidence of really </p><p>trustworthy books, helped out by our own imaginations? And haven't</p><p>you specially called me to notice that the people about the roads and </p><p>streets look happy? and how could they look happy if they knew that </p><p>their neighbours were shut up in prison, while they bore such things </p><p>quietly? And if there were people in prison, you couldn't hide it</p><p>from folk, like you may an occasional man-slaying; because that isn't </p><p>done of set purpose, with a lot of people backing up the slayer in </p><p>cold blood, as this prison business is. Prisons, indeed! O no, no,</p><p>no!" </p><p>He stopped, and began to cool down, and said in a kind voice: "But</p><p>forgive me! I needn't be so hot about it, since there are NOT any</p><p>prisons: I'm afraid you will think the worse of me for losing my</p><p>temper. Of course, you, coming from the outlands, cannot be expected</p><p>to know about these things. And now I'm afraid I have made you feel</p><p>uncomfortable." </p><p>In a way he had; but he was so generous in his heat, that I liked him </p><p>the better for it, and I said: </p><p>"No, really 'tis all my fault for being so stupid. Let me change the</p><p>subject, and ask you what the stately building is on our left just </p><p>showing at the end of that grove of plane-trees?" </p><p>"Ah," he said, "that is an old building built before the middle of </p><p>the twentieth century, and as you see, in a queer fantastic style not </p><p>over beautiful; but there are some fine things inside it, too, mostly </p><p>pictures, some very old. It is called the National Gallery; I have</p><p>sometimes puzzled as to what the name means: anyhow, nowadays</p><p>wherever there is a place where pictures are kept as curiosities </p><p>permanently it is called a National Gallery, perhaps after this one. </p><p>Of course there are a good many of them up and down the country." </p><p>I didn't try to enlighten him, feeling the task too heavy; but I </p><p>pulled out my magnificent pipe and fell a-smoking, and the old horse </p><p>jogged on again. As we went, I said:</p><p>"This pipe is a very elaborate toy, and you seem so reasonable in </p><p>this country, and your architecture is so good, that I rather wonder </p><p>at your turning out such trivialities." </p><p>It struck me as I spoke that this was rather ungrateful of me, after </p><p>having received such a fine present; but Dick didn't seem to notice </p><p>my bad manners, but said: </p><p>"Well, I don't know; it is a pretty thing, and since nobody need make </p><p>such things unless they like, I don't see why they shouldn't make </p><p>them, if they like. Of course, if carvers were scarce they would all</p><p>be busy on the architecture, as you call it, and then these 'toys' (a </p><p>good word) would not be made; but since there are plenty of people </p><p>who can carve--in fact, almost everybody, and as work is somewhat </p><p>scarce, or we are afraid it may be, folk do not discourage this kind </p><p>of petty work." </p><p>He mused a little, and seemed somewhat perturbed; but presently his </p><p>face cleared, and he said: "After all, you must admit that the pipe</p><p>is a very pretty thing, with the little people under the trees all </p><p>cut so clean and sweet;--too elaborate for a pipe, perhaps, but-- </p><p>well, it is very pretty." </p><p>"Too valuable for its use, perhaps," said I. </p><p>"What's that?" said he; "I don't understand." </p><p>I was just going in a helpless way to try to make him understand, </p><p>when we came by the gates of a big rambling building, in which work </p><p>of some sort seemed going on. "What building is that?" said I,</p><p>eagerly; for it was a pleasure amidst all these strange things to see </p><p>something a little like what I was used to: "it seems to be a</p><p>factory." </p><p>"Yes," he said, "I think I know what you mean, and that's what it is; </p><p>but we don't call them factories now, but Banded-workshops: that is,</p><p>places where people collect who want to work together." </p><p>"I suppose," said I, "power of some sort is used there?" </p><p>"No, no," said he. "Why should people collect together to use power,</p><p>when they can have it at the places where they live, or hard by, any </p><p>two or three of them; or any one, for the matter of that? No; folk</p><p>collect in these Banded-workshops to do hand-work in which working </p><p>together is necessary or convenient; such work is often very </p><p>pleasant. In there, for instance, they make pottery and glass,--</p><p>there, you can see the tops of the furnaces. Well, of course it's</p><p>handy to have fair-sized ovens and kilns and glass-pots, and a good </p><p>lot of things to use them for: though of course there are a good</p><p>many such places, as it would be ridiculous if a man had a liking for </p><p>pot-making or glass-blowing that he should have to live in one place </p><p>or be obliged to forego the work he liked." </p><p>"I see no smoke coming from the furnaces," said I. </p><p>"Smoke?" said Dick; "why should you see smoke?" </p><p>I held my tongue, and he went on: "It's a nice place inside, though</p><p>as plain as you see outside. As to the crafts, throwing the clay</p><p>must be jolly work: the glass-blowing is rather a sweltering job;</p><p>but some folk like it very much indeed; and I don't much wonder: </p><p>there is such a sense of power, when you have got deft in it, in </p><p>dealing with the hot metal. It makes a lot of pleasant work," said</p><p>he, smiling, "for however much care you take of such goods, break </p><p>they will, one day or another, so there is always plenty to do." </p><p>I held my tongue and pondered. </p><p>We came just here on a gang of men road-mending which delayed us a </p><p>little; but I was not sorry for it; for all I had seen hitherto </p><p>seemed a mere part of a summer holiday; and I wanted to see how this </p><p>folk would set to on a piece of real necessary work. They had been</p><p>resting, and had only just begun work again as we came up; so that </p><p>the rattle of the picks was what woke me from my musing. There were</p><p>about a dozen of them, strong young men, looking much like a boating </p><p>party at Oxford would have looked in the days I remembered, and not </p><p>more troubled with their work: their outer raiment lay on the road-</p><p>side in an orderly pile under the guardianship of a six-year-old boy, </p><p>who had his arm thrown over the neck of a big mastiff, who was as </p><p>happily lazy as if the summer-day had been made for him alone. As I</p><p>eyed the pile of clothes, I could see the gleam of gold and silk </p><p>embroidery on it, and judged that some of these workmen had tastes</p><p>akin to those of the Golden Dustman of Hammersmith. Beside them lay</p><p>a good big basket that had hints about it of cold pie and wine: a</p><p>half dozen of young women stood by watching the work or the workers, </p><p>both of which were worth watching, for the latter smote great strokes </p><p>and were very deft in their labour, and as handsome clean-built </p><p>fellows as you might find a dozen of in a summer day. They were</p><p>laughing and talking merrily with each other and the women, but </p><p>presently their foreman looked up and saw our way stopped. So he</p><p>stayed his pick and sang out, "Spell ho, mates! here are neighbours </p><p>want to get past." Whereon the others stopped also, and, drawing</p><p>around us, helped the old horse by easing our wheels over the half </p><p>undone road, and then, like men with a pleasant task on hand, hurried </p><p>back to their work, only stopping to give us a smiling good-day; so </p><p>that the sound of the picks broke out again before Greylocks had </p><p>taken to his jog-trot. Dick looked back over his shoulder at them</p><p>and said: </p><p>"They are in luck to-day: it's right down good sport trying how much</p><p>pick-work one can get into an hour; and I can see those neighbours </p><p>know their business well. It is not a mere matter of strength</p><p>getting on quickly with such work; is it, guest?" </p><p>"I should think not," said I, "but to tell you the truth, I have </p><p>never tried my hand at it." </p><p>"Really?" said he gravely, "that seems a pity; it is good work for </p><p>hardening the muscles, and I like it; though I admit it is pleasanter </p><p>the second week than the first. Not that I am a good hand at it:</p><p>the fellows used to chaff me at one job where I was working, I </p><p>remember, and sing out to me, 'Well rowed, stroke!' 'Put your back</p><p>into it, bow!'" </p><p>"Not much of a joke," quoth I. </p><p>"Well," said Dick, "everything seems like a joke when we have a </p><p>pleasant spell of work on, and good fellows merry about us; we feels </p><p>so happy, you know." Again I pondered silently.</p><p>CHAPTER VIII: AN OLD FRIEND</p><p>We now turned into a pleasant lane where the branches of great plane- </p><p>trees nearly met overhead, but behind them lay low houses standing </p><p>rather close together. </p><p>"This is Long Acre," quoth Dick; "so there must once have been a </p><p>cornfield here. How curious it is that places change so, and yet</p><p>keep their old names! Just look how thick the houses stand! and they</p><p>are still going on building, look you!" </p><p>"Yes," said the old man, "but I think the cornfields must have been </p><p>built over before the middle of the nineteenth century. I have heard</p><p>that about here was one of the thickest parts of the town. But I</p><p>must get down here, neighbours; I have got to call on a friend who </p><p>lives in the gardens behind this Long Acre. Good-bye and good luck,</p><p>Guest!"</p><p>And he jumped down and strode away vigorously, like a young man. </p><p>"How old should you say that neighbour will be?" said I to Dick as we </p><p>lost sight of him; for I saw that he was old, and yet he looked dry </p><p>and sturdy like a piece of old oak; a type of old man I was not used </p><p>to seeing. </p><p>"O, about ninety, I should say," said Dick. </p><p>"How long-lived your people must be!" said I. </p><p>"Yes," said Dick, "certainly we have beaten the threescore-and-ten of </p><p>the old Jewish proverb-book. But then you see that was written of</p><p>Syria, a hot dry country, where people live faster than in our </p><p>temperate climate. However, I don't think it matters much, so long</p><p>as a man is healthy and happy while he IS alive. But now, Guest, we</p><p>are so near to my old kinsman's dwelling-place that I think you had </p><p>better keep all future questions for him." </p><p>I nodded a yes; and therewith we turned to the left, and went down a </p><p>gentle slope through some beautiful rose-gardens, laid out on what I </p><p>took to be the site of Endell Street. We passed on, and Dick drew</p><p>rein an instant as we came across a long straightish road with houses </p><p>scantily scattered up and down it. He waved his hand right and left,</p><p>and said, "Holborn that side, Oxford Road that. This was once a very</p><p>important part of the crowded city outside the ancient walls of the </p><p>Roman and Mediaeval burg: many of the feudal nobles of the Middle</p><p>Ages, we are told, had big houses on either side of Holborn. I</p><p>daresay you remember that the Bishop of Ely's house is mentioned in </p><p>Shakespeare's play of King Richard III.; and there are some remains </p><p>of that still left. However, this road is not of the same</p><p>importance, now that the ancient city is gone, walls and all." </p><p>He drove on again, while I smiled faintly to think how the nineteenth </p><p>century, of which such big words have been said, counted for nothing </p><p>in the memory of this man, who read Shakespeare and had not forgotten </p><p>the Middle Ages. </p><p>We crossed the road into a short narrow lane between the gardens, and </p><p>came out again into a wide road, on one side of which was a great and </p><p>long building, turning its gables away from the highway, which I saw </p><p>at once was another public group. Opposite to it was a wide space of</p><p>greenery, without any wall or fence of any kind. I looked through</p><p>the trees and saw beyond them a pillared portico quite familiar to </p><p>me--no less old a friend, in fact, than the British Museum. It</p><p>rather took my breath away, amidst all the strange things I had seen; </p><p>but I held my tongue and let Dick speak. Said he:</p><p>"Yonder is the British Museum, where my great-grandfather mostly </p><p>lives; so I won't say much about it. The building on the left is the</p><p>Museum Market, and I think we had better turn in there for a minute </p><p>or two; for Greylocks will be wanting his rest and his oats; and I </p><p>suppose you will stay with my kinsman the greater part of the day; </p><p>and to say the truth, there may be some one there whom I particularly </p><p>want to see, and perhaps have a long talk with." </p><p>He blushed and sighed, not altogether with pleasure, I thought; so of </p><p>course I said nothing, and he turned the horse under an archway which</p><p>brought us into a very large paved quadrangle, with a big sycamore </p><p>tree in each corner and a plashing fountain in the midst. Near the</p><p>fountain were a few market stalls, with awnings over them of gay </p><p>striped linen cloth, about which some people, mostly women and </p><p>children, were moving quietly, looking at the goods exposed there. </p><p>The ground floor of the building round the quadrangle was occupied by </p><p>a wide arcade or cloister, whose fanciful but strong architecture I </p><p>could not enough admire. Here also a few people were sauntering or</p><p>sitting reading on the benches. </p><p>Dick said to me apologetically: "Here as elsewhere there is little</p><p>doing to-day; on a Friday you would see it thronged, and gay with </p><p>people, and in the afternoon there is generally music about the </p><p>fountain. However, I daresay we shall have a pretty good gathering</p><p>at our mid-day meal." </p><p>We drove through the quadrangle and by an archway, into a large </p><p>handsome stable on the other side, where we speedily stalled the old </p><p>nag and made him happy with horse-meat, and then turned and walked </p><p>back again through the market, Dick looking rather thoughtful, as it </p><p>seemed to me. </p><p>I noticed that people couldn't help looking at me rather hard, and </p><p>considering my clothes and theirs, I didn't wonder; but whenever they </p><p>caught my eye they made me a very friendly sign of greeting. </p><p>We walked straight into the forecourt of the Museum, where, except </p><p>that the railings were gone, and the whispering boughs of the trees </p><p>were all about, nothing seemed changed; the very pigeons were </p><p>wheeling about the building and clinging to the ornaments of the </p><p>pediment as I had seen them of old. </p><p>Dick seemed grown a little absent, but he could not forbear giving me </p><p>an architectural note, and said: </p><p>"It is rather an ugly old building, isn't it? Many people have</p><p>wanted to pull it down and rebuild it: and perhaps if work does</p><p>really get scarce we may yet do so. But, as my great grandfather</p><p>will tell you, it would not be quite a straightforward job; for there </p><p>are wonderful collections in there of all kinds of antiquities, </p><p>besides an enormous library with many exceedingly beautiful books in </p><p>it, and many most useful ones as genuine records, texts of ancient </p><p>works and the like; and the worry and anxiety, and even risk, there </p><p>would be in moving all this has saved the buildings themselves. </p><p>Besides, as we said before, it is not a bad thing to have some record </p><p>of what our forefathers thought a handsome building. For there is</p><p>plenty of labour and material in it." </p><p>"I see there is," said I, "and I quite agree with you. But now</p><p>hadn't we better make haste to see your great-grandfather?" </p><p>In fact, I could not help seeing that he was rather dallying with the </p><p>time. He said, "Yes, we will go into the house in a minute. My</p><p>kinsman is too old to do much work in the Museum, where he was a </p><p>custodian of the books for many years; but he still lives here a good </p><p>deal; indeed I think," said he, smiling, "that he looks upon himself </p><p>as a part of the books, or the books a part of him, I don't know </p><p>which." </p><p>He hesitated a little longer, then flushing up, took my hand, and </p><p>saying, "Come along, then!" led me toward the door of one of the old </p><p>official dwellings. </p><p>CHAPTER IX: CONCERNING LOVE</p><p>"Your kinsman doesn't much care for beautiful building, then," said </p><p>I, as we entered the rather dreary classical house; which indeed was </p><p>as bare as need be, except for some big pots of the June flowers </p><p>which stood about here and there; though it was very clean and nicely </p><p>whitewashed. </p><p>"O I don't know," said Dick, rather absently. "He is getting old,</p><p>certainly, for he is over a hundred and five, and no doubt he doesn't </p><p>care about moving. But of course he could live in a prettier house</p><p>if he liked: he is not obliged to live in one place any more than</p><p>any one else. This way, Guest."</p><p>And he led the way upstairs, and opening a door we went into a fair- </p><p>sized room of the old type, as plain as the rest of the house, with a </p><p>few necessary pieces of furniture, and those very simple and even </p><p>rude, but solid and with a good deal of carving about them, well </p><p>designed but rather crudely executed. At the furthest corner of the</p><p>room, at a desk near the window, sat a little old man in a roomy oak </p><p>chair, well becushioned. He was dressed in a sort of Norfolk jacket</p><p>of blue serge worn threadbare, with breeches of the same, and grey </p><p>worsted stockings. He jumped up from his chair, and cried out in a</p><p>voice of considerable volume for such an old man, "Welcome, Dick, my </p><p>lad; Clara is here, and will be more than glad to see you; so keep </p><p>your heart up." </p><p>"Clara here?" quoth Dick; "if I had known, I would not have brought-- </p><p>At least, I mean I would--" </p><p>He was stuttering and confused, clearly because he was anxious to say </p><p>nothing to make me feel one too many. But the old man, who had not</p><p>seen me at first, helped him out by coming forward and saying to me </p><p>in a kind tone: </p><p>"Pray pardon me, for I did not notice that Dick, who is big enough to </p><p>hide anybody, you know, had brought a friend with him. A most hearty</p><p>welcome to you! All the more, as I almost hope that you are going to</p><p>amuse an old man by giving him news from over sea, for I can see that </p><p>you are come from over the water and far off countries." </p><p>He looked at me thoughtfully, almost anxiously, as he said in a </p><p>changed voice, "Might I ask you where you come from, as you are so </p><p>clearly a stranger?" </p><p>I said in an absent way: "I used to live in England, and now I am</p><p>come back again; and I slept last night at the Hammersmith Guest </p><p>House." </p><p>He bowed gravely, but seemed, I thought, a little disappointed with </p><p>my answer. As for me, I was now looking at him harder than good</p><p>manners allowed of; perhaps; for in truth his face, dried-apple-like </p><p>as it was, seemed strangely familiar to me; as if I had seen it </p><p>before--in a looking-glass it might be, said I to myself. </p><p>"Well," said the old man, "wherever you come from, you are come among </p><p>friends. And I see my kinsman Richard Hammond has an air about him</p><p>as if he had brought you here for me to do something for you. Is</p><p>that so, Dick?" </p><p>Dick, who was getting still more absent-minded and kept looking </p><p>uneasily at the door, managed to say, "Well, yes, kinsman: our guest</p><p>finds things much altered, and cannot understand it; nor can I; so I </p><p>thought I would bring him to you, since you know more of all that has </p><p>happened within the last two hundred years than any body else does.-- </p><p>What's that?" </p><p>And he turned toward the door again. We heard footsteps outside; the</p><p>door opened, and in came a very beautiful young woman, who stopped </p><p>short on seeing Dick, and flushed as red as a rose, but faced him </p><p>nevertheless. Dick looked at her hard, and half reached out his hand</p><p>toward her, and his whole face quivered with emotion. </p><p>The old man did not leave them long in this shy discomfort, but said, </p><p>smiling with an old man's mirth: </p><p>"Dick, my lad, and you, my dear Clara, I rather think that we two </p><p>oldsters are in your way; for I think you will have plenty to say to </p><p>each other. You had better go into Nelson's room up above; I know he</p><p>has gone out; and he has just been covering the walls all over with </p><p>mediaeval books, so it will be pretty enough even for you two and </p><p>your renewed pleasure." </p><p>The girl reached out her hand to Dick, and taking his led him out of </p><p>the room, looking straight before her; but it was easy to see that </p><p>her blushes came from happiness, not anger; as, indeed, love is far </p><p>more self-conscious than wrath. </p><p>When the door had shut on them the old man turned to me, still </p><p>smiling, and said: </p><p>"Frankly, my dear guest, you will do me a great service if you are </p><p>come to set my old tongue wagging. My love of talk still abides with</p><p>me, or rather grows on me; and though it is pleasant enough to see </p><p>these youngsters moving about and playing together so seriously, as </p><p>if the whole world depended on their kisses (as indeed it does </p><p>somewhat), yet I don't think my tales of the past interest them much. </p><p>The last harvest, the last baby, the last knot of carving in the </p><p>market-place, is history enough for them. It was different, I think,</p><p>when I was a lad, when we were not so assured of peace and continuous </p><p>plenty as we are now--Well, well! Without putting you to the</p><p>question, let me ask you this: Am I to consider you as an enquirer</p><p>who knows a little of our modern ways of life, or as one who comes </p><p>from some place where the very foundations of life are different from </p><p>ours,--do you know anything or nothing about us?" </p><p>He looked at me keenly and with growing wonder in his eyes as he </p><p>spoke; and I answered in a low voice: </p><p>"I know only so much of your modern life as I could gather from using</p><p>my eyes on the way here from Hammersmith, and from asking some </p><p>questions of Richard Hammond, most of which he could hardly </p><p>understand." </p><p>The old man smiled at this. "Then," said he, "I am to speak to you</p><p>as--" </p><p>"As if I were a being from another planet," said I. </p><p>The old man, whose name, by the bye, like his kinsman's, was Hammond, </p><p>smiled and nodded, and wheeling his seat round to me, bade me sit in </p><p>a heavy oak chair, and said, as he saw my eyes fix on its curious </p><p>carving: </p><p>"Yes, I am much tied to the past, my past, you understand. These</p><p>very pieces of furniture belong to a time before my early days; it </p><p>was my father who got them made; if they had been done within the </p><p>last fifty years they would have been much cleverer in execution; but </p><p>I don't think I should have liked them the better. We were almost</p><p>beginning again in those days: and they were brisk, hot-headed</p><p>times. But you hear how garrulous I am: ask me questions, ask me</p><p>questions about anything, dear guest; since I must talk, make my talk </p><p>profitable to you." </p><p>I was silent for a minute, and then I said, somewhat nervously: </p><p>"Excuse me if I am rude; but I am so much interested in Richard, </p><p>since he has been so kind to me, a perfect stranger, that I should </p><p>like to ask a question about him." </p><p>"Well," said old Hammond, "if he were not 'kind', as you call it, to </p><p>a perfect stranger he would be thought a strange person, and people </p><p>would be apt to shun him. But ask on, ask on! don't be shy of</p><p>asking." </p><p>Said I: "That beautiful girl, is he going to be married to her?"</p><p>"Well," said he, "yes, he is. He has been married to her once</p><p>already, and now I should say it is pretty clear that he will be </p><p>married to her again." </p><p>"Indeed," quoth I, wondering what that meant. </p><p>"Here is the whole tale," said old Hammond; "a short one enough; and </p><p>now I hope a happy one: they lived together two years the first</p><p>time; were both very young; and then she got it into her head that </p><p>she was in love with somebody else. So she left poor Dick; I say</p><p>POOR Dick, because he had not found any one else. But it did not</p><p>last long, only about a year. Then she came to me, as she was in the</p><p>habit of bringing her troubles to the old carle, and asked me how </p><p>Dick was, and whether he was happy, and all the rest of it. So I saw</p><p>how the land lay, and said that he was very unhappy, and not at all </p><p>well; which last at any rate was a lie. There, you can guess the</p><p>rest. Clara came to have a long talk with me to-day, but Dick will</p><p>serve her turn much better. Indeed, if he hadn't chanced in upon me</p><p>to-day I should have had to have sent for him to-morrow." </p><p>"Dear me," said I. "Have they any children?"</p><p>"Yes," said he, "two; they are staying with one of my daughters at</p><p>present, where, indeed, Clara has mostly been. I wouldn't lose sight</p><p>of her, as I felt sure they would come together again: and Dick, who</p><p>is the best of good fellows, really took the matter to heart. You</p><p>see, he had no other love to run to, as she had. So I managed it</p><p>all; as I have done with such-like matters before." </p><p>"Ah," said I, "no doubt you wanted to keep them out of the Divorce </p><p>Court: but I suppose it often has to settle such matters."</p><p>"Then you suppose nonsense," said he. "I know that there used to be</p><p>such lunatic affairs as divorce-courts: but just consider; all the</p><p>cases that came into them were matters of property quarrels: and I</p><p>think, dear guest," said he, smiling, "that though you do come from </p><p>another planet, you can see from the mere outside look of our world </p><p>that quarrels about private property could not go on amongst us in </p><p>our days." </p><p>Indeed, my drive from Hammersmith to Bloomsbury, and all the quiet </p><p>happy life I had seen so many hints of; even apart from my shopping, </p><p>would have been enough to tell me that "the sacred rights of </p><p>property," as we used to think of them, were now no more. So I sat</p><p>silent while the old man took up the thread of the discourse again, </p><p>and said: </p><p>"Well, then, property quarrels being no longer possible, what remains </p><p>in these matters that a court of law could deal with? Fancy a court</p><p>for enforcing a contract of passion or sentiment! If such a thing</p><p>were needed as a reductio ad absurdum of the enforcement of contract, </p><p>such a folly would do that for us." </p><p>He was silent again a little, and then said: "You must understand</p><p>once for all that we have changed these matters; or rather, that our </p><p>way of looking at them has changed, as we have changed within the </p><p>last two hundred years. We do not deceive ourselves, indeed, or</p><p>believe that we can get rid of all the trouble that besets the </p><p>dealings between the sexes. We know that we must face the</p><p>unhappiness that comes of man and woman confusing the relations </p><p>between natural passion, and sentiment, and the friendship which, </p><p>when things go well, softens the awakening from passing illusions: </p><p>but we are not so mad as to pile up degradation on that unhappiness </p><p>by engaging in sordid squabbles about livelihood and position, and </p><p>the power of tyrannising over the children who have been the results </p><p>of love or lust." </p><p>Again he paused awhile, and again went on: "Calf love, mistaken for</p><p>a heroism that shall be lifelong, yet early waning into </p><p>disappointment; the inexplicable desire that comes on a man of riper </p><p>years to be the all-in-all to some one woman, whose ordinary human </p><p>kindness and human beauty he has idealised into superhuman </p><p>perfection, and made the one object of his desire; or lastly the </p><p>reasonable longing of a strong and thoughtful man to become the most </p><p>intimate friend of some beautiful and wise woman, the very type of </p><p>the beauty and glory of the world which we love so well,--as we exult </p><p>in all the pleasure and exaltation of spirit which goes with these </p><p>things, so we set ourselves to bear the sorrow which not unseldom </p><p>goes with them also; remembering those lines of the ancient poet (I </p><p>quote roughly from memory one of the many translations of the </p><p>nineteenth century): </p><p>'For this the Gods have fashioned man's grief and evil day </p><p>That still for man hereafter might be the tale and the lay.' </p><p>Well, well, 'tis little likely anyhow that all tales shall be </p><p>lacking, or all sorrow cured." </p><p>He was silent for some time, and I would not interrupt him. At last</p><p>he began again: "But you must know that we of these generations are</p><p>strong and healthy of body, and live easily; we pass our lives in </p><p>reasonable strife with nature, exercising not one side of ourselves </p><p>only, but all sides, taking the keenest pleasure in all the life of </p><p>the world. So it is a point of honour with us not to be self-</p><p>centred; not to suppose that the world must cease because one man is </p><p>sorry; therefore we should think it foolish, or if you will, </p><p>criminal, to exaggerate these matters of sentiment and sensibility: </p><p>we are no more inclined to eke out our sentimental sorrows than to </p><p>cherish our bodily pains; and we recognise that there are other </p><p>pleasures besides love-making. You must remember, also, that we are</p><p>long-lived, and that therefore beauty both in man and woman is not so </p><p>fleeting as it was in the days when we were burdened so heavily by </p><p>self-inflicted diseases. So we shake off these griefs in a way which</p><p>perhaps the sentimentalists of other times would think contemptible </p><p>and unheroic, but which we think necessary and manlike. As on the</p><p>other hand, therefore, we have ceased to be commercial in our love- </p><p>matters, so also we have ceased to be ARTIFICIALLY foolish. The</p><p>folly which comes by nature, the unwisdom of the immature man, or the </p><p>older man caught in a trap, we must put up with that, nor are we much </p><p>ashamed of it; but to be conventionally sensitive or sentimental--my </p><p>friend, I am old and perhaps disappointed, but at least I think we </p><p>have cast off SOME of the follies of the older world." </p><p>He paused, as if for some words of mine; but I held my peace: then</p><p>he went on: "At least, if we suffer from the tyranny and fickleness</p><p>of nature or our own want of experience, we neither grimace about it, </p><p>nor lie. If there must be sundering betwixt those who meant never to</p><p>sunder, so it must be: but there need be no pretext of unity when</p><p>the reality of it is gone: nor do we drive those who well know that</p><p>they are incapable of it to profess an undying sentiment which they </p><p>cannot really feel: thus it is that as that monstrosity of venal</p><p>lust is no longer possible, so also it is no longer needed. Don't</p><p>misunderstand me. You did not seemed shocked when I told you that</p><p>there were no law-courts to enforce contracts of sentiment or </p><p>passion; but so curiously are men made, that perhaps you will be </p><p>shocked when I tell you that there is no code of public opinion which </p><p>takes the place of such courts, and which might be as tyrannical and </p><p>unreasonable as they were. I do not say that people don't judge</p><p>their neighbours' conduct, sometimes, doubtless, unfairly. But I do</p><p>say that there is no unvarying conventional set of rules by which </p><p>people are judged; no bed of Procrustes to stretch or cramp their </p><p>minds and lives; no hypocritical excommunication which people are </p><p>FORCED to pronounce, either by unconsidered habit, or by the </p><p>unexpressed threat of the lesser interdict if they are lax in their </p><p>hypocrisy. Are you shocked now?"</p><p>"N-o--no," said I, with some hesitation. "It is all so different."</p><p>"At any rate," said he, "one thing I think I can answer for:</p><p>whatever sentiment there is, it is real--and general; it is not </p><p>confined to people very specially refined. I am also pretty sure, as</p><p>I hinted to you just now, that there is not by a great way as much </p><p>suffering involved in these matters either to men or to women as </p><p>there used to be. But excuse me for being so prolix on this</p><p>question! You know you asked to be treated like a being from another</p><p>planet." </p><p>"Indeed I thank you very much," said I. "Now may I ask you about the</p><p>position of women in your society?" </p><p>He laughed very heartily for a man of his years, and said: "It is</p><p>not without reason that I have got a reputation as a careful student </p><p>of history. I believe I really do understand 'the Emancipation of</p><p>Women movement' of the nineteenth century. I doubt if any other man</p><p>now alive does." </p><p>"Well?" said I, a little bit nettled by his merriment. </p><p>"'Well," said he, "of course you will see that all that is a dead </p><p>controversy now. The men have no longer any opportunity of</p><p>tyrannising over the women, or the women over the men; both of which </p><p>things took place in those old times. The women do what they can do</p><p>best, and what they like best, and the men are neither jealous of it </p><p>or injured by it. This is such a commonplace that I am almost</p><p>ashamed to state it." </p><p>I said, "O; and legislation? do they take any part in that?" </p><p>Hammond smiled and said: "I think you may wait for an answer to that</p><p>question till we get on to the subject of legislation. There may be</p><p>novelties to you in that subject also." </p><p>"Very well," I said; "but about this woman question? I saw at the</p><p>Guest House that the women were waiting on the men: that seems a</p><p>little like reaction doesn't it?" </p><p>"Does it?" said the old man; "perhaps you think housekeeping an </p><p>unimportant occupation, not deserving of respect. I believe that was</p><p>the opinion of the 'advanced' women of the nineteenth century, and </p><p>their male backers. If it is yours, I recommend to your notice an</p><p>old Norwegian folk-lore tale called How the Man minded the House, or </p><p>some such title; the result of which minding was that, after various </p><p>tribulations, the man and the family cow balanced each other at the </p><p>end of a rope, the man hanging halfway up the chimney, the cow </p><p>dangling from the roof, which, after the fashion of the country, was </p><p>of turf and sloping down low to the ground. Hard on the cow, _I_</p><p>think. Of course no such mishap could happen to such a superior</p><p>person as yourself," he added, chuckling. </p><p>I sat somewhat uneasy under this dry gibe. Indeed, his manner of</p><p>treating this latter part of the question seemed to me a little </p><p>disrespectful. </p><p>"Come, now, my friend," quoth he, "don't you know that it is a great </p><p>pleasure to a clever woman to manage a house skilfully, and to do it </p><p>so that all the house-mates about her look pleased, and are grateful </p><p>to her? And then, you know, everybody likes to be ordered about by a</p><p>pretty woman: why, it is one of the pleasantest forms of flirtation.</p><p>You are not so old that you cannot remember that. Why, I remember it</p><p>well." </p><p>And the old fellow chuckled again, and at last fairly burst out </p><p>laughing. </p><p>"Excuse me," said he, after a while; "I am not laughing at anything </p><p>you could be thinking of; but at that silly nineteenth-century </p><p>fashion, current amongst rich so-called cultivated people, of </p><p>ignoring all the steps by which their daily dinner was reached, as </p><p>matters too low for their lofty intelligence. Useless idiots! Come,</p><p>now, I am a 'literary man,' as we queer animals used to be called, </p><p>yet I am a pretty good cook myself." </p><p>"So am I," said I. </p><p>"Well, then," said he, "I really think you can understand me better </p><p>than you would seem to do, judging by your words and your silence." </p><p>Said I: "Perhaps that is so; but people putting in practice commonly</p><p>this sense of interest in the ordinary occupations of life rather </p><p>startles me. I will ask you a question or two presently about that.</p><p>But I want to return to the position of women amongst you. You have</p><p>studied the 'emancipation of women' business of the nineteenth </p><p>century: don't you remember that some of the 'superior' women wanted</p><p>to emancipate the more intelligent part of their sex from the bearing </p><p>of children?" </p><p>The old man grew quite serious again. Said he: "I DO remember about</p><p>that strange piece of baseless folly, the result, like all other </p><p>follies of the period, of the hideous class tyranny which then </p><p>obtained. What do we think of it now? you would say. My friend,</p><p>that is a question easy to answer. How could it possibly be but that</p><p>maternity should be highly honoured amongst us? Surely it is a</p><p>matter of course that the natural and necessary pains which the </p><p>mother must go through form a bond of union between man and woman, an </p><p>extra stimulus to love and affection between them, and that this is </p><p>universally recognised. For the rest, remember that all the</p><p>ARTIFICIAL burdens of motherhood are now done away with. A mother</p><p>has no longer any mere sordid anxieties for the future of her </p><p>children. They may indeed turn out better or worse; they may</p><p>disappoint her highest hopes; such anxieties as these are a part of </p><p>the mingled pleasure and pain which goes to make up the life of </p><p>mankind. But at least she is spared the fear (it was most commonly</p><p>the certainty) that artificial disabilities would make her children </p><p>something less than men and women: she knows that they will live and</p><p>act according to the measure of their own faculties. In times past,</p><p>it is clear that the 'Society' of the day helped its Judaic god, and </p><p>the 'Man of Science' of the time, in visiting the sins of the fathers </p><p>upon the children. How to reverse this process, how to take the</p><p>sting out of heredity, has for long been one of the most constant </p><p>cares of the thoughtful men amongst us. So that, you see, the</p><p>ordinarily healthy woman (and almost all our women are both healthy </p><p>and at least comely), respected as a child-bearer and rearer of </p><p>children, desired as a woman, loved as a companion, unanxious for the </p><p>future of her children, has far more instinct for maternity than the </p><p>poor drudge and mother of drudges of past days could ever have had; </p><p>or than her sister of the upper classes, brought up in affected </p><p>ignorance of natural facts, reared in an atmosphere of mingled</p><p>prudery and prurience." </p><p>"You speak warmly," I said, "but I can see that you are right." </p><p>"Yes," he said, "and I will point out to you a token of all the </p><p>benefits which we have gained by our freedom. What did you think of</p><p>the looks of the people whom you have come across to-day?" </p><p>Said I: "I could hardly have believed that there could be so many</p><p>good-looking people in any civilised country." </p><p>He crowed a little, like the old bird he was. "What! are we still</p><p>civilised?" said he. "Well, as to our looks, the English and Jutish</p><p>blood, which on the whole is predominant here, used not to produce </p><p>much beauty. But I think we have improved it. I know a man who has</p><p>a large collection of portraits printed from photographs of the </p><p>nineteenth century, and going over those and comparing them with the </p><p>everyday faces in these times, puts the improvement in our good looks </p><p>beyond a doubt. Now, there are some people who think it not too</p><p>fantastic to connect this increase of beauty directly with our </p><p>freedom and good sense in the matters we have been speaking of: they</p><p>believe that a child born from the natural and healthy love between a </p><p>man and a woman, even if that be transient, is likely to turn out </p><p>better in all ways, and especially in bodily beauty, than the birth </p><p>of the respectable commercial marriage bed, or of the dull despair of </p><p>the drudge of that system. They say, Pleasure begets pleasure. What</p><p>do you think?" </p><p>"I am much of that mind," said I. </p><p>CHAPTER X: QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS</p><p>"Well," said the old man, shifting in his chair, "you must get on </p><p>with your questions, Guest; I have been some time answering this </p><p>first one." </p><p>Said I: "I want an extra word or two about your ideas of education;</p><p>although I gathered from Dick that you let your children run wild and </p><p>didn't teach them anything; and in short, that you have so refined </p><p>your education, that now you have none." </p><p>"Then you gathered left-handed," quoth he. "But of course I</p><p>understand your point of view about education, which is that of times </p><p>past, when 'the struggle for life,' as men used to phrase it (i.e., </p><p>the struggle for a slave's rations on one side, and for a bouncing </p><p>share of the slave-holders' privilege on the other), pinched </p><p>'education' for most people into a niggardly dole of not very </p><p>accurate information; something to be swallowed by the beginner in </p><p>the art of living whether he liked it or not, and was hungry for it </p><p>or not: and which had been chewed and digested over and over again</p><p>by people who didn't care about it in order to serve it out to other </p><p>people who didn't care about it." </p><p>I stopped the old man's rising wrath by a laugh, and said: "Well,</p><p>YOU were not taught that way, at any rate, so you may let your anger</p><p>run off you a little." </p><p>"True, true," said he, smiling. "I thank you for correcting my ill-</p><p>temper: I always fancy myself as living in any period of which we</p><p>may be speaking. But, however, to put it in a cooler way: you</p><p>expected to see children thrust into schools when they had reached an </p><p>age conventionally supposed to be the due age, whatever their varying </p><p>faculties and dispositions might be, and when there, with like </p><p>disregard to facts to be subjected to a certain conventional course </p><p>of 'learning.' My friend, can't you see that such a proceeding means</p><p>ignoring the fact of GROWTH, bodily and mental? No one could come</p><p>out of such a mill uninjured; and those only would avoid being </p><p>crushed by it who would have the spirit of rebellion strong in them. </p><p>Fortunately most children have had that at all times, or I do not </p><p>know that we should ever have reached our present position. Now you</p><p>see what it all comes to. In the old times all this was the result</p><p>of POVERTY. In the nineteenth century, society was so miserably</p><p>poor, owing to the systematised robbery on which it was founded, that </p><p>real education was impossible for anybody. The whole theory of their</p><p>so-called education was that it was necessary to shove a little </p><p>information into a child, even if it were by means of torture, and </p><p>accompanied by twaddle which it was well known was of no use, or else </p><p>he would lack information lifelong: the hurry of poverty forbade</p><p>anything else. All that is past; we are no longer hurried, and the</p><p>information lies ready to each one's hand when his own inclinations </p><p>impel him to seek it. In this as in other matters we have become</p><p>wealthy: we can afford to give ourselves time to grow."</p><p>"Yes," said I, "but suppose the child, youth, man, never wants the </p><p>information, never grows in the direction you might hope him to do: </p><p>suppose, for instance, he objects to learning arithmetic or </p><p>mathematics; you can't force him when he IS grown; can't you force </p><p>him while he is growing, and oughtn't you to do so?" </p><p>"Well," said he, "were you forced to learn arithmetic and </p><p>mathematics?" </p><p>"A little," said I. </p><p>"And how old are you now?" </p><p>"Say fifty-six," said I. </p><p>"And how much arithmetic and mathematics do you know now?" quoth the </p><p>old man, smiling rather mockingly. </p><p>Said I: "None whatever, I am sorry to say."</p><p>Hammond laughed quietly, but made no other comment on my admission, </p><p>and I dropped the subject of education, perceiving him to be hopeless </p><p>on that side. </p><p>I thought a little, and said: "You were speaking just now of</p><p>households: that sounded to me a little like the customs of past</p><p>times; I should have thought you would have lived more in public." </p><p>"Phalangsteries, eh?" said he. "Well, we live as we like, and we</p><p>like to live as a rule with certain house-mates that we have got used </p><p>to. Remember, again, that poverty is extinct, and that the</p><p>Fourierist phalangsteries and all their kind, as was but natural at </p><p>the time, implied nothing but a refuge from mere destitution. Such a</p><p>way of life as that, could only have been conceived of by people </p><p>surrounded by the worst form of poverty. But you must understand</p><p>therewith, that though separate households are the rule amongst us, </p><p>and though they differ in their habits more or less, yet no door is </p><p>shut to any good-tempered person who is content to live as the other </p><p>house-mates do: only of course it would be unreasonable for one man</p><p>to drop into a household and bid the folk of it to alter their habits </p><p>to please him, since he can go elsewhere and live as he pleases. </p><p>However, I need not say much about all this, as you are going up the </p><p>river with Dick, and will find out for yourself by experience how </p><p>these matters are managed." </p><p>After a pause, I said: "Your big towns, now; how about them?</p><p>London, which--which I have read about as the modern Babylon of </p><p>civilization, seems to have disappeared." </p><p>"Well, well," said old Hammond, "perhaps after all it is more like </p><p>ancient Babylon now than the 'modern Babylon' of the nineteenth </p><p>century was. But let that pass. After all, there is a good deal of</p><p>population in places between here and Hammersmith; nor have you seen </p><p>the most populous part of the town yet." </p><p>"Tell me, then," said I, "how is it towards the east?" </p><p>Said he: "Time was when if you mounted a good horse and rode</p><p>straight away from my door here at a round trot for an hour and a </p><p>half; you would still be in the thick of London, and the greater part </p><p>of that would be 'slums,' as they were called; that is to say, places </p><p>of torture for innocent men and women; or worse, stews for rearing </p><p>and breeding men and women in such degradation that that torture </p><p>should seem to them mere ordinary and natural life." </p><p>"I know, I know," I said, rather impatiently. "That was what was;</p><p>tell me something of what is. Is any of that left?"</p><p>"Not an inch," said he; "but some memory of it abides with us, and I </p><p>am glad of it. Once a year, on May-day, we hold a solemn feast in</p><p>those easterly communes of London to commemorate The Clearing of </p><p>Misery, as it is called. On that day we have music and dancing, and</p><p>merry games and happy feasting on the site of some of the worst of </p><p>the old slums, the traditional memory of which we have kept. On that</p><p>occasion the custom is for the prettiest girls to sing some of the </p><p>old revolutionary songs, and those which were the groans of the </p><p>discontent, once so hopeless, on the very spots where those terrible </p><p>crimes of class-murder were committed day by day for so many years. </p><p>To a man like me, who have studied the past so diligently, it is a </p><p>curious and touching sight to see some beautiful girl, daintily clad, </p><p>and crowned with flowers from the neighbouring meadows, standing </p><p>amongst the happy people, on some mound where of old time stood the </p><p>wretched apology for a house, a den in which men and women lived </p><p>packed amongst the filth like pilchards in a cask; lived in such a </p><p>way that they could only have endured it, as I said just now, by </p><p>being degraded out of humanity--to hear the terrible words of </p><p>threatening and lamentation coming from her sweet and beautiful lips, </p><p>and she unconscious of their real meaning: to hear her, for</p><p>instance, singing Hood's Song of the Shirt, and to think that all the </p><p>time she does not understand what it is all about--a tragedy grown</p><p>inconceivable to her and her listeners. Think of that, if you can,</p><p>and of how glorious life is grown!" </p><p>"Indeed," said I, "it is difficult for me to think of it." </p><p>And I sat watching how his eyes glittered, and how the fresh life </p><p>seemed to glow in his face, and I wondered how at his age he should </p><p>think of the happiness of the world, or indeed anything but his </p><p>coming dinner. </p><p>"Tell me in detail," said I, "what lies east of Bloomsbury now?" </p><p>Said he: "There are but few houses between this and the outer part</p><p>of the old city; but in the city we have a thickly-dwelling </p><p>population. Our forefathers, in the first clearing of the slums,</p><p>were not in a hurry to pull down the houses in what was called at the </p><p>end of the nineteenth century the business quarter of the town, and </p><p>what later got to be known as the Swindling Kens. You see, these</p><p>houses, though they stood hideously thick on the ground, were roomy </p><p>and fairly solid in building, and clean, because they were not used </p><p>for living in, but as mere gambling booths; so the poor people from </p><p>the cleared slums took them for lodgings and dwelt there, till the </p><p>folk of those days had time to think of something better for them; so </p><p>the buildings were pulled down so gradually that people got used to </p><p>living thicker on the ground there than in most places; therefore it </p><p>remains the most populous part of London, or perhaps of all these </p><p>islands. But it is very pleasant there, partly because of the</p><p>splendour of the architecture, which goes further than what you will </p><p>see elsewhere. However, this crowding, if it may be called so, does</p><p>not go further than a street called Aldgate, a name which perhaps you </p><p>may have heard of. Beyond that the houses are scattered wide about</p><p>the meadows there, which are very beautiful, especially when you get </p><p>on to the lovely river Lea (where old Isaak Walton used to fish, you </p><p>know) about the places called Stratford and Old Ford, names which of </p><p>course you will not have heard of, though the Romans were busy there </p><p>once upon a time." </p><p>Not heard of them! thought I to myself. How strange! that I who had</p><p>seen the very last remnant of the pleasantness of the meadows by the </p><p>Lea destroyed, should have heard them spoken of with pleasantness </p><p>come back to them in full measure. </p><p>Hammond went on: "When you get down to the Thames side you come on</p><p>the Docks, which are works of the nineteenth century, and are still </p><p>in use, although not so thronged as they once were, since we </p><p>discourage centralisation all we can, and we have long ago dropped </p><p>the pretension to be the market of the world. About these Docks are</p><p>a good few houses, which, however, are not inhabited by many people </p><p>permanently; I mean, those who use them come and go a good deal, the </p><p>place being too low and marshy for pleasant dwelling. Past the Docks</p><p>eastward and landward it is all flat pasture, once marsh, except for </p><p>a few gardens, and there are very few permanent dwellings there: </p><p>scarcely anything but a few sheds, and cots for the men who come to </p><p>look after the great herds of cattle pasturing there. But however,</p><p>what with the beasts and the men, and the scattered red-tiled roofs </p><p>and the big hayricks, it does not make a bad holiday to get a quiet </p><p>pony and ride about there on a sunny afternoon of autumn, and look </p><p>over the river and the craft passing up and down, and on to Shooters' </p><p>Hill and the Kentish uplands, and then turn round to the wide green</p><p>sea of the Essex marsh-land, with the great domed line of the sky, </p><p>and the sun shining down in one flood of peaceful light over the long </p><p>distance. There is a place called Canning's Town, and further out,</p><p>Silvertown, where the pleasant meadows are at their pleasantest: </p><p>doubtless they were once slums, and wretched enough." </p><p>The names grated on my ear, but I could not explain why to him. So I</p><p>said: "And south of the river, what is it like?"</p><p>He said: "You would find it much the same as the land about</p><p>Hammersmith. North, again, the land runs up high, and there is an</p><p>agreeable and well-built town called Hampstead, which fitly ends </p><p>London on that side. It looks down on the north-western end of the</p><p>forest you passed through." </p><p>I smiled. "So much for what was once London," said I. "Now tell me</p><p>about the other towns of the country." </p><p>He said: "As to the big murky places which were once, as we know,</p><p>the centres of manufacture, they have, like the brick and mortar </p><p>desert of London, disappeared; only, since they were centres of </p><p>nothing but 'manufacture,' and served no purpose but that of the </p><p>gambling market, they have left less signs of their existence than </p><p>London. Of course, the great change in the use of mechanical force</p><p>made this an easy matter, and some approach to their break-up as </p><p>centres would probably have taken place, even if we had not changed </p><p>our habits so much: but they being such as they were, no sacrifice</p><p>would have seemed too great a price to pay for getting rid of the </p><p>'manufacturing districts,' as they used to be called. For the rest,</p><p>whatever coal or mineral we need is brought to grass and sent whither </p><p>it is needed with as little as possible of dirt, confusion, and the </p><p>distressing of quiet people's lives. One is tempted to believe from</p><p>what one has read of the condition of those districts in the </p><p>nineteenth century, that those who had them under their power </p><p>worried, befouled, and degraded men out of malice prepense: but it</p><p>was not so; like the mis-education of which we were talking just now, </p><p>it came of their dreadful poverty. They were obliged to put up with</p><p>everything, and even pretend that they liked it; whereas we can now </p><p>deal with things reasonably, and refuse to be saddled with what we do </p><p>not want." </p><p>I confess I was not sorry to cut short with a question his </p><p>glorifications of the age he lived in. Said I: "How about the</p><p>smaller towns? I suppose you have swept those away entirely?"</p><p>"No, no," said he, "it hasn't gone that way. On the contrary, there</p><p>has been but little clearance, though much rebuilding, in the smaller </p><p>towns. Their suburbs, indeed, when they had any, have melted away</p><p>into the general country, and space and elbow-room has been got in </p><p>their centres: but there are the towns still with their streets and</p><p>squares and market-places; so that it is by means of these smaller </p><p>towns that we of to-day can get some kind of idea of what the towns </p><p>of the older world were like;--I mean to say at their best." </p><p>"Take Oxford, for instance," said I. </p><p>"Yes," said he, "I suppose Oxford was beautiful even in the </p><p>nineteenth century. At present it has the great interest of still</p><p>preserving a great mass of pre-commercial building, and is a very</p><p>beautiful place, yet there are many towns which have become scarcely </p><p>less beautiful." </p><p>Said I: "In passing, may I ask if it is still a place of learning?"</p><p>"Still?" said he, smiling. "Well, it has reverted to some of its</p><p>best traditions; so you may imagine how far it is from its </p><p>nineteenth-century position. It is real learning, knowledge</p><p>cultivated for its own sake--the Art of Knowledge, in short--which is </p><p>followed there, not the Commercial learning of the past. Though</p><p>perhaps you do not know that in the nineteenth century Oxford and its </p><p>less interesting sister Cambridge became definitely commercial. They</p><p>(and especially Oxford) were the breeding places of a peculiar class </p><p>of parasites, who called themselves cultivated people; they were </p><p>indeed cynical enough, as the so-called educated classes of the day </p><p>generally were; but they affected an exaggeration of cynicism in </p><p>order that they might be thought knowing and worldly-wise. The rich</p><p>middle classes (they had no relation with the working classes) </p><p>treated them with the kind of contemptuous toleration with which a </p><p>mediaeval baron treated his jester; though it must be said that they </p><p>were by no means so pleasant as the old jesters were, being, in fact, </p><p>THE bores of society. They were laughed at, despised--and paid.</p><p>Which last was what they aimed at." </p><p>Dear me! thought I, how apt history is to reverse contemporary </p><p>judgments. Surely only the worst of them were as bad as that. But I</p><p>must admit that they were mostly prigs, and that they WERE </p><p>commercial. I said aloud, though more to myself than to Hammond,</p><p>"Well, how could they be better than the age that made them?" </p><p>"True," he said, "but their pretensions were higher." </p><p>"Were they?" said I, smiling. </p><p>"You drive me from corner to corner," said he, smiling in turn. "Let</p><p>me say at least that they were a poor sequence to the aspirations of </p><p>Oxford of 'the barbarous Middle Ages.'" </p><p>"Yes, that will do," said I. </p><p>"Also," said Hammond, "what I have been saying of them is true in the </p><p>main. But ask on!"</p><p>I said: "We have heard about London and the manufacturing districts</p><p>and the ordinary towns: how about the villages?"</p><p>Said Hammond: "You must know that toward the end of the nineteenth</p><p>century the villages were almost destroyed, unless where they became </p><p>mere adjuncts to the manufacturing districts, or formed a sort of </p><p>minor manufacturing districts themselves. Houses were allowed to</p><p>fall into decay and actual ruin; trees were cut down for the sake of </p><p>the few shillings which the poor sticks would fetch; the building </p><p>became inexpressibly mean and hideous. Labour was scarce; but wages</p><p>fell nevertheless. All the small country arts of life which once</p><p>added to the little pleasures of country people were lost. The</p><p>country produce which passed through the hands of the husbandmen </p><p>never got so far as their mouths. Incredible shabbiness and</p><p>niggardly pinching reigned over the fields and acres which, in spite </p><p>of the rude and careless husbandry of the times, were so kind and</p><p>bountiful. Had you any inkling of all this?"</p><p>"I have heard that it was so," said I "but what followed?" </p><p>"The change," said Hammond, "which in these matters took place very </p><p>early in our epoch, was most strangely rapid. People flocked into</p><p>the country villages, and, so to say, flung themselves upon the freed </p><p>land like a wild beast upon his prey; and in a very little time the </p><p>villages of England were more populous than they had been since the </p><p>fourteenth century, and were still growing fast. Of course, this</p><p>invasion of the country was awkward to deal with, and would have </p><p>created much misery, if the folk had still been under the bondage of </p><p>class monopoly. But as it was, things soon righted themselves.</p><p>People found out what they were fit for, and gave up attempting to </p><p>push themselves into occupations in which they must needs fail. The</p><p>town invaded the country; but the invaders, like the warlike invaders </p><p>of early days, yielded to the influence of their surroundings, and </p><p>became country people; and in their turn, as they became more </p><p>numerous than the townsmen, influenced them also; so that the </p><p>difference between town and country grew less and less; and it was </p><p>indeed this world of the country vivified by the thought and </p><p>briskness of town-bred folk which has produced that happy and </p><p>leisurely but eager life of which you have had a first taste. Again</p><p>I say, many blunders were made, but we have had time to set them </p><p>right. Much was left for the men of my earlier life to deal with.</p><p>The crude ideas of the first half of the twentieth century, when men </p><p>were still oppressed by the fear of poverty, and did not look enough </p><p>to the present pleasure of ordinary daily life, spoilt a great deal </p><p>of what the commercial age had left us of external beauty: and I</p><p>admit that it was but slowly that men recovered from the injuries </p><p>that they inflicted on themselves even after they became free. But</p><p>slowly as the recovery came, it DID come; and the more you see of us, </p><p>the clearer it will be to you that we are happy. That we live amidst</p><p>beauty without any fear of becoming effeminate; that we have plenty </p><p>to do, and on the whole enjoy doing it. What more can we ask of</p><p>life?" </p><p>He paused, as if he were seeking for words with which to express his </p><p>thought. Then he said:</p><p>"This is how we stand. England was once a country of clearings</p><p>amongst the woods and wastes, with a few towns interspersed, which </p><p>were fortresses for the feudal army, markets for the folk, gathering </p><p>places for the craftsmen. It then became a country of huge and foul</p><p>workshops and fouler gambling-dens, surrounded by an ill-kept, </p><p>poverty-stricken farm, pillaged by the masters of the workshops. It</p><p>is now a garden, where nothing is wasted and nothing is spoilt, with </p><p>the necessary dwellings, sheds, and workshops scattered up and down </p><p>the country, all trim and neat and pretty. For, indeed, we should be</p><p>too much ashamed of ourselves if we allowed the making of goods, even </p><p>on a large scale, to carry with it the appearance, even, of </p><p>desolation and misery. Why, my friend, those housewives we were</p><p>talking of just now would teach us better than that." </p><p>Said I: "This side of your change is certainly for the better. But</p><p>though I shall soon see some of these villages, tell me in a word or </p><p>two what they are like, just to prepare me." </p><p>"Perhaps," said he, "you have seen a tolerable picture of these</p><p>villages as they were before the end of the nineteenth century. Such</p><p>things exist." </p><p>"I have seen several of such pictures," said I. </p><p>"Well," said Hammond, "our villages are something like the best of </p><p>such places, with the church or mote-house of the neighbours for </p><p>their chief building. Only note that there are no tokens of poverty</p><p>about them: no tumble-down picturesque; which, to tell you the</p><p>truth, the artist usually availed himself of to veil his incapacity </p><p>for drawing architecture. Such things do not please us, even when</p><p>they indicate no misery. Like the mediaevals, we like everything</p><p>trim and clean, and orderly and bright; as people always do when they </p><p>have any sense of architectural power; because then they know that </p><p>they can have what they want, and they won't stand any nonsense from </p><p>Nature in their dealings with her." </p><p>"Besides the villages, are there any scattered country houses?" said </p><p>I. </p><p>"Yes, plenty," said Hammond; "in fact, except in the wastes and </p><p>forests and amongst the sand-hills (like Hindhead in Surrey), it is </p><p>not easy to be out of sight of a house; and where the houses are </p><p>thinly scattered they run large, and are more like the old colleges </p><p>than ordinary houses as they used to be. That is done for the sake</p><p>of society, for a good many people can dwell in such houses, as the </p><p>country dwellers are not necessarily husbandmen; though they almost </p><p>all help in such work at times. The life that goes on in these big</p><p>dwellings in the country is very pleasant, especially as some of the </p><p>most studious men of our time live in them, and altogether there is a </p><p>great variety of mind and mood to be found in them which brightens </p><p>and quickens the society there." </p><p>"I am rather surprised," said I, "by all this, for it seems to me </p><p>that after all the country must be tolerably populous." </p><p>"Certainly," said he; "the population is pretty much the same as it </p><p>was at the end of the nineteenth century; we have spread it, that is </p><p>all. Of course, also, we have helped to populate other countries--</p><p>where we were wanted and were called for." </p><p>Said I: "One thing, it seems to me, does not go with your word of</p><p>'garden' for the country. You have spoken of wastes and forests, and</p><p>I myself have seen the beginning of your Middlesex and Essex forest. </p><p>Why do you keep such things in a garden? and isn't it very wasteful </p><p>to do so?" </p><p>"My friend," he said, "we like these pieces of wild nature, and can </p><p>afford them, so we have them; let alone that as to the forests, we </p><p>need a great deal of timber, and suppose that our sons and sons' sons </p><p>will do the like. As to the land being a garden, I have heard that</p><p>they used to have shrubberies and rockeries in gardens once; and </p><p>though I might not like the artificial ones, I assure you that some </p><p>of the natural rockeries of our garden are worth seeing. Go north</p><p>this summer and look at the Cumberland and Westmoreland ones,--where, </p><p>by the way, you will see some sheep-feeding, so that they are not so </p><p>wasteful as you think; not so wasteful as forcing-grounds for fruit </p><p>out of season, _I_ think. Go and have a look at the sheep-walks high</p><p>up the slopes between Ingleborough and Pen-y-gwent, and tell me if</p><p>you think we WASTE the land there by not covering it with factories </p><p>for making things that nobody wants, which was the chief business of </p><p>the nineteenth century." </p><p>"I will try to go there," said I. </p><p>"It won't take much trying," said he. </p><p>CHAPTER XI: CONCERNING GOVERNMENT</p><p>"Now," said I, "I have come to the point of asking questions which I </p><p>suppose will be dry for you to answer and difficult for you to </p><p>explain; but I have foreseen for some time past that I must ask them, </p><p>will I 'nill I. What kind of a government have you? Has</p><p>republicanism finally triumphed? or have you come to a mere </p><p>dictatorship, which some persons in the nineteenth century used to </p><p>prophesy as the ultimate outcome of democracy? Indeed, this last</p><p>question does not seem so very unreasonable, since you have turned </p><p>your Parliament House into a dung-market. Or where do you house your</p><p>present Parliament?" </p><p>The old man answered my smile with a hearty laugh, and said: "Well,</p><p>well, dung is not the worst kind of corruption; fertility may come of </p><p>that, whereas mere dearth came from the other kind, of which those </p><p>walls once held the great supporters. Now, dear guest, let me tell</p><p>you that our present parliament would be hard to house in one place, </p><p>because the whole people is our parliament." </p><p>"I don't understand," said I. </p><p>"No, I suppose not," said he. "I must now shock you by telling you</p><p>that we have no longer anything which you, a native of another </p><p>planet, would call a government." </p><p>"I am not so much shocked as you might think," said I, "as I know </p><p>something about governments. But tell me, how do you manage, and how</p><p>have you come to this state of things?" </p><p>Said he: "It is true that we have to make some arrangements about</p><p>our affairs, concerning which you can ask presently; and it is also </p><p>true that everybody does not always agree with the details of these </p><p>arrangements; but, further, it is true that a man no more needs an </p><p>elaborate system of government, with its army, navy, and police, to </p><p>force him to give way to the will of the majority of his EQUALS, than </p><p>he wants a similar machinery to make him understand that his head and </p><p>a stone wall cannot occupy the same space at the same moment. Do you</p><p>want further explanation?" </p><p>"Well, yes, I do," quoth I. </p><p>Old Hammond settled himself in his chair with a look of enjoyment </p><p>which rather alarmed me, and made me dread a scientific disquisition: </p><p>so I sighed and abided. He said:</p><p>"I suppose you know pretty well what the process of government was in</p><p>the bad old times?" </p><p>"I am supposed to know," said I. </p><p>(Hammond) What was the government of those days? Was it really the</p><p>Parliament or any part of it? </p><p>(I) No.</p><p>(H.) Was not the Parliament on the one side a kind of watch-</p><p>committee sitting to see that the interests of the Upper Classes took </p><p>no hurt; and on the other side a sort of blind to delude the people </p><p>into supposing that they had some share in the management of their </p><p>own affairs? </p><p>(I) History seems to show us this.</p><p>(H.) To what extent did the people manage their own affairs?</p><p>(I) I judge from what I have heard that sometimes they forced the</p><p>Parliament to make a law to legalise some alteration which had </p><p>already taken place. </p><p>(H.) Anything else?</p><p>(I) I think not. As I am informed, if the people made any attempt</p><p>to deal with the CAUSE of their grievances, the law stepped in and </p><p>said, this is sedition, revolt, or what not, and slew or tortured the </p><p>ringleaders of such attempts. </p><p>(H.) If Parliament was not the government then, nor the people</p><p>either, what was the government? </p><p>(I) Can you tell me?</p><p>(H.) I think we shall not be far wrong if we say that government was</p><p>the Law-Courts, backed up by the executive, which handled the brute </p><p>force that the deluded people allowed them to use for their own </p><p>purposes; I mean the army, navy, and police. </p><p>(I) Reasonable men must needs think you are right.</p><p>(H.) Now as to those Law-Courts. Were they places of fair dealing</p><p>according to the ideas of the day? Had a poor man a good chance of</p><p>defending his property and person in them? </p><p>(I) It is a commonplace that even rich men looked upon a law-suit as</p><p>a dire misfortune, even if they gained the case; and as for a poor </p><p>one--why, it was considered a miracle of justice and beneficence if a </p><p>poor man who had once got into the clutches of the law escaped prison </p><p>or utter ruin. </p><p>(H.) It seems, then, my son, that the government by law-courts and</p><p>police, which was the real government of the nineteenth century, was </p><p>not a great success even to the people of that day, living under a </p><p>class system which proclaimed inequality and poverty as the law of </p><p>God and the bond which held the world together. </p><p>(I) So it seems, indeed.</p><p>(H.) And now that all this is changed, and the "rights of property,"</p><p>which mean the clenching the fist on a piece of goods and crying out </p><p>to the neighbours, You shan't have this!--now that all this has </p><p>disappeared so utterly that it is no longer possible even to jest </p><p>upon its absurdity, is such a Government possible? </p><p>(I) It is impossible.</p><p>(H.) Yes, happily. But for what other purpose than the protection</p><p>of the rich from the poor, the strong from the weak, did this </p><p>Government exist? </p><p>(I.) I have heard that it was said that their office was to defend</p><p>their own citizens against attack from other countries. </p><p>(H.) It was said; but was anyone expected to believe this? For</p><p>instance, did the English Government defend the English citizen </p><p>against the French? </p><p>(I) So it was said.</p><p>(H.) Then if the French had invaded England and conquered it, they</p><p>would not have allowed the English workmen to live well? </p><p>(I, laughing) As far as I can make out, the English masters of the</p><p>English workmen saw to that: they took from their workmen as much of</p><p>their livelihood as they dared, because they wanted it for </p><p>themselves. </p><p>(H.) But if the French had conquered, would they not have taken more</p><p>still from the English workmen? </p><p>(I) I do not think so; for in that case the English workmen would</p><p>have died of starvation; and then the French conquest would have </p><p>ruined the French, just as if the English horses and cattle had died </p><p>of under-feeding. So that after all, the English WORKMEN would have</p><p>been no worse off for the conquest: their French Masters could have</p><p>got no more from them than their English masters did. </p><p>(H.) This is true; and we may admit that the pretensions of the</p><p>government to defend the poor (i.e., the useful) people against other </p><p>countries come to nothing. But that is but natural; for we have seen</p><p>already that it was the function of government to protect the rich </p><p>against the poor. But did not the government defend its rich men</p><p>against other nations? </p><p>(I) I do not remember to have heard that the rich needed defence;</p><p>because it is said that even when two nations were at war, the rich </p><p>men of each nation gambled with each other pretty much as usual, and </p><p>even sold each other weapons wherewith to kill their own countrymen. </p><p>(H.) In short, it comes to this, that whereas the so-called</p><p>government of protection of property by means of the law-courts meant </p><p>destruction of wealth, this defence of the citizens of one country </p><p>against those of another country by means of war or the threat of war </p><p>meant pretty much the same thing. </p><p>(I) I cannot deny it.</p><p>(H.) Therefore the government really existed for the destruction of</p><p>wealth? </p><p>(I) So it seems. And yet -</p><p>(H.) Yet what?</p><p>(I) There were many rich people in those times.</p><p>(H.) You see the consequences of that fact?</p><p>(I) I think I do. But tell me out what they were.</p><p>(H.) If the government habitually destroyed wealth, the country must</p><p>have been poor? </p><p>(I) Yes, certainly.</p><p>(H.) Yet amidst this poverty the persons for the sake of whom the</p><p>government existed insisted on being rich whatever might happen? </p><p>(I) So it was.</p><p>(H.) What must happen if in a poor country some people insist on</p><p>being rich at the expense of the others? </p><p>(I) Unutterable poverty for the others. All this misery, then, was</p><p>caused by the destructive government of which we have been speaking? </p><p>(H.) Nay, it would be incorrect to say so. The government itself</p><p>was but the necessary result of the careless, aimless tyranny of the </p><p>times; it was but the machinery of tyranny. Now tyranny has come to</p><p>an end, and we no longer need such machinery; we could not possibly </p><p>use it since we are free. Therefore in your sense of the word we</p><p>have no government. Do you understand this now?</p><p>(I) Yes, I do. But I will ask you some more questions as to how you</p><p>as free men manage your affairs. </p><p>(H.) With all my heart. Ask away.</p><p>CHAPTER XII: CONCERNING THE ARRANGEMENT OF LIFE</p><p>"Well," I said, "about those 'arrangements' which you spoke of as </p><p>taking the place of government, could you give me any account of </p><p>them?" </p><p>"Neighbour," he said, "although we have simplified our lives a great </p><p>deal from what they were, and have got rid of many conventionalities </p><p>and many sham wants, which used to give our forefathers much trouble, </p><p>yet our life is too complex for me to tell you in detail by means of </p><p>words how it is arranged; you must find that out by living amongst </p><p>us. It is true that I can better tell you what we don't do, than</p><p>what we do do."</p><p>"Well?" said I. </p><p>"This is the way to put it," said he: "We have been living for a</p><p>hundred and fifty years, at least, more or less in our present </p><p>manner, and a tradition or habit of life has been growing on us; and </p><p>that habit has become a habit of acting on the whole for the best. </p><p>It is easy for us to live without robbing each other. It would be</p><p>possible for us to contend with and rob each other, but it would be </p><p>harder for us than refraining from strife and robbery. That is in</p><p>short the foundation of our life and our happiness." </p><p>"Whereas in the old days," said I, "it was very hard to live without </p><p>strife and robbery. That's what you mean, isn't it, by giving me the</p><p>negative side of your good conditions?" </p><p>"Yes," he said, "it was so hard, that those who habitually acted </p><p>fairly to their neighbours were celebrated as saints and heroes, and </p><p>were looked up to with the greatest reverence." </p><p>"While they were alive?" said I. </p><p>"No," said he, "after they were dead." </p><p>"But as to these days," I said; "you don't mean to tell me that no </p><p>one ever transgresses this habit of good fellowship?" </p><p>"Certainly not," said Hammond, "but when the transgressions occur, </p><p>everybody, transgressors and all, know them for what they are; the </p><p>errors of friends, not the habitual actions of persons driven into </p><p>enmity against society." </p><p>"I see," said I; "you mean that you have no 'criminal' classes." </p><p>"How could we have them," said he, "since there is no rich class to </p><p>breed enemies against the state by means of the injustice of the </p><p>state?" </p><p>Said I: "I thought that I understood from something that fell from</p><p>you a little while ago that you had abolished civil law. Is that so,</p><p>literally?" </p><p>"It abolished itself, my friend," said he. "As I said before, the</p><p>civil law-courts were upheld for the defence of private property; for </p><p>nobody ever pretended that it was possible to make people act fairly </p><p>to each other by means of brute force. Well, private property being</p><p>abolished, all the laws and all the legal 'crimes' which it had </p><p>manufactured of course came to an end. Thou shalt not steal, had to</p><p>be translated into, Thou shalt work in order to live happily. Is</p><p>there any need to enforce that commandment by violence?" </p><p>"Well," said I, "that is understood, and I agree with it; but how </p><p>about crimes of violence? would not their occurrence (and you admit </p><p>that they occur) make criminal law necessary?" </p><p>Said he: "In your sense of the word, we have no criminal law either.</p><p>Let us look at the matter closer, and see whence crimes of violence </p><p>spring. By far the greater part of these in past days were the</p><p>result of the laws of private property, which forbade the</p><p>satisfaction of their natural desires to all but a privileged few, </p><p>and of the general visible coercion which came of those laws. All</p><p>that cause of violent crime is gone. Again, many violent acts came</p><p>from the artificial perversion of the sexual passions, which caused </p><p>overweening jealousy and the like miseries. Now, when you look</p><p>carefully into these, you will find that what lay at the bottom of </p><p>them was mostly the idea (a law-made idea) of the woman being the </p><p>property of the man, whether he were husband, father, brother, or </p><p>what not. That idea has of course vanished with private property, as</p><p>well as certain follies about the 'ruin' of women for following their </p><p>natural desires in an illegal way, which of course was a convention </p><p>caused by the laws of private property. </p><p>"Another cognate cause of crimes of violence was the family tyranny, </p><p>which was the subject of so many novels and stories of the past, and </p><p>which once more was the result of private property. Of course that</p><p>is all ended, since families are held together by no bond of </p><p>coercion, legal or social, but by mutual liking and affection, and </p><p>everybody is free to come or go as he or she pleases. Furthermore,</p><p>our standards of honour and public estimation are very different from </p><p>the old ones; success in besting our neighbours is a road to renown </p><p>now closed, let us hope for ever. Each man is free to exercise his</p><p>special faculty to the utmost, and every one encourages him in so </p><p>doing. So that we have got rid of the scowling envy, coupled by the</p><p>poets with hatred, and surely with good reason; heaps of unhappiness </p><p>and ill-blood were caused by it, which with irritable and passionate </p><p>men--i.e., energetic and active men--often led to violence." </p><p>I laughed, and said: "So that you now withdraw your admission, and</p><p>say that there is no violence amongst you?" </p><p>"No," said he, "I withdraw nothing; as I told you, such things will </p><p>happen. Hot blood will err sometimes. A man may strike another, and</p><p>the stricken strike back again, and the result be a homicide, to put </p><p>it at the worst. But what then? Shall we the neighbours make it</p><p>worse still? Shall we think so poorly of each other as to suppose</p><p>that the slain man calls on us to revenge him, when we know that if </p><p>he had been maimed, he would, when in cold blood and able to weigh </p><p>all the circumstances, have forgiven his manner? Or will the death</p><p>of the slayer bring the slain man to life again and cure the </p><p>unhappiness his loss has caused?" </p><p>"Yes," I said, "but consider, must not the safety of society be </p><p>safeguarded by some punishment?" </p><p>"There, neighbour!" said the old man, with some exultation "You have </p><p>hit the mark. That PUNISHMENT of which men used to talk so wisely</p><p>and act so foolishly, what was it but the expression of their fear? </p><p>And they had need to fear, since they--i.e., the rulers of society-- </p><p>were dwelling like an armed band in a hostile country. But we who</p><p>live amongst our friends need neither fear nor punish. Surely if we,</p><p>in dread of an occasional rare homicide, an occasional rough blow, </p><p>were solemnly and legally to commit homicide and violence, we could </p><p>only be a society of ferocious cowards. Don't you think so,</p><p>neighbour?" </p><p>"Yes, I do, when I come to think of it from that side," said I. </p><p>"Yet you must understand," said the old man, "that when any violence</p><p>is committed, we expect the transgressor to make any atonement </p><p>possible to him, and he himself expects it. But again, think if the</p><p>destruction or serious injury of a man momentarily overcome by wrath </p><p>or folly can be any atonement to the commonwealth? Surely it can</p><p>only be an additional injury to it." </p><p>Said I: "But suppose the man has a habit of violence,--kills a man a</p><p>year, for instance?" </p><p>"Such a thing is unknown," said he. "In a society where there is no</p><p>punishment to evade, no law to triumph over, remorse will certainly </p><p>follow transgression." </p><p>"And lesser outbreaks of violence," said I, "how do you deal with </p><p>them? for hitherto we have been talking of great tragedies, I </p><p>suppose?" </p><p>Said Hammond: "If the ill-doer is not sick or mad (in which case he</p><p>must be restrained till his sickness or madness is cured) it is clear </p><p>that grief and humiliation must follow the ill-deed; and society in </p><p>general will make that pretty clear to the ill-doer if he should </p><p>chance to be dull to it; and again, some kind of atonement will </p><p>follow,--at the least, an open acknowledgement of the grief and </p><p>humiliation. Is it so hard to say, I ask your pardon, neighbour?--</p><p>Well, sometimes it is hard--and let it be." </p><p>"You think that enough?" said I. </p><p>"Yes," said he, "and moreover it is all that we CAN do. If in</p><p>addition we torture the man, we turn his grief into anger, and the </p><p>humiliation he would otherwise feel for HIS wrong-doing is swallowed </p><p>up by a hope of revenge for OUR wrong-doing to him. He has paid the</p><p>legal penalty, and can 'go and sin again' with comfort. Shall we</p><p>commit such a folly, then? Remember Jesus had got the legal penalty</p><p>remitted before he said 'Go and sin no more.' Let alone that in a</p><p>society of equals you will not find any one to play the part of </p><p>torturer or jailer, though many to act as nurse or doctor." </p><p>"So," said I, "you consider crime a mere spasmodic disease, which </p><p>requires no body of criminal law to deal with it?" </p><p>"Pretty much so," said he; "and since, as I have told you, we are a </p><p>healthy people generally, so we are not likely to be much troubled </p><p>with THIS disease." </p><p>"Well, you have no civil law, and no criminal law. But have you no</p><p>laws of the market, so to say--no regulation for the exchange of </p><p>wares? for you must exchange, even if you have no property." </p><p>Said he: "We have no obvious individual exchange, as you saw this</p><p>morning when you went a-shopping; but of course there are regulations </p><p>of the markets, varying according to the circumstances and guided by </p><p>general custom. But as these are matters of general assent, which</p><p>nobody dreams of objecting to, so also we have made no provision for </p><p>enforcing them: therefore I don't call them laws. In law, whether</p><p>it be criminal or civil, execution always follows judgment, and </p><p>someone must suffer. When you see the judge on his bench, you see</p><p>through him, as clearly as if he were made of glass, the policeman to </p><p>emprison, and the soldier to slay some actual living person. Such</p><p>follies would make an agreeable market, wouldn't they?" </p><p>"Certainly," said I, "that means turning the market into a mere </p><p>battle-field, in which many people must suffer as much as in the </p><p>battle-field of bullet and bayonet. And from what I have seen I</p><p>should suppose that your marketing, great and little, is carried on </p><p>in a way that makes it a pleasant occupation." </p><p>"You are right, neighbour," said he. "Although there are so many,</p><p>indeed by far the greater number amongst us, who would be unhappy if </p><p>they were not engaged in actually making things, and things which </p><p>turn out beautiful under their hands,--there are many, like the </p><p>housekeepers I was speaking of, whose delight is in administration </p><p>and organisation, to use long-tailed words; I mean people who like </p><p>keeping things together, avoiding waste, seeing that nothing sticks </p><p>fast uselessly. Such people are thoroughly happy in their business,</p><p>all the more as they are dealing with actual facts, and not merely </p><p>passing counters round to see what share they shall have in the </p><p>privileged taxation of useful people, which was the business of the </p><p>commercial folk in past days. Well, what are you going to ask me</p><p>next?" </p><p>CHAPTER XIII: CONCERNING POLITICS</p><p>Said I: "How do you manage with politics?"</p><p>Said Hammond, smiling: "I am glad that it is of ME that you ask that</p><p>question; I do believe that anybody else would make you explain </p><p>yourself, or try to do so, till you were sickened of asking </p><p>questions. Indeed, I believe I am the only man in England who would</p><p>know what you mean; and since I know, I will answer your question </p><p>briefly by saying that we are very well off as to politics,--because </p><p>we have none. If ever you make a book out of this conversation, put</p><p>this in a chapter by itself, after the model of old Horrebow's Snakes </p><p>in Iceland." </p><p>"I will," said I. </p><p>CHAPTER XIV: HOW MATTERS ARE MANAGED</p><p>Said I: "How about your relations with foreign nations?"</p><p>"I will not affect not to know what you mean," said he, "but I will </p><p>tell you at once that the whole system of rival and contending </p><p>nations which played so great a part in the 'government' of the world </p><p>of civilisation has disappeared along with the inequality betwixt man </p><p>and man in society." </p><p>"Does not that make the world duller?" said I. </p><p>"Why?" said the old man.</p><p>"The obliteration of national variety," said I. </p><p>"Nonsense," he said, somewhat snappishly. "Cross the water and see.</p><p>You will find plenty of variety: the landscape, the building, the</p><p>diet, the amusements, all various. The men and women varying in</p><p>looks as well as in habits of thought; the costume far more various </p><p>than in the commercial period. How should it add to the variety or</p><p>dispel the dulness, to coerce certain families or tribes, often </p><p>heterogeneous and jarring with one another, into certain artificial </p><p>and mechanical groups, and call them nations, and stimulate their </p><p>patriotism--i.e., their foolish and envious prejudices?" </p><p>"Well--I don't know how," said I. </p><p>"That's right," said Hammond cheerily; "you can easily understand </p><p>that now we are freed from this folly it is obvious to us that by </p><p>means of this very diversity the different strains of blood in the </p><p>world can be serviceable and pleasant to each other, without in the </p><p>least wanting to rob each other: we are all bent on the same</p><p>enterprise, making the most of our lives. And I must tell you</p><p>whatever quarrels or misunderstandings arise, they very seldom take </p><p>place between people of different race; and consequently since there </p><p>is less unreason in them, they are the more readily appeased." </p><p>"Good," said I, "but as to those matters of politics; as to general </p><p>differences of opinion in one and the same community. Do you assert</p><p>that there are none?" </p><p>"No, not at all," said he, somewhat snappishly; "but I do say that </p><p>differences of opinion about real solid things need not, and with us </p><p>do not, crystallise people into parties permanently hostile to one </p><p>another, with different theories as to the build of the universe and </p><p>the progress of time. Isn't that what politics used to mean?"</p><p>"H'm, well," said I, "I am not so sure of that." </p><p>Said he: "I take, you, neighbour; they only PRETENDED to this</p><p>serious difference of opinion; for if it had existed they could not </p><p>have dealt together in the ordinary business of life; couldn't have </p><p>eaten together, bought and sold together, gambled together, cheated </p><p>other people together, but must have fought whenever they met: which</p><p>would not have suited them at all. The game of the masters of</p><p>politics was to cajole or force the public to pay the expense of a </p><p>luxurious life and exciting amusement for a few cliques of ambitious </p><p>persons: and the PRETENCE of serious difference of opinion, belied</p><p>by every action of their lives, was quite good enough for that. What</p><p>has all that got to do with us?" </p><p>Said I: "Why, nothing, I should hope. But I fear--In short, I have</p><p>been told that political strife was a necessary result of human </p><p>nature." </p><p>"Human nature!" cried the old boy, impetuously; "what human nature? </p><p>The human nature of paupers, of slaves, of slave-holders, or the </p><p>human nature of wealthy freemen? Which? Come, tell me that!"</p><p>"Well," said I, "I suppose there would be a difference according to </p><p>circumstances in people's action about these matters."</p><p>"I should think so, indeed," said he. "At all events, experience</p><p>shows that it is so. Amongst us, our differences concern matters of</p><p>business, and passing events as to them, and could not divide men </p><p>permanently. As a rule, the immediate outcome shows which opinion on</p><p>a given subject is the right one; it is a matter of fact, not of </p><p>speculation. For instance, it is clearly not easy to knock up a</p><p>political party on the question as to whether haymaking in such and </p><p>such a country-side shall begin this week or next, when all men agree </p><p>that it must at latest begin the week after next, and when any man </p><p>can go down into the fields himself and see whether the seeds are </p><p>ripe enough for the cutting." </p><p>Said I: "And you settle these differences, great and small, by the</p><p>will of the majority, I suppose?" </p><p>"Certainly," said he; "how else could we settle them? You see in</p><p>matters which are merely personal which do not affect the welfare of </p><p>the community--how a man shall dress, what he shall eat and drink, </p><p>what he shall write and read, and so forth--there can be no </p><p>difference of opinion, and everybody does as he pleases. But when</p><p>the matter is of common interest to the whole community, and the </p><p>doing or not doing something affects everybody, the majority must </p><p>have their way; unless the minority were to take up arms and show by </p><p>force that they were the effective or real majority; which, however, </p><p>in a society of men who are free and equal is little likely to </p><p>happen; because in such a community the apparent majority IS the real </p><p>majority, and the others, as I have hinted before, know that too well </p><p>to obstruct from mere pigheadedness; especially as they have had </p><p>plenty of opportunity of putting forward their side of the question." </p><p>"How is that managed?" said I. </p><p>"Well," said he, "let us take one of our units of management, a </p><p>commune, or a ward, or a parish (for we have all three names, </p><p>indicating little real distinction between them now, though time was </p><p>there was a good deal). In such a district, as you would call it,</p><p>some neighbours think that something ought to be done or undone: a</p><p>new town-hall built; a clearance of inconvenient houses; or say a </p><p>stone bridge substituted for some ugly old iron one,--there you have </p><p>undoing and doing in one. Well, at the next ordinary meeting of the</p><p>neighbours, or Mote, as we call it, according to the ancient tongue </p><p>of the times before bureaucracy, a neighbour proposes the change, and </p><p>of course, if everybody agrees, there is an end of discussion, except </p><p>about details. Equally, if no one backs the proposer,--'seconds</p><p>him,' it used to be called--the matter drops for the time being; a </p><p>thing not likely to happen amongst reasonable men, however, as the </p><p>proposer is sure to have talked it over with others before the Mote. </p><p>But supposing the affair proposed and seconded, if a few of the </p><p>neighbours disagree to it, if they think that the beastly iron bridge </p><p>will serve a little longer and they don't want to be bothered with </p><p>building a new one just then, they don't count heads that time, but </p><p>put off the formal discussion to the next Mote; and meantime </p><p>arguments pro and con are flying about, and some get printed, so that </p><p>everybody knows what is going on; and when the Mote comes together </p><p>again there is a regular discussion and at last a vote by show of </p><p>hands. If the division is a close one, the question is again put off</p><p>for further discussion; if the division is a wide one, the minority </p><p>are asked if they will yield to the more general opinion, which they</p><p>often, nay, most commonly do. If they refuse, the question is</p><p>debated a third time, when, if the minority has not perceptibly </p><p>grown, they always give way; though I believe there is some half- </p><p>forgotten rule by which they might still carry it on further; but I </p><p>say, what always happens is that they are convinced, not perhaps that </p><p>their view is the wrong one, but they cannot persuade or force the </p><p>community to adopt it." </p><p>"Very good," said I; "but what happens if the divisions are still </p><p>narrow?" </p><p>Said he: "As a matter of principle and according to the rule of such</p><p>cases, the question must then lapse, and the majority, if so narrow, </p><p>has to submit to sitting down under the status quo. But I must tell</p><p>you that in point of fact the minority very seldom enforces this </p><p>rule, but generally yields in a friendly manner." </p><p>"But do you know," said I, "that there is something in all this very </p><p>like democracy; and I thought that democracy was considered to be in </p><p>a moribund condition many, many years ago." </p><p>The old boy's eyes twinkled. "I grant you that our methods have that</p><p>drawback. But what is to be done? We can't get ANYONE amongst us to</p><p>complain of his not always having his own way in the teeth of the </p><p>community, when it is clear that EVERYBODY cannot have that </p><p>indulgence. What is to be done?"</p><p>"Well," said I, "I don't know." </p><p>Said he: "The only alternatives to our method that I can conceive of</p><p>are these. First, that we should choose out, or breed, a class of</p><p>superior persons capable of judging on all matters without consulting </p><p>the neighbours; that, in short, we should get for ourselves what used </p><p>to be called an aristocracy of intellect; or, secondly, that for the </p><p>purpose of safe-guarding the freedom of the individual will, we </p><p>should revert to a system of private property again, and have slaves </p><p>and slave-holders once more. What do you think of those two</p><p>expedients?" </p><p>"Well," said I, "there is a third possibility--to wit, that every man </p><p>should be quite independent of every other, and that thus the tyranny </p><p>of society should be abolished." </p><p>He looked hard at me for a second or two, and then burst out laughing </p><p>very heartily; and I confess that I joined him. When he recovered</p><p>himself he nodded at me, and said: "Yes, yes, I quite agree with</p><p>you--and so we all do." </p><p>"Yes," I said, "and besides, it does not press hardly on the </p><p>minority: for, take this matter of the bridge, no man is obliged to</p><p>work on it if he doesn't agree to its building. At least, I suppose</p><p>not." </p><p>He smiled, and said: "Shrewdly put; and yet from the point of view</p><p>of the native of another planet. If the man of the minority does</p><p>find his feelings hurt, doubtless he may relieve them by refusing to </p><p>help in building the bridge. But, dear neighbour, that is not a very</p><p>effective salve for the wound caused by the 'tyranny of a majority' </p><p>in our society; because all work that is done is either beneficial or</p><p>hurtful to every member of society. The man is benefited by the</p><p>bridge-building if it turns out a good thing, and hurt by it if it </p><p>turns out a bad one, whether he puts a hand to it or not; and </p><p>meanwhile he is benefiting the bridge-builders by his work, whatever </p><p>that may be. In fact, I see no help for him except the pleasure of</p><p>saying 'I told you so' if the bridge-building turns out to be a </p><p>mistake and hurts him; if it benefits him he must suffer in silence. </p><p>A terrible tyranny our Communism, is it not? Folk used often to be</p><p>warned against this very unhappiness in times past, when for every </p><p>well-fed, contented person you saw a thousand miserable starvelings. </p><p>Whereas for us, we grow fat and well-liking on the tyranny; a </p><p>tyranny, to say the truth, not to be made visible by any microscope I </p><p>know. Don't be afraid, my friend; we are not going to seek for</p><p>troubles by calling our peace and plenty and happiness by ill names </p><p>whose very meaning we have forgotten!" </p><p>He sat musing for a little, and then started and said: "Are there</p><p>any more questions, dear guest? The morning is waning fast amidst my</p><p>garrulity?' </p><p>CHAPTER XV: ON THE LACK OF INCENTIVE TO LABOUR IN A COMMUNIST</p><p>SOCIETY </p><p>"Yes," said I. "I was expecting Dick and Clara to make their</p><p>appearance any moment: but is there time to ask just one or two</p><p>questions before they come?" </p><p>"Try it, dear neighbour--try it," said old Hammond. "For the more</p><p>you ask me the better I am pleased; and at any rate if they do come </p><p>and find me in the middle of an answer, they must sit quiet and </p><p>pretend to listen till I come to an end. It won't hurt them; they</p><p>will find it quite amusing enough to sit side by side, conscious of </p><p>their proximity to each other." </p><p>I smiled, as I was bound to, and said: "Good; I will go on talking</p><p>without noticing them when they come in. Now, this is what I want to</p><p>ask you about--to wit, how you get people to work when there is no </p><p>reward of labour, and especially how you get them to work </p><p>strenuously?" </p><p>"No reward of labour?" said Hammond, gravely. "The reward of labour</p><p>is LIFE. Is that not enough?"</p><p>"But no reward for especially good work," quoth I. </p><p>"Plenty of reward," said he--"the reward of creation. The wages</p><p>which God gets, as people might have said time agone. If you are</p><p>going to ask to be paid for the pleasure of creation, which is what </p><p>excellence in work means, the next thing we shall hear of will be a </p><p>bill sent in for the begetting of children." </p><p>"Well, but," said I, "the man of the nineteenth century would say </p><p>there is a natural desire towards the procreation of children, and a </p><p>natural desire not to work." </p><p>"Yes, yes," said he, "I know the ancient platitude,--wholly untrue; </p><p>indeed, to us quite meaningless. Fourier, whom all men laughed at,</p><p>understood the matter better." </p><p>"Why is it meaningless to you?" said I. </p><p>He said: "Because it implies that all work is suffering, and we are</p><p>so far from thinking that, that, as you may have noticed, whereas we </p><p>are not short of wealth, there is a kind of fear growing up amongst </p><p>us that we shall one day be short of work. It is a pleasure which we</p><p>are afraid of losing, not a pain." </p><p>"Yes," said I, "I have noticed that, and I was going to ask you about </p><p>that also. But in the meantime, what do you positively mean to</p><p>assert about the pleasurableness of work amongst you?" </p><p>"This, that ALL work is now pleasurable; either because of the hope </p><p>of gain in honour and wealth with which the work is done, which </p><p>causes pleasurable excitement, even when the actual work is not </p><p>pleasant; or else because it has grown into a pleasurable HABIT, as </p><p>in the case with what you may call mechanical work; and lastly (and </p><p>most of our work is of this kind) because there is conscious sensuous </p><p>pleasure in the work itself; it is done, that is, by artists." </p><p>"I see," said I. "Can you now tell me how you have come to this</p><p>happy condition? For, to speak plainly, this change from the</p><p>conditions of the older world seems to me far greater and more </p><p>important than all the other changes you have told me about as to </p><p>crime, politics, property, marriage." </p><p>"You are right there," said he. "Indeed, you may say rather that it</p><p>is this change which makes all the others possible. What is the</p><p>object of Revolution? Surely to make people happy. Revolution</p><p>having brought its foredoomed change about, how can you prevent the </p><p>counter-revolution from setting in except by making people happy? </p><p>What! shall we expect peace and stability from unhappiness? The</p><p>gathering of grapes from thorns and figs from thistles is a </p><p>reasonable expectation compared with that! And happiness without</p><p>happy daily work is impossible." </p><p>"Most obviously true," said I: for I thought the old boy was</p><p>preaching a little. "But answer my question, as to how you gained</p><p>this happiness." </p><p>"Briefly," said he, "by the absence of artificial coercion, and the </p><p>freedom for every man to do what he can do best, joined to the </p><p>knowledge of what productions of labour we really wanted. I must</p><p>admit that this knowledge we reached slowly and painfully." </p><p>"Go on," said I, "give me more detail; explain more fully. For this</p><p>subject interests me intensely." </p><p>"Yes, I will," said he; "but in order to do so I must weary you by </p><p>talking a little about the past. Contrast is necessary for this</p><p>explanation. Do you mind?"</p><p>"No, no," said I. </p><p>Said he, settling himself in his chair again for a long talk: "It is</p><p>clear from all that we hear and read, that in the last age of </p><p>civilisation men had got into a vicious circle in the matter of </p><p>production of wares. They had reached a wonderful facility of</p><p>production, and in order to make the most of that facility they had </p><p>gradually created (or allowed to grow, rather) a most elaborate </p><p>system of buying and selling, which has been called the World-Market; </p><p>and that World-Market, once set a-going, forced them to go on making </p><p>more and more of these wares, whether they needed them or not. So</p><p>that while (of course) they could not free themselves from the toil </p><p>of making real necessaries, they created in a never-ending series </p><p>sham or artificial necessaries, which became, under the iron rule of </p><p>the aforesaid World-Market, of equal importance to them with the real </p><p>necessaries which supported life. By all this they burdened</p><p>themselves with a prodigious mass of work merely for the sake of </p><p>keeping their wretched system going." </p><p>"Yes--and then?" said I. </p><p>"Why, then, since they had forced themselves to stagger along under </p><p>this horrible burden of unnecessary production, it became impossible </p><p>for them to look upon labour and its results from any other point of </p><p>view than one--to wit, the ceaseless endeavour to expend the least </p><p>possible amount of labour on any article made, and yet at the same </p><p>time to make as many articles as possible. To this 'cheapening of</p><p>production', as it was called, everything was sacrificed: the</p><p>happiness of the workman at his work, nay, his most elementary </p><p>comfort and bare health, his food, his clothes, his dwelling, his </p><p>leisure, his amusement, his education--his life, in short--did not </p><p>weigh a grain of sand in the balance against this dire necessity of </p><p>'cheap production' of things, a great part of which were not worth </p><p>producing at all. Nay, we are told, and we must believe it, so</p><p>overwhelming is the evidence, though many of our people scarcely CAN </p><p>believe it, that even rich and powerful men, the masters of the poor </p><p>devils aforesaid, submitted to live amidst sights and sounds and </p><p>smells which it is in the very nature of man to abhor and flee from, </p><p>in order that their riches might bolster up this supreme folly. The</p><p>whole community, in fact, was cast into the jaws of this ravening </p><p>monster, 'the cheap production' forced upon it by the World-Market." </p><p>"Dear me!" said I. "But what happened? Did not their cleverness and</p><p>facility in production master this chaos of misery at last? Couldn't</p><p>they catch up with the World-Market, and then set to work to devise </p><p>means for relieving themselves from this fearful task of extra </p><p>labour?" </p><p>He smiled bitterly. "Did they even try to?" said he. "I am not</p><p>sure. You know that according to the old saw the beetle gets used to</p><p>living in dung; and these people, whether they found the dung sweet </p><p>or not, certainly lived in it." </p><p>His estimate of the life of the nineteenth century made me catch my </p><p>breath a little; and I said feebly, "But the labour-saving machines?" </p><p>"Heyday!" quoth he. "What's that you are saying? the labour-saving</p><p>machines? Yes, they were made to 'save labour' (or, to speak more</p><p>plainly, the lives of men) on one piece of work in order that it </p><p>might be expended--I will say wasted--on another, probably useless, </p><p>piece of work. Friend, all their devices for cheapening labour</p><p>simply resulted in increasing the burden of labour. The appetite of</p><p>the World-Market grew with what it fed on: the countries within the</p><p>ring of 'civilisation' (that is, organised misery) were glutted with </p><p>the abortions of the market, and force and fraud were used </p><p>unsparingly to 'open up' countries OUTSIDE that pale. This process</p><p>of 'opening up' is a strange one to those who have read the </p><p>professions of the men of that period and do not understand their </p><p>practice; and perhaps shows us at its worst the great vice of the </p><p>nineteenth century, the use of hypocrisy and cant to evade the </p><p>responsibility of vicarious ferocity. When the civilised World-</p><p>Market coveted a country not yet in its clutches, some transparent </p><p>pretext was found--the suppression of a slavery different from and </p><p>not so cruel as that of commerce; the pushing of a religion no longer </p><p>believed in by its promoters; the 'rescue' of some desperado or </p><p>homicidal madman whose misdeeds had got him into trouble amongst the </p><p>natives of the 'barbarous' country--any stick, in short, which would </p><p>beat the dog at all. Then some bold, unprincipled, ignorant</p><p>adventurer was found (no difficult task in the days of competition), </p><p>and he was bribed to 'create a market' by breaking up whatever </p><p>traditional society there might be in the doomed country, and by </p><p>destroying whatever leisure or pleasure he found there. He forced</p><p>wares on the natives which they did not want, and took their natural </p><p>products in 'exchange,' as this form of robbery was called, and </p><p>thereby he 'created new wants,' to supply which (that is, to be </p><p>allowed to live by their new masters) the hapless, helpless people </p><p>had to sell themselves into the slavery of hopeless toil so that they </p><p>might have something wherewith to purchase the nullities of </p><p>'civilisation.' Ah," said the old man, pointing the dealings of to</p><p>the Museum, "I have read books and papers in there, telling strange </p><p>stories indeed of civilisation (or organised misery) with 'non- </p><p>civilisation'; from the time when the British Government deliberately </p><p>sent blankets infected with small-pox as choice gifts to inconvenient </p><p>tribes of Red-skins, to the time when Africa was infested by a man </p><p>named Stanley, who--" </p><p>"Excuse me," said I, "but as you know, time presses; and I want to </p><p>keep our question on the straightest line possible; and I want at </p><p>once to ask this about these wares made for the World-Market--how </p><p>about their quality; these people who were so clever about making </p><p>goods, I suppose they made them well?" </p><p>"Quality!" said the old man crustily, for he was rather peevish at </p><p>being cut short in his story; "how could they possibly attend to such </p><p>trifles as the quality of the wares they sold? The best of them were</p><p>of a lowish average, the worst were transparent make-shifts for the </p><p>things asked for, which nobody would have put up with if they could </p><p>have got anything else. It was a current jest of the time that the</p><p>wares were made to sell and not to use; a jest which you, as coming </p><p>from another planet, may understand, but which our folk could not." </p><p>Said I: "What! did they make nothing well?"</p><p>"Why, yes," said he, "there was one class of goods which they did </p><p>make thoroughly well, and that was the class of machines which were </p><p>used for making things. These were usually quite perfect pieces of</p><p>workmanship, admirably adapted to the end in view. So that it may be</p><p>fairly said that the great achievement of the nineteenth century was </p><p>the making of machines which were wonders of invention, skill, and </p><p>patience, and which were used for the production of measureless </p><p>quantities of worthless make-shifts. In truth, the owners of the</p><p>machines did not consider anything which they made as wares, but </p><p>simply as means for the enrichment of themselves. Of course the only</p><p>admitted test of utility in wares was the finding of buyers for them- </p><p>-wise men or fools, as it might chance." </p><p>"And people put up with this?" said I. </p><p>"For a time," said he. </p><p>"And then?" </p><p>"And then the overturn," said the old man, smiling, "and the </p><p>nineteenth century saw itself as a man who has lost his clothes </p><p>whilst bathing, and has to walk naked through the town." </p><p>"You are very bitter about that unlucky nineteenth century," said I. </p><p>"Naturally," said he, "since I know so much about it." </p><p>He was silent a little, and then said: "There are traditions--nay,</p><p>real histories--in our family about it: my grandfather was one of</p><p>its victims. If you know something about it, you will understand</p><p>what he suffered when I tell you that he was in those days a genuine </p><p>artist, a man of genius, and a revolutionist." </p><p>"I think I do understand," said I: "but now, as it seems, you have</p><p>reversed all this?" </p><p>"Pretty much so," said he. "The wares which we make are made because</p><p>they are needed: men make for their neighbours' use as if they were</p><p>making for themselves, not for a vague market of which they know </p><p>nothing, and over which they have no control: as there is no buying</p><p>and selling, it would be mere insanity to make goods on the chance of </p><p>their being wanted; for there is no longer anyone who can be </p><p>compelled to buy them. So that whatever is made is good, and</p><p>thoroughly fit for its purpose. Nothing can be made except for</p><p>genuine use; therefore no inferior goods are made. Moreover, as</p><p>aforesaid, we have now found out what we want, so we make no more </p><p>than we want; and as we are not driven to make a vast quantity of </p><p>useless things we have time and resources enough to consider our </p><p>pleasure in making them. All work which would be irksome to do by</p><p>hand is done by immensely improved machinery; and in all work which </p><p>it is a pleasure to do by hand machinery is done without. There is</p><p>no difficulty in finding work which suits the special turn of mind of </p><p>everybody; so that no man is sacrificed to the wants of another. </p><p>From time to time, when we have found out that some piece of work was </p><p>too disagreeable or troublesome, we have given it up and done </p><p>altogether without the thing produced by it. Now, surely you can see</p><p>that under these circumstances all the work that we do is an exercise </p><p>of the mind and body more or less pleasant to be done: so that</p><p>instead of avoiding work everybody seeks it: and, since people have</p><p>got defter in doing the work generation after generation, it has </p><p>become so easy to do, that it seems as if there were less done, </p><p>though probably more is produced. I suppose this explains that fear,</p><p>which I hinted at just now, of a possible scarcity in work, which </p><p>perhaps you have already noticed, and which is a feeling on the </p><p>increase, and has been for a score of years." </p><p>"But do you think," said I, "that there is any fear of a work-famine</p><p>amongst you?" </p><p>"No, I do not," said he, "and I will tell why; it is each man's </p><p>business to make his own work pleasanter and pleasanter, which of </p><p>course tends towards raising the standard of excellence, as no man </p><p>enjoys turning out work which is not a credit to him, and also to </p><p>greater deliberation in turning it out; and there is such a vast </p><p>number of things which can be treated as works of art, that this </p><p>alone gives employment to a host of deft people. Again, if art be</p><p>inexhaustible, so is science also; and though it is no longer the </p><p>only innocent occupation which is thought worth an intelligent man </p><p>spending his time upon, as it once was, yet there are, and I suppose </p><p>will be, many people who are excited by its conquest of difficulties, </p><p>and care for it more than for anything else. Again, as more and more</p><p>of pleasure is imported into work, I think we shall take up kinds of </p><p>work which produce desirable wares, but which we gave up because we </p><p>could not carry them on pleasantly. Moreover, I think that it is</p><p>only in parts of Europe which are more advanced than the rest of the </p><p>world that you will hear this talk of the fear of a work-famine. </p><p>Those lands which were once the colonies of Great Britain, for </p><p>instance, and especially America--that part of it, above all, which </p><p>was once the United states--are now and will be for a long while a </p><p>great resource to us. For these lands, and, I say, especially the</p><p>northern parts of America, suffered so terribly from the full force </p><p>of the last days of civilisation, and became such horrible places to </p><p>live in, that they are now very backward in all that makes life </p><p>pleasant. Indeed, one may say that for nearly a hundred years the</p><p>people of the northern parts of America have been engaged in </p><p>gradually making a dwelling-place out of a stinking dust-heap; and </p><p>there is still a great deal to do, especially as the country is so </p><p>big." </p><p>"Well," said I, "I am exceedingly glad to think that you have such a </p><p>prospect of happiness before you. But I should like to ask a few</p><p>more questions, and then I have done for to-day." </p><p>CHAPTER XVI: DINNER IN THE HALL OF THE BLOOMSBURY MARKET</p><p>As I spoke, I heard footsteps near the door; the latch yielded, and </p><p>in came our two lovers, looking so handsome that one had no feeling </p><p>of shame in looking on at their little-concealed love-making; for </p><p>indeed it seemed as if all the world must be in love with them. As</p><p>for old Hammond, he looked on them like an artist who has just </p><p>painted a picture nearly as well as he thought he could when he began </p><p>it, and was perfectly happy. He said:</p><p>"Sit down, sit down, young folk, and don't make a noise. Our guest</p><p>here has still some questions to ask me." </p><p>"Well, I should suppose so," said Dick; "you have only been three </p><p>hours and a half together; and it isn't to be hoped that the history </p><p>of two centuries could be told in three hours and a half: let alone</p><p>that, for all I know, you may have been wandering into the realms of </p><p>geography and craftsmanship." </p><p>"As to noise, my dear kinsman," said Clara, "you will very soon be </p><p>disturbed by the noise of the dinner-bell, which I should think will </p><p>be very pleasant music to our guest, who breakfasted early, it seems, </p><p>and probably had a tiring day yesterday." </p><p>I said: "Well, since you have spoken the word, I begin to feel that</p><p>it is so; but I have been feeding myself with wonder this long time </p><p>past: really, it's quite true," quoth I, as I saw her smile, O so</p><p>prettily! But just then from some tower high up in the air came the</p><p>sound of silvery chimes playing a sweet clear tune, that sounded to </p><p>my unaccustomed ears like the song of the first blackbird in the </p><p>spring, and called a rush of memories to my mind, some of bad times, </p><p>some of good, but all sweetened now into mere pleasure. </p><p>"No more questions now before dinner," said Clara; and she took my </p><p>hand as an affectionate child would, and led me out of the room and </p><p>down stairs into the forecourt of the Museum, leaving the two </p><p>Hammonds to follow as they pleased. </p><p>We went into the market-place which I had been in before, a thinnish </p><p>stream of elegantly {1} dressed people going in along with us. We</p><p>turned into the cloister and came to a richly moulded and carved </p><p>doorway, where a very pretty dark-haired young girl gave us each a </p><p>beautiful bunch of summer flowers, and we entered a hall much bigger </p><p>than that of the Hammersmith Guest House, more elaborate in its </p><p>architecture and perhaps more beautiful. I found it difficult to</p><p>keep my eyes off the wall-pictures (for I thought it bad manners to </p><p>stare at Clara all the time, though she was quite worth it). I saw</p><p>at a glance that their subjects were taken from queer old-world myths </p><p>and imaginations which in yesterday's world only about half a dozen </p><p>people in the country knew anything about; and when the two Hammonds </p><p>sat down opposite to us, I said to the old man, pointing to the </p><p>frieze: </p><p>"How strange to see such subjects here!" </p><p>"Why?" said he. "I don't see why you should be surprised; everybody</p><p>knows the tales; and they are graceful and pleasant subjects, not too </p><p>tragic for a place where people mostly eat and drink and amuse </p><p>themselves, and yet full of incident." </p><p>I smiled, and said: "Well, I scarcely expected to find record of the</p><p>Seven Swans and the King of the Golden Mountain and Faithful Henry, </p><p>and such curious pleasant imaginations as Jacob Grimm got together </p><p>from the childhood of the world, barely lingering even in his time: </p><p>I should have thought you would have forgotten such childishness by </p><p>this time." </p><p>The old man smiled, and said nothing; but Dick turned rather red, and </p><p>broke out: </p><p>"What DO you mean, guest? I think them very beautiful, I mean not</p><p>only the pictures, but the stories; and when we were children we used </p><p>to imagine them going on in every wood-end, by the bight of every </p><p>stream: every house in the fields was the Fairyland King's House to</p><p>us. Don't you remember, Clara?"</p><p>"Yes," she said; and it seemed to me as if a slight cloud came over </p><p>her fair face. I was going to speak to her on the subject, when the</p><p>pretty waitresses came to us smiling, and chattering sweetly like </p><p>reed warblers by the river side, and fell to giving us our dinner. </p><p>As to this, as at our breakfast, everything was cooked and served </p><p>with a daintiness which showed that those who had prepared it were </p><p>interested in it; but there was no excess either of quantity or of </p><p>gourmandise; everything was simple, though so excellent of its kind; </p><p>and it was made clear to us that this was no feast, only an ordinary </p><p>meal. The glass, crockery, and plate were very beautiful to my eyes,</p><p>used to the study of mediaeval art; but a nineteenth-century club- </p><p>haunter would, I daresay, have found them rough and lacking in </p><p>finish; the crockery being lead-glazed pot-ware, though beautifully </p><p>ornamented; the only porcelain being here and there a piece of old </p><p>oriental ware. The glass, again, though elegant and quaint, and very</p><p>varied in form, was somewhat bubbled and hornier in texture than the </p><p>commercial articles of the nineteenth century. The furniture and</p><p>general fittings of the ball were much of a piece with the table- </p><p>gear, beautiful in form and highly ornamented, but without the </p><p>commercial "finish" of the joiners and cabinet-makers of our time. </p><p>Withal, there was a total absence of what the nineteenth century </p><p>calls "comfort"--that is, stuffy inconvenience; so that, even apart </p><p>from the delightful excitement of the day, I had never eaten my </p><p>dinner so pleasantly before. </p><p>When we had done eating, and were sitting a little while, with a </p><p>bottle of very good Bordeaux wine before us, Clara came back to the </p><p>question of the subject-matter of the pictures, as though it had </p><p>troubled her. </p><p>She looked up at them, and said: "How is it that though we are so</p><p>interested with our life for the most part, yet when people take to </p><p>writing poems or painting pictures they seldom deal with our modern </p><p>life, or if they do, take good care to make their poems or pictures </p><p>unlike that life? Are we not good enough to paint ourselves? How is</p><p>it that we find the dreadful times of the past so interesting to us-- </p><p>in pictures and poetry?" </p><p>Old Hammond smiled. "It always was so, and I suppose always will</p><p>be," said he, "however it may be explained. It is true that in the</p><p>nineteenth century, when there was so little art and so much talk </p><p>about it, there was a theory that art and imaginative literature </p><p>ought to deal with contemporary life; but they never did so; for, if </p><p>there was any pretence of it, the author always took care (as Clara </p><p>hinted just now) to disguise, or exaggerate, or idealise, and in some </p><p>way or another make it strange; so that, for all the verisimilitude </p><p>there was, he might just as well have dealt with the times of the </p><p>Pharaohs." </p><p>"Well," said Dick, "surely it is but natural to like these things </p><p>strange; just as when we were children, as I said just now, we used </p><p>to pretend to be so-and-so in such-and-such a place. That's what</p><p>these pictures and poems do; and why shouldn't they?" </p><p>"Thou hast hit it, Dick," quoth old Hammond; "it is the child-like </p><p>part of us that produces works of imagination. When we are children</p><p>time passes so slow with us that we seem to have time for </p><p>everything." </p><p>He sighed, and then smiled and said: "At least let us rejoice that</p><p>we have got back our childhood again. I drink to the days that are!"</p><p>"Second childhood," said I in a low voice, and then blushed at my </p><p>double rudeness, and hoped that he hadn't heard. But he had, and</p><p>turned to me smiling, and said: "Yes, why not? And for my part, I</p><p>hope it may last long; and that the world's next period of wise and </p><p>unhappy manhood, if that should happen, will speedily lead us to a </p><p>third childhood: if indeed this age be not our third. Meantime, my</p><p>friend, you must know that we are too happy, both individually and </p><p>collectively, to trouble ourselves about what is to come hereafter." </p><p>"Well, for my part," said Clara, "I wish we were interesting enough </p><p>to be written or painted about." </p><p>Dick answered her with some lover's speech, impossible to be written </p><p>down, and then we sat quiet a little. </p><p>CHAPTER XVII: HOW THE CHANGE CAME</p><p>Dick broke the silence at last, saying: "Guest, forgive us for a</p><p>little after-dinner dulness. What would you like to do? Shall we</p><p>have out Greylocks and trot back to Hammersmith? or will you come </p><p>with us and hear some Welsh folk sing in a hall close by here? or </p><p>would you like presently to come with me into the City and see some </p><p>really fine building? or--what shall it be?" </p><p>"Well," said I, "as I am a stranger, I must let you choose for me." </p><p>In point of fact, I did not by any means want to be 'amused' just </p><p>then; and also I rather felt as if the old man, with his knowledge of </p><p>past times, and even a kind of inverted sympathy for them caused by </p><p>his active hatred of them, was as it were a blanket for me against </p><p>the cold of this very new world, where I was, so to say, stripped </p><p>bare of every habitual thought and way of acting; and I did not want </p><p>to leave him too soon. He came to my rescue at once, and said -</p><p>"Wait a bit, Dick; there is someone else to be consulted besides you </p><p>and the guest here, and that is I. I am not going to lose the</p><p>pleasure of his company just now, especially as I know he has </p><p>something else to ask me. So go to your Welshmen, by all means; but</p><p>first of all bring us another bottle of wine to this nook, and then </p><p>be off as soon as you like; and come again and fetch our friend to go </p><p>westward, but not too soon." </p><p>Dick nodded smilingly, and the old man and I were soon alone in the </p><p>great hall, the afternoon sun gleaming on the red wine in our tall </p><p>quaint-shaped glasses. Then said Hammond:</p><p>"Does anything especially puzzle you about our way of living, now you </p><p>have heard a good deal and seen a little of it?" </p><p>Said I: "I think what puzzles me most is how it all came about."</p><p>"It well may," said he, "so great as the change is. It would be</p><p>difficult indeed to tell you the whole story, perhaps impossible: </p><p>knowledge, discontent, treachery, disappointment, ruin, misery,</p><p>despair--those who worked for the change because they could see </p><p>further than other people went through all these phases of suffering; </p><p>and doubtless all the time the most of men looked on, not knowing </p><p>what was doing, thinking it all a matter of course, like the rising </p><p>and setting of the sun--and indeed it was so." </p><p>"Tell me one thing, if you can," said I. "Did the change, the</p><p>'revolution' it used to be called, come peacefully?" </p><p>"Peacefully?" said he; "what peace was there amongst those poor </p><p>confused wretches of the nineteenth century? It was war from</p><p>beginning to end: bitter war, till hope and pleasure put an end to</p><p>it." </p><p>"Do you mean actual fighting with weapons?" said I, "or the strikes </p><p>and lock-outs and starvation of which we have heard?" </p><p>"Both, both," he said. "As a matter of fact, the history of the</p><p>terrible period of transition from commercial slavery to freedom may </p><p>thus be summarised. When the hope of realising a communal condition</p><p>of life for all men arose, quite late in the nineteenth century, the </p><p>power of the middle classes, the then tyrants of society, was so </p><p>enormous and crushing, that to almost all men, even those who had, </p><p>you may say despite themselves, despite their reason and judgment, </p><p>conceived such hopes, it seemed a dream. So much was this the case</p><p>that some of those more enlightened men who were then called </p><p>Socialists, although they well knew, and even stated in public, that </p><p>the only reasonable condition of Society was that of pure Communism </p><p>(such as you now see around you), yet shrunk from what seemed to them </p><p>the barren task of preaching the realisation of a happy dream. </p><p>Looking back now, we can see that the great motive-power of the </p><p>change was a longing for freedom and equality, akin if you please to </p><p>the unreasonable passion of the lover; a sickness of heart that </p><p>rejected with loathing the aimless solitary life of the well-to-do </p><p>educated man of that time: phrases, my dear friend, which have lost</p><p>their meaning to us of the present day; so far removed we are from </p><p>the dreadful facts which they represent. </p><p>"Well, these men, though conscious of this feeling, had no faith in </p><p>it, as a means of bringing about the change. Nor was that wonderful:</p><p>for looking around them they saw the huge mass of the oppressed </p><p>classes too much burdened with the misery of their lives, and too </p><p>much overwhelmed by the selfishness of misery, to be able to form a </p><p>conception of any escape from it except by the ordinary way </p><p>prescribed by the system of slavery under which they lived; which was </p><p>nothing more than a remote chance of climbing out of the oppressed </p><p>into the oppressing class. </p><p>"Therefore, though they knew that the only reasonable aim for those </p><p>who would better the world was a condition of equality; in their </p><p>impatience and despair they managed to convince themselves that if </p><p>they could by hook or by crook get the machinery of production and </p><p>the management of property so altered that the 'lower classes' (so </p><p>the horrible word ran) might have their slavery somewhat ameliorated, </p><p>they would be ready to fit into this machinery, and would use it for </p><p>bettering their condition still more and still more, until at last </p><p>the result would be a practical equality (they were very fond of </p><p>using the word 'practical'), because 'the rich' would be forced to </p><p>pay so much for keeping 'the poor' in a tolerable condition that the</p><p>condition of riches would become no longer valuable and would </p><p>gradually die out. Do you follow me?"</p><p>"Partly," said I. "Go on."</p><p>Said old Hammond: "Well, since you follow me, you will see that as a</p><p>theory this was not altogether unreasonable; but 'practically,' it </p><p>turned out a failure." </p><p>"How so?" said I. </p><p>"Well, don't you see," said he, "because it involved the making of a </p><p>machinery by those who didn't know what they wanted the machines to </p><p>do. So far as the masses of the oppressed class furthered this</p><p>scheme of improvement, they did it to get themselves improved slave- </p><p>rations--as many of them as could. And if those classes had really</p><p>been incapable of being touched by that instinct which produced the </p><p>passion for freedom and equality aforesaid, what would have happened, </p><p>I think, would have been this: that a certain part of the working</p><p>classes would have been so far improved in condition that they would </p><p>have approached the condition of the middling rich men; but below </p><p>them would have been a great class of most miserable slaves, whose </p><p>slavery would have been far more hopeless than the older class- </p><p>slavery had been." </p><p>"What stood in the way of this?" said I. </p><p>"'Why, of course," said he, "just that instinct for freedom </p><p>aforesaid. It is true that the slave-class could not conceive the</p><p>happiness of a free life. Yet they grew to understand (and very</p><p>speedily too) that they were oppressed by their masters, and they </p><p>assumed, you see how justly, that they could do without them, though </p><p>perhaps they scarce knew how; so that it came to this, that though </p><p>they could not look forward to the happiness or peace of the freeman, </p><p>they did at least look forward to the war which a vague hope told </p><p>them would bring that peace about." </p><p>"Could you tell me rather more closely what actually took place?" </p><p>said I; for I thought HIM rather vague here. </p><p>"Yes," he said, "I can. That machinery of life for the use of people</p><p>who didn't know what they wanted of it, and which was known at the </p><p>time as State Socialism, was partly put in motion, though in a very </p><p>piecemeal way. But it did not work smoothly; it was, of course,</p><p>resisted at every turn by the capitalists; and no wonder, for it </p><p>tended more and more to upset the commercial system I have told you </p><p>of; without providing anything really effective in its place. The</p><p>result was growing confusion, great suffering amongst the working </p><p>classes, and, as a consequence, great discontent. For a long time</p><p>matters went on like this. The power of the upper classes had</p><p>lessened, as their command over wealth lessened, and they could not </p><p>carry things wholly by the high hand as they had been used to in </p><p>earlier days. So far the State Socialists were justified by the</p><p>result. On the other hand, the working classes were ill-organised,</p><p>and growing poorer in reality, in spite of the gains (also real in </p><p>the long run) which they had forced from the masters. Thus matters</p><p>hung in the balance; the masters could not reduce their slaves to </p><p>complete subjection, though they put down some feeble and partial </p><p>riots easily enough. The workers forced their masters to grant them</p><p>ameliorations, real or imaginary, of their condition, but could not </p><p>force freedom from them. At last came a great crash. To explain</p><p>this you must understand that very great progress had been made </p><p>amongst the workers, though as before said but little in the </p><p>direction of improved livelihood." </p><p>I played the innocent and said: "In what direction could they</p><p>improve, if not in livelihood?" </p><p>Said he: "In the power to bring about a state of things in which</p><p>livelihood would be full, and easy to gain. They had at last learned</p><p>how to combine after a long period of mistakes and disasters. The</p><p>workmen had now a regular organization in the struggle against their </p><p>masters, a struggle which for more than half a century had been </p><p>accepted as an inevitable part of the conditions of the modern system </p><p>of labour and production. This combination had now taken the form of</p><p>a federation of all or almost all the recognised wage-paid </p><p>employments, and it was by its means that those betterments of the </p><p>conditions of the workmen had been forced from the masters: and</p><p>though they were not seldom mixed up with the rioting that happened, </p><p>especially in the earlier days of their organization, it by no means </p><p>formed an essential part of their tactics; indeed at the time I am </p><p>now speaking of they had got to be so strong that most commonly the </p><p>mere threat of a 'strike' was enough to gain any minor point: </p><p>because they had given up the foolish tactics of the ancient trades </p><p>unions of calling out of work a part only of the workers of such and </p><p>such an industry, and supporting them while out of work on the labour </p><p>of those that remained in. By this time they had a biggish fund of</p><p>money for the support of strikes, and could stop a certain industry </p><p>altogether for a time if they so determined." </p><p>Said I: "Was there not a serious danger of such moneys being</p><p>misused--of jobbery, in fact?" </p><p>Old Hammond wriggled uneasily on his seat, and said: </p><p>"Though all this happened so long ago, I still feel the pain of mere </p><p>shame when I have to tell you that it was more than a danger: that</p><p>such rascality often happened; indeed more than once the whole </p><p>combination seemed dropping to pieces because of it: but at the time</p><p>of which I am telling, things looked so threatening, and to the </p><p>workmen at least the necessity of their dealing with the fast- </p><p>gathering trouble which the labour-struggle had brought about, was so </p><p>clear, that the conditions of the times had begot a deep seriousness </p><p>amongst all reasonable people; a determination which put aside all </p><p>non-essentials, and which to thinking men was ominous of the swiftly- </p><p>approaching change: such an element was too dangerous for mere</p><p>traitors and self-seekers, and one by one they were thrust out and </p><p>mostly joined the declared reactionaries." </p><p>"How about those ameliorations," said I; "what were they? or rather </p><p>of what nature?" </p><p>Said he: "Some of them, and these of the most practical importance</p><p>to the mens' livelihood, were yielded by the masters by direct </p><p>compulsion on the part of the men; the new conditions of labour so </p><p>gained were indeed only customary, enforced by no law: but, once</p><p>established, the masters durst not attempt to withdraw them in face </p><p>of the growing power of the combined workers. Some again were steps</p><p>on the path of 'State Socialism'; the most important of which can be </p><p>speedily summed up. At the end of the nineteenth century the cry</p><p>arose for compelling the masters to employ their men a less number of </p><p>hours in the day: this cry gathered volume quickly, and the masters</p><p>had to yield to it. But it was, of course, clear that unless this</p><p>meant a higher price for work per hour, it would be a mere nullity, </p><p>and that the masters, unless forced, would reduce it to that. </p><p>Therefore after a long struggle another law was passed fixing a </p><p>minimum price for labour in the most important industries; which </p><p>again had to be supplemented by a law fixing the maximum price on the </p><p>chief wares then considered necessary for a workman's life." </p><p>"You were getting perilously near to the late Roman poor-rates," said </p><p>I, smiling, "and the doling out of bread to the proletariat." </p><p>"So many said at the time," said the old man drily; "and it has long </p><p>been a commonplace that that slough awaits State Socialism in the </p><p>end, if it gets to the end, which as you know it did not with us. </p><p>However it went further than this minimum and maximum business, which </p><p>by the by we can now see was necessary. The government now found it</p><p>imperative on them to meet the outcry of the master class at the </p><p>approaching destruction of Commerce (as desirable, had they known it, </p><p>as the extinction of the cholera, which has since happily taken </p><p>place). And they were forced to meet it by a measure hostile to the</p><p>masters, the establishment of government factories for the production </p><p>of necessary wares, and markets for their sale. These measures taken</p><p>altogether did do something: they were in fact of the nature of</p><p>regulations made by the commander of a beleaguered city. But of</p><p>course to the privileged classes it seemed as if the end of the world </p><p>were come when such laws were enacted. </p><p>"Nor was that altogether without a warrant: the spread of</p><p>communistic theories, and the partial practice of State Socialism had </p><p>at first disturbed, and at last almost paralysed the marvellous </p><p>system of commerce under which the old world had lived so feverishly, </p><p>and had produced for some few a life of gambler's pleasure, and for </p><p>many, or most, a life of mere misery: over and over again came 'bad</p><p>times' as they were called, and indeed they were bad enough for the </p><p>wage-slaves. The year 1952 was one of the worst of these times; the</p><p>workmen suffered dreadfully: the partial, inefficient government</p><p>factories, which were terribly jobbed, all but broke down, and a vast </p><p>part of the population had for the time being to be fed on </p><p>undisguised "charity" as it was called. </p><p>"The Combined Workers watched the situation with mingled hope and </p><p>anxiety. They had already formulated their general demands; but now</p><p>by a solemn and universal vote of the whole of their federated </p><p>societies, they insisted on the first step being taken toward </p><p>carrying out their demands: this step would have led directly to</p><p>handing over the management of the whole natural resources of the </p><p>country, together with the machinery for using them into the power of </p><p>the Combined Workers, and the reduction of the privileged classes </p><p>into the position of pensioners obviously dependent on the pleasure </p><p>of the workers. The 'Resolution,' as it was called, which was widely</p><p>published in the newspapers of the day, was in fact a declaration of </p><p>war, and was so accepted by the master class. They began</p><p>henceforward to prepare for a firm stand against the 'brutal and </p><p>ferocious communism of the day,' as they phrased it. And as they</p><p>were in many ways still very powerful, or seemed so to be; they still</p><p>hoped by means of brute force to regain some of what they had lost, </p><p>and perhaps in the end the whole of it. It was said amongst them on</p><p>all hands that it had been a great mistake of the various governments </p><p>not to have resisted sooner; and the liberals and radicals (the name </p><p>as perhaps you may know of the more democratically inclined part of </p><p>the ruling classes) were much blamed for having led the world to this </p><p>pass by their mis-timed pedantry and foolish sentimentality: and one</p><p>Gladstone, or Gledstein (probably, judging by this name, of </p><p>Scandinavian descent), a notable politician of the nineteenth </p><p>century, was especially singled out for reprobation in this respect. </p><p>I need scarcely point out to you the absurdity of all this. But</p><p>terrible tragedy lay hidden behind this grinning through a horse- </p><p>collar of the reactionary party. 'The insatiable greed of the lower</p><p>classes must be repressed'--'The people must be taught a lesson'-- </p><p>these were the sacramental phrases current amongst the reactionists, </p><p>and ominous enough they were." </p><p>The old man stopped to look keenly at my attentive and wondering </p><p>face; and then said: </p><p>"I know, dear guest, that I have been using words and phrases which </p><p>few people amongst us could understand without long and laborious </p><p>explanation; and not even then perhaps. But since you have not yet</p><p>gone to sleep, and since I am speaking to you as to a being from </p><p>another planet, I may venture to ask you if you have followed me thus </p><p>far?" </p><p>"O yes," said I, "I quite understand: pray go on; a great deal of</p><p>what you have been saying was common place with us--when--when--" </p><p>"Yes," said he gravely, "when you were dwelling in the other planet. </p><p>Well, now for the crash aforesaid. </p><p>"On some comparatively trifling occasion a great meeting was summoned </p><p>by the workmen leaders to meet in Trafalgar Square (about the right </p><p>to meet in which place there had for years and years been bickering). </p><p>The civic bourgeois guard (called the police) attacked the said </p><p>meeting with bludgeons, according to their custom; many people were </p><p>hurt in the melee, of whom five in all died, either trampled to death </p><p>on the spot, or from the effects of their cudgelling; the meeting was </p><p>scattered, and some hundred of prisoners cast into gaol. A similar</p><p>meeting had been treated in the same way a few days before at a place </p><p>called Manchester, which has now disappeared. Thus the 'lesson'</p><p>began. The whole country was thrown into a ferment by this; meetings</p><p>were held which attempted some rough organisation for the holding of </p><p>another meeting to retort on the authorities. A huge crowd assembled</p><p>in Trafalgar Square and the neighbourhood (then a place of crowded </p><p>streets), and was too big for the bludgeon-armed police to cope with; </p><p>there was a good deal of dry-blow fighting; three or four of the </p><p>people were killed, and half a score of policemen were crushed to </p><p>death in the throng, and the rest got away as they could. This was a</p><p>victory for the people as far as it went. The next day all London</p><p>(remember what it was in those days) was in a state of turmoil. Many</p><p>of the rich fled into the country; the executive got together </p><p>soldiery, but did not dare to use them; and the police could not be </p><p>massed in any one place, because riots or threats of riots were </p><p>everywhere. But in Manchester, where the people were not so</p><p>courageous or not so desperate as in London, several of the popular </p><p>leaders were arrested. In London a convention of leaders was got</p><p>together from the Federation of Combined Workmen, and sat under the </p><p>old revolutionary name of the Committee of Public Safety; but as they </p><p>had no drilled and armed body of men to direct, they attempted no </p><p>aggressive measures, but only placarded the walls with somewhat vague </p><p>appeals to the workmen not to allow themselves to be trampled upon. </p><p>However, they called a meeting in Trafalgar Square for the day </p><p>fortnight of the last-mentioned skirmish. </p><p>"Meantime the town grew no quieter, and business came pretty much to </p><p>an end. The newspapers--then, as always hitherto, almost entirely in</p><p>the hands of the masters--clamoured to the Government for repressive </p><p>measures; the rich citizens were enrolled as an extra body of police, </p><p>and armed with bludgeons like them; many of these were strong, well- </p><p>fed, full-blooded young men, and had plenty of stomach for fighting; </p><p>but the Government did not dare to use them, and contented itself </p><p>with getting full powers voted to it by the Parliament for </p><p>suppressing any revolt, and bringing up more and more soldiers to </p><p>London. Thus passed the week after the great meeting; almost as</p><p>large a one was held on the Sunday, which went off peaceably on the </p><p>whole, as no opposition to it was offered, and again the people cried </p><p>'victory.' But on the Monday the people woke up to find that they</p><p>were hungry. During the last few days there had been groups of men</p><p>parading the streets asking (or, if you please, demanding) money to </p><p>buy food; and what for goodwill, what for fear, the richer people </p><p>gave them a good deal. The authorities of the parishes also (I</p><p>haven't time to explain that phrase at present) gave willy-nilly what </p><p>provisions they could to wandering people; and the Government, by </p><p>means of its feeble national workshops, also fed a good number of </p><p>half-starved folk. But in addition to this, several bakers' shops</p><p>and other provision stores had been emptied without a great deal of </p><p>disturbance. So far, so good. But on the Monday in question the</p><p>Committee of Public Safety, on the one hand afraid of general </p><p>unorganised pillage, and on the other emboldened by the wavering </p><p>conduct of the authorities, sent a deputation provided with carts and </p><p>all necessary gear to clear out two or three big provision stores in </p><p>the centre of the town, leaving papers with the shop managers </p><p>promising to pay the price of them: and also in the part of the town</p><p>where they were strongest they took possession of several bakers' </p><p>shops and set men at work in them for the benefit of the people;--all </p><p>of which was done with little or no disturbance, the police assisting </p><p>in keeping order at the sack of the stores, as they would have done </p><p>at a big fire. </p><p>"But at this last stroke the reactionaries were so alarmed, that they </p><p>were, determined to force the executive into action. The newspapers</p><p>next day all blazed into the fury of frightened people, and </p><p>threatened the people, the Government, and everybody they could think </p><p>of, unless 'order were at once restored.' A deputation of leading</p><p>commercial people waited on the Government and told them that if they </p><p>did not at once arrest the Committee of Public Safety, they </p><p>themselves would gather a body of men, arm them, and fall on 'the </p><p>incendiaries,' as they called them. </p><p>"They, together with a number of the newspaper editors, had a long </p><p>interview with the heads of the Government and two or three military </p><p>men, the deftest in their art that the country could furnish. The</p><p>deputation came away from that interview, says a contemporary eye- </p><p>witness, smiling and satisfied, and said no more about raising an </p><p>anti-popular army, but that afternoon left London with their families</p><p>for their country seats or elsewhere. </p><p>"The next morning the Government proclaimed a state of siege in </p><p>London,--a thing common enough amongst the absolutist governments on </p><p>the Continent, but unheard-of in England in those days. They</p><p>appointed the youngest and cleverest of their generals to command the </p><p>proclaimed district; a man who had won a certain sort of reputation </p><p>in the disgraceful wars in which the country had been long engaged </p><p>from time to time. The newspapers were in ecstacies, and all the</p><p>most fervent of the reactionaries now came to the front; men who in </p><p>ordinary times were forced to keep their opinions to themselves or </p><p>their immediate circle, but who began to look forward to crushing </p><p>once for all the Socialist, and even democratic tendencies, which, </p><p>said they, had been treated with such foolish indulgence for the last </p><p>sixty years. </p><p>"But the clever general took no visible action; and yet only a few of </p><p>the minor newspapers abused him; thoughtful men gathered from this </p><p>that a plot was hatching. As for the Committee of Public Safety,</p><p>whatever they thought of their position, they had now gone too far to </p><p>draw back; and many of them, it seems, thought that the government </p><p>would not act. They went on quietly organising their food supply,</p><p>which was a miserable driblet when all is said; and also as a retort </p><p>to the state of siege, they armed as many men as they could in the </p><p>quarter where they were strongest, but did not attempt to drill or </p><p>organise them, thinking, perhaps, that they could not at the best </p><p>turn them into trained soldiers till they had some breathing space. </p><p>The clever general, his soldiers, and the police did not meddle with </p><p>all this in the least in the world; and things were quieter in London </p><p>that week-end; though there were riots in many places of the </p><p>provinces, which were quelled by the authorities without much </p><p>trouble. The most serious of these were at Glasgow and Bristol.</p><p>"Well, the Sunday of the meeting came, and great crowds came to </p><p>Trafalgar Square in procession, the greater part of the Committee </p><p>amongst them, surrounded by their band of men armed somehow or other. </p><p>The streets were quite peaceful and quiet, though there were many </p><p>spectators to see the procession pass. Trafalgar Square had no body</p><p>of police in it; the people took quiet possession of it, and the </p><p>meeting began. The armed men stood round the principal platform, and</p><p>there were a few others armed amidst the general crowd; but by far </p><p>the greater part were unarmed. </p><p>"Most people thought the meeting would go off peaceably; but the </p><p>members of the Committee had heard from various quarters that </p><p>something would be attempted against them; but these rumours were </p><p>vague, and they had no idea of what threatened. They soon found out.</p><p>"For before the streets about the Square were filled, a body of </p><p>soldiers poured into it from the north-west corner and took up their </p><p>places by the houses that stood on the west side. The people growled</p><p>at the sight of the red-coats; the armed men of the Committee stood </p><p>undecided, not knowing what to do; and indeed this new influx so </p><p>jammed the crowd together that, unorganised as they were, they had </p><p>little chance of working through it. They had scarcely grasped the</p><p>fact of their enemies being there, when another column of soldiers, </p><p>pouring out of the streets which led into the great southern road </p><p>going down to the Parliament House (still existing, and called the </p><p>Dung Market), and also from the embankment by the side of the Thames,</p><p>marched up, pushing the crowd into a denser and denser mass, and </p><p>formed along the south side of the Square. Then any of those who</p><p>could see what was going on, knew at once that they were in a trap, </p><p>and could only wonder what would be done with them. </p><p>"The closely-packed crowd would not or could not budge, except under </p><p>the influence of the height of terror, which was soon to be supplied </p><p>to them. A few of the armed men struggled to the front, or climbled</p><p>up to the base of the monument which then stood there, that they </p><p>might face the wall of hidden fire before them; and to most men </p><p>(there were many women amongst them) it seemed as if the end of the </p><p>world had come, and to-day seemed strangely different from yesterday. </p><p>No sooner were the soldiers drawn up aforesaid than, says an eye- </p><p>witness, 'a glittering officer on horseback came prancing out from </p><p>the ranks on the south, and read something from a paper which he held </p><p>in his hand; which something, very few heard; but I was told </p><p>afterwards that it was an order for us to disperse, and a warning </p><p>that he had legal right to fire on the crowd else, and that he would </p><p>do so. The crowd took it as a challenge of some sort, and a hoarse</p><p>threatening roar went up from them; and after that there was </p><p>comparative silence for a little, till the officer had got back into </p><p>the ranks. I was near the edge of the crowd, towards the soldiers,'</p><p>says this eye-witness, 'and I saw three little machines being wheeled </p><p>out in front of the ranks, which I knew for mechanical guns. I cried</p><p>out, "Throw yourselves down! they are going to fire!" But no one</p><p>scarcely could throw himself down, so tight as the crowd were packed. </p><p>I heard a sharp order given, and wondered where I should be the next </p><p>minute; and then--It was as if--the earth had opened, and hell had </p><p>come up bodily amidst us. It is no use trying to describe the scene</p><p>that followed. Deep lanes were mowed amidst the thick crowd; the</p><p>dead and dying covered the ground, and the shrieks and wails and </p><p>cries of horror filled all the air, till it seemed as if there were </p><p>nothing else in the world but murder and death. Those of our armed</p><p>men who were still unhurt cheered wildly and opened a scattering fire </p><p>on the soldiers. One or two soldiers fell; and I saw the officers</p><p>going up and down the ranks urging the men to fire again; but they </p><p>received the orders in sullen silence, and let the butts of their </p><p>guns fall. Only one sergeant ran to a machine-gun and began to set</p><p>it going; but a tall young man, an officer too, ran out of the ranks </p><p>and dragged him back by the collar; and the soldiers stood there </p><p>motionless while the horror-stricken crowd, nearly wholly unarmed </p><p>(for most of the armed men had fallen in that first discharge), </p><p>drifted out of the Square. I was told afterwards that the soldiers</p><p>on the west side had fired also, and done their part of the </p><p>slaughter. How I got out of the Square I scarcely know: I went, not</p><p>feeling the ground under me, what with rage and terror and despair.' </p><p>"So says our eye-witness. The number of the slain on the side of the</p><p>people in that shooting during a minute was prodigious; but it was </p><p>not easy to come at the truth about it; it was probably between one </p><p>and two thousand. Of the soldiers, six were killed outright, and a</p><p>dozen wounded." </p><p>I listened, trembling with excitement. The old man's eyes glittered</p><p>and his face flushed as he spoke, and told the tale of what I had </p><p>often thought might happen. Yet I wondered that he should have got</p><p>so elated about a mere massacre, and I said: </p><p>"How fearful! And I suppose that this massacre put an end to the</p><p>whole revolution for that time?" </p><p>"No, no," cried old Hammond; "it began it!" </p><p>He filled his glass and mine, and stood up and cried out, "Drink this </p><p>glass to the memory of those who died there, for indeed it would be a </p><p>long tale to tell how much we owe them." </p><p>I drank, and he sat down again and went on. </p><p>"That massacre of Trafalgar Square began the civil war, though, like </p><p>all such events, it gathered head slowly, and people scarcely knew </p><p>what a crisis they were acting in. </p><p>"Terrible as the massacre was, and hideous and overpowering as the </p><p>first terror had been, when the people had time to think about it, </p><p>their feeling was one of anger rather than fear; although the </p><p>military organisation of the state of siege was now carried out </p><p>without shrinking by the clever young general. For though the</p><p>ruling-classes when the news spread next morning felt one gasp of </p><p>horror and even dread, yet the Government and their immediate backers </p><p>felt that now the wine was drawn and must be drunk. However, even</p><p>the most reactionary of the capitalist papers, with two exceptions, </p><p>stunned by the tremendous news, simply gave an account of what had </p><p>taken place, without making any comment upon it. The exceptions were</p><p>one, a so-called 'liberal' paper (the Government of the day was of </p><p>that complexion), which, after a preamble in which it declared its </p><p>undeviating sympathy with the cause of labour, proceeded to point out </p><p>that in times of revolutionary disturbance it behoved the Government </p><p>to be just but firm, and that by far the most merciful way of dealing </p><p>with the poor madmen who were attacking the very foundations of </p><p>society (which had made them mad and poor) was to shoot them at once, </p><p>so as to stop others from drifting into a position in which they </p><p>would run a chance of being shot. In short, it praised the</p><p>determined action of the Government as the acme of human wisdom and </p><p>mercy, and exulted in the inauguration of an epoch of reasonable </p><p>democracy free from the tyrannical fads of Socialism. </p><p>"The other exception was a paper thought to be one of the most </p><p>violent opponents of democracy, and so it was; but the editor of it </p><p>found his manhood, and spoke for himself and not for his paper. In a</p><p>few simple, indignant words he asked people to consider what a </p><p>society was worth which had to be defended by the massacre of unarmed </p><p>citizens, and called on the Government to withdraw their state of </p><p>siege and put the general and his officers who fired on the people on </p><p>their trial for murder. He went further, and declared that whatever</p><p>his opinion might be as to the doctrines of the Socialists, he for </p><p>one should throw in his lot with the people, until the Government </p><p>atoned for their atrocity by showing that they were prepared to </p><p>listen to the demands of men who knew what they wanted, and whom the </p><p>decrepitude of society forced into pushing their demands in some way </p><p>or other. </p><p>"Of course, this editor was immediately arrested by the military </p><p>power; but his bold words were already in the hands of the public, </p><p>and produced a great effect: so great an effect that the Government,</p><p>after some vacillation, withdrew the state of siege; though at the </p><p>same time it strengthened the military organisation and made it more </p><p>stringent. Three of the Committee of Public Safety had been slain in</p><p>Trafalgar Square: of the rest the greater part went back to their</p><p>old place of meeting, and there awaited the event calmly. They were</p><p>arrested there on the Monday morning, and would have been shot at </p><p>once by the general, who was a mere military machine, if the </p><p>Government had not shrunk before the responsibility of killing men </p><p>without any trial. There was at first a talk of trying them by a</p><p>special commission of judges, as it was called--i.e., before a set of </p><p>men bound to find them guilty, and whose business it was to do so. </p><p>But with the Government the cold fit had succeeded to the hot one; </p><p>and the prisoners were brought before a jury at the assizes. There a</p><p>fresh blow awaited the Government; for in spite of the judge's </p><p>charge, which distinctly instructed the jury to find the prisoners </p><p>guilty, they were acquitted, and the jury added to their verdict a </p><p>presentment, in which they condemned the action of the soldiery, in </p><p>the queer phraseology of the day, as 'rash, unfortunate, and </p><p>unnecessary.' The Committee of Public Safety renewed its sittings,</p><p>and from thenceforth was a popular rallying-point in opposition to </p><p>the Parliament. The Government now gave way on all sides, and made a</p><p>show of yielding to the demands of the people, though there was a </p><p>widespread plot for effecting a coup d'etat set on foot between the </p><p>leaders of the two so-called opposing parties in the parliamentary </p><p>faction fight. The well-meaning part of the public was overjoyed,</p><p>and thought that all danger of a civil war was over. The victory of</p><p>the people was celebrated by huge meetings held in the parks and </p><p>elsewhere, in memory of the victims of the great massacre. </p><p>"But the measures passed for the relief of the workers, though to the </p><p>upper classes they seemed ruinously revolutionary, were not thorough </p><p>enough to give the people food and a decent life, and they had to be </p><p>supplemented by unwritten enactments without legality to back them. </p><p>Although the Government and Parliament had the law-courts, the army, </p><p>and 'society' at their backs, the Committee of Public Safety began to </p><p>be a force in the country, and really represented the producing </p><p>classes. It began to improve immensely in the days which followed on</p><p>the acquittal of its members. Its old members had little</p><p>administrative capacity, though with the exception of a few self- </p><p>seekers and traitors, they were honest, courageous men, and many of </p><p>them were endowed with considerable talent of other kinds. But now</p><p>that the times called for immediate action, came forward the men </p><p>capable of setting it on foot; and a new network of workmen's </p><p>associations grew up very speedily, whose avowed single object was </p><p>the tiding over of the ship of the community into a simple condition </p><p>of Communism; and as they practically undertook also the management </p><p>of the ordinary labour-war, they soon became the mouthpiece and </p><p>intermediary of the whole of the working classes; and the </p><p>manufacturing profit-grinders now found themselves powerless before </p><p>this combination; unless THEIR committee, Parliament, plucked up </p><p>courage to begin the civil war again, and to shoot right and left, </p><p>they were bound to yield to the demands of the men whom they </p><p>employed, and pay higher and higher wages for shorter and shorter </p><p>day's work. Yet one ally they had, and that was the rapidly</p><p>approaching breakdown of the whole system founded on the World-Market </p><p>and its supply; which now became so clear to all people, that the </p><p>middle classes, shocked for the moment into condemnation of the </p><p>Government for the great massacre, turned round nearly in a mass, and </p><p>called on the Government to look to matters, and put an end to the </p><p>tyranny of the Socialist leaders. </p><p>"Thus stimulated, the reactionist plot exploded probably before it</p><p>was ripe; but this time the people and their leaders were forewarned, </p><p>and, before the reactionaries could get under way, had taken the </p><p>steps they thought necessary. </p><p>"The Liberal Government (clearly by collusion) was beaten by the </p><p>Conservatives, though the latter were nominally much in the minority. </p><p>The popular representatives in the House understood pretty well what </p><p>this meant, and after an attempt to fight the matter out by divisions </p><p>in the House of Commons, they made a protest, left the House, and </p><p>came in a body to the Committee of Public Safety: and the civil war</p><p>began again in good earnest. </p><p>"Yet its first act was not one of mere fighting. The new Tory</p><p>Government determined to act, yet durst not re-enact the state of </p><p>siege, but it sent a body of soldiers and police to arrest the </p><p>Committee of Public Safety in the lump. They made no resistance,</p><p>though they might have done so, as they had now a considerable body </p><p>of men who were quite prepared for extremities. But they were</p><p>determined to try first a weapon which they thought stronger than </p><p>street fighting. </p><p>"The members of the Committee went off quietly to prison; but they </p><p>had left their soul and their organisation behind them. For they</p><p>depended not on a carefully arranged centre with all kinds of checks </p><p>and counter-checks about it, but on a huge mass of people in thorough </p><p>sympathy with the movement, bound together by a great number of links </p><p>of small centres with very simple instructions. These instructions</p><p>were now carried out. </p><p>"The next morning, when the leaders of the reaction were chuckling at </p><p>the effect which the report in the newspapers of their stroke would </p><p>have upon the public--no newspapers appeared; and it was only towards </p><p>noon that a few straggling sheets, about the size of the gazettes of </p><p>the seventeenth century, worked by policemen, soldiers, managers, and </p><p>press-writers, were dribbled through the streets. They were greedily</p><p>seized on and read; but by this time the serious part of their news </p><p>was stale, and people did not need to be told that the GENERAL STRIKE </p><p>had begun. The railways did not run, the telegraph-wires were</p><p>unserved; flesh, fish, and green stuff brought to market was allowed </p><p>to lie there still packed and perishing; the thousands of middle- </p><p>class families, who were utterly dependant for the next meal on the </p><p>workers, made frantic efforts through their more energetic members to </p><p>cater for the needs of the day, and amongst those of them who could </p><p>throw off the fear of what was to follow, there was, I am told, a </p><p>certain enjoyment of this unexpected picnic--a forecast of the days </p><p>to come, in which all labour grew pleasant. </p><p>"So passed the first day, and towards evening the Government grew </p><p>quite distracted. They had but one resource for putting down any</p><p>popular movement--to wit, mere brute-force; but there was nothing for </p><p>them against which to use their army and police: no armed bodies</p><p>appeared in the streets; the offices of the Federated Workmen were </p><p>now, in appearance, at least, turned into places for the relief of </p><p>people thrown out of work, and under the circumstances, they durst </p><p>not arrest the men engaged in such business, all the more, as even </p><p>that night many quite respectable people applied at these offices for </p><p>relief, and swallowed down the charity of the revolutionists along </p><p>with their supper. So the Government massed soldiers and police here</p><p>and there--and sat still for that night, fully expecting on the</p><p>morrow some manifesto from 'the rebels,' as they now began to be </p><p>called, which would give them an opportunity of acting in some way or </p><p>another. They were disappointed. The ordinary newspapers gave up</p><p>the struggle that morning, and only one very violent reactionary </p><p>paper (called the Daily Telegraph) attempted an appearance, and rated </p><p>'the rebels' in good set terms for their folly and ingratitude in </p><p>tearing out the bowels of their 'common mother,' the English Nation, </p><p>for the benefit of a few greedy paid agitators, and the fools whom </p><p>they were deluding. On the other hand, the Socialist papers (of</p><p>which three only, representing somewhat different schools, were </p><p>published in London) came out full to the throat of well-printed </p><p>matter. They were greedily bought by the whole public, who, of</p><p>course, like the Government, expected a manifesto in them. But they</p><p>found no word of reference to the great subject. It seemed as if</p><p>their editors had ransacked their drawers for articles which would </p><p>have been in place forty years before, under the technical name of </p><p>educational articles. Most of these were admirable and</p><p>straightforward expositions of the doctrines and practice of </p><p>Socialism, free from haste and spite and hard words, and came upon </p><p>the public with a kind of May-day freshness, amidst the worry and </p><p>terror of the moment; and though the knowing well understood that the </p><p>meaning of this move in the game was mere defiance, and a token of </p><p>irreconcilable hostility to the then rulers of society, and though, </p><p>also, they were meant for nothing else by 'the rebels,' yet they </p><p>really had their effect as 'educational articles.' However,</p><p>'education' of another kind was acting upon the public with </p><p>irresistible power, and probably cleared their heads a little. </p><p>"As to the Government, they were absolutely terrified by this act of </p><p>'boycotting' (the slang word then current for such acts of </p><p>abstention). Their counsels became wild and vacillating to the last</p><p>degree: one hour they were for giving way for the present till they</p><p>could hatch another plot; the next they all but sent an order for the </p><p>arrest in the lump of all the workmen's committees; the next they </p><p>were on the point of ordering their brisk young general to take any </p><p>excuse that offered for another massacre. But when they called to</p><p>mind that the soldiery in that 'Battle' of Trafalgar Square were so </p><p>daunted by the slaughter which they had made, that they could not be </p><p>got to fire a second volley, they shrank back again from the dreadful </p><p>courage necessary for carrying out another massacre. Meantime the</p><p>prisoners, brought the second time before the magistrates under a </p><p>strong escort of soldiers, were the second time remanded. </p><p>"The strike went on this day also. The workmen's committees were</p><p>extended, and gave relief to great numbers of people, for they had </p><p>organised a considerable amount of production of food by men whom </p><p>they could depend upon. Quite a number of well-to-do people were now</p><p>compelled to seek relief of them. But another curious thing</p><p>happened: a band of young men of the upper classes armed themselves,</p><p>and coolly went marauding in the streets, taking what suited them of </p><p>such eatables and portables that they came across in the shops which </p><p>had ventured to open. This operation they carried out in Oxford</p><p>Street, then a great street of shops of all kinds. The Government,</p><p>being at that hour in one of their yielding moods, thought this a </p><p>fine opportunity for showing their impartiality in the maintenance of </p><p>'order,' and sent to arrest these hungry rich youths; who, however, </p><p>surprised the police by a valiant resistance, so that all but three </p><p>escaped. The Government did not gain the reputation for impartiality</p><p>which they expected from this move; for they forgot that there were</p><p>no evening papers; and the account of the skirmish spread wide </p><p>indeed, but in a distorted form for it was mostly told simply as an </p><p>exploit of the starving people from the East-end; and everybody </p><p>thought it was but natural for the Government to put them down when </p><p>and where they could. </p><p>"That evening the rebel prisoners were visited in their cells by VERY </p><p>polite and sympathetic persons, who pointed out to them what a </p><p>suicidal course they were following, and how dangerous these extreme </p><p>courses were for the popular cause. Says one of the prisoners: 'It</p><p>was great sport comparing notes when we came out anent the attempt of </p><p>the Government to "get at" us separately in prison, and how we </p><p>answered the blandishments of the highly "intelligent and refined" </p><p>persons set on to pump us. One laughed; another told extravagant</p><p>long-bow stories to the envoy; a third held a sulky silence; a fourth </p><p>damned the polite spy and bade him hold his jaw--and that was all </p><p>they got out of us.' </p><p>"So passed the second day of the great strike. It was clear to all</p><p>thinking people that the third day would bring on the crisis; for the </p><p>present suspense and ill-concealed terror was unendurable. The</p><p>ruling classes, and the middle-class non-politicians who had been </p><p>their real strength and support, were as sheep lacking a shepherd; </p><p>they literally did not know what to do. </p><p>"One thing they found they had to do: try to get the 'rebels' to do</p><p>something. So the next morning, the morning of the third day of the</p><p>strike, when the members of the Committee of Public Safety appeared </p><p>again before the magistrate, they found themselves treated with the </p><p>greatest possible courtesy--in fact, rather as envoys and ambassadors </p><p>than prisoners. In short, the magistrate had received his orders;</p><p>and with no more to do than might come of a long stupid speech, which </p><p>might have been written by Dickens in mockery, he discharged the </p><p>prisoners, who went back to their meeting-place and at once began a </p><p>due sitting. It was high time. For this third day the mass was</p><p>fermenting indeed. There was, of course, a vast number of working</p><p>people who were not organised in the least in the world; men who had </p><p>been used to act as their masters drove them, or rather as the system </p><p>drove, of which their masters were a part. That system was now</p><p>falling to pieces, and the old pressure of the master having been </p><p>taken off these poor men, it seemed likely that nothing but the mere </p><p>animal necessities and passions of men would have any hold on them, </p><p>and that mere general overturn would be the result. Doubtless this</p><p>would have happened if it had not been that the huge mass had been </p><p>leavened by Socialist opinion in the first place, and in the second </p><p>by actual contact with declared Socialists, many or indeed most of </p><p>whom were members of those bodies of workmen above said. </p><p>If anything of this kind had happened some years before, when the </p><p>masters of labour were still looked upon as the natural rulers of the </p><p>people, and even the poorest and most ignorant man leaned upon them </p><p>for support, while they submitted to their fleecing, the entire </p><p>break-up of all society would have followed. But the long series of</p><p>years during which the workmen had learned to despise their rulers, </p><p>had done away with their dependence upon them, and they were now </p><p>beginning to trust (somewhat dangerously, as events proved) in the </p><p>non-legal leaders whom events had thrust forward; and though most of </p><p>these were now become mere figure-heads, their names and reputations </p><p>were useful in this crisis as a stop-gap.</p><p>"The effect of the news, therefore, of the release of the Committee </p><p>gave the Government some breathing time: for it was received with</p><p>the greatest joy by the workers, and even the well-to-do saw in it a </p><p>respite from the mere destruction which they had begun to dread, and </p><p>the fear of which most of them attributed to the weakness of the </p><p>Government. As far as the passing hour went, perhaps they were right</p><p>in this." </p><p>"How do you mean?" said I. "What could the Government have done? I</p><p>often used to think that they would be helpless in such a crisis." </p><p>Said old Hammond: "Of course I don't doubt that in the long run</p><p>matters would have come about as they did. But if the Government</p><p>could have treated their army as a real army, and used them </p><p>strategically as a general would have done, looking on the people as </p><p>a mere open enemy to be shot at and dispersed wherever they turned </p><p>up, they would probably have gained the victory at the time." </p><p>"But would the soldiers have acted against the people in this way?" </p><p>said I. </p><p>Said he: "I think from all I have heard that they would have done so</p><p>if they had met bodies of men armed however badly, and however badly </p><p>they had been organised. It seems also as if before the Trafalgar</p><p>Square massacre they might as a whole have been depended upon to fire </p><p>upon an unarmed crowd, though they were much honeycombed by </p><p>Socialism. The reason for this was that they dreaded the use by</p><p>apparently unarmed men of an explosive called dynamite, of which many </p><p>loud boasts were made by the workers on the eve of these events; </p><p>although it turned out to be of little use as a material for war in </p><p>the way that was expected. Of course the officers of the soldiery</p><p>fanned this fear to the utmost, so that the rank and file probably </p><p>thought on that occasion that they were being led into a desperate </p><p>battle with men who were really armed, and whose weapon was the more </p><p>dreadful, because it was concealed. After that massacre, however, it</p><p>was at all times doubtful if the regular soldiers would fire upon an </p><p>unarmed or half-armed crowd." </p><p>Said I: "The regular soldiers? Then there were other combatants</p><p>against the people?" </p><p>"Yes," said he, "we shall come to that presently." </p><p>"Certainly," I said, "you had better go on straight with your story. </p><p>I see that time is wearing." </p><p>Said Hammond: "The Government lost no time in coming to terms with</p><p>the Committee of Public Safety; for indeed they could think of </p><p>nothing else than the danger of the moment. They sent a duly</p><p>accredited envoy to treat with these men, who somehow had obtained </p><p>dominion over people's minds, while the formal rulers had no hold </p><p>except over their bodies. There is no need at present to go into the</p><p>details of the truce (for such it was) between these high contracting </p><p>parties, the Government of the empire of Great Britain and a handful </p><p>of working-men (as they were called in scorn in those days), amongst </p><p>whom, indeed, were some very capable and 'square-headed' persons, </p><p>though, as aforesaid, the abler men were not then the recognised </p><p>leaders. The upshot of it was that all the definite claims of the</p><p>people had to be granted. We can now see that most of these claims</p><p>were of themselves not worth either demanding or resisting; but they </p><p>were looked on at that time as most important, and they were at least </p><p>tokens of revolt against the miserable system of life which was then </p><p>beginning to tumble to pieces. One claim, however, was of the utmost</p><p>immediate importance, and this the Government tried hard to evade; </p><p>but as they were not dealing with fools, they had to yield at last. </p><p>This was the claim of recognition and formal status for the Committee </p><p>of Public Safety, and all the associations which it fostered under </p><p>its wing. This it is clear meant two things: first, amnesty for</p><p>'the rebels,' great and small, who, without a distinct act of civil </p><p>war, could no longer be attacked; and next, a continuance of the </p><p>organised revolution. Only one point the Government could gain, and</p><p>that was a name. The dreadful revolutionary title was dropped, and</p><p>the body, with its branches, acted under the respectable name of the </p><p>'Board of Conciliation and its local offices.' Carrying this name,</p><p>it became the leader of the people in the civil war which soon </p><p>followed." </p><p>"O," said I, somewhat startled, "so the civil war went on, in spite </p><p>of all that had happened?" </p><p>"So it was," said he. "In fact, it was this very legal recognition</p><p>which made the civil war possible in the ordinary sense of war; it </p><p>took the struggle out of the element of mere massacres on one side, </p><p>and endurance plus strikes on the other." </p><p>"And can you tell me in what kind of way the war was carried on?" </p><p>said I. </p><p>"Yes" he said; "we have records and to spare of all that; and the </p><p>essence of them I can give you in a few words. As I told you, the</p><p>rank and file of the army was not to be trusted by the reactionists; </p><p>but the officers generally were prepared for anything, for they were </p><p>mostly the very stupidest men in the country. Whatever the</p><p>Government might do, a great part of the upper and middle classes </p><p>were determined to set on foot a counter revolution; for the </p><p>Communism which now loomed ahead seemed quite unendurable to them. </p><p>Bands of young men, like the marauders in the great strike of whom I </p><p>told you just now, armed themselves and drilled, and began on any </p><p>opportunity or pretence to skirmish with the people in the streets. </p><p>The Government neither helped them nor put them down, but stood by, </p><p>hoping that something might come of it. These 'Friends of Order,' as</p><p>they were called, had some successes at first, and grew bolder; they </p><p>got many officers of the regular army to help them, and by their </p><p>means laid hold of munitions of war of all kinds. One part of their</p><p>tactics consisted in their guarding and even garrisoning the big </p><p>factories of the period: they held at one time, for instance, the</p><p>whole of that place called Manchester which I spoke of just now. A</p><p>sort of irregular war was carried on with varied success all over the </p><p>country; and at last the Government, which at first pretended to </p><p>ignore the struggle, or treat it as mere rioting, definitely declared </p><p>for 'the Friends of Order,' and joined to their bands whatsoever of </p><p>the regular army they could get together, and made a desperate effort </p><p>to overwhelm 'the rebels,' as they were now once more called, and as </p><p>indeed they called themselves. </p><p>"It was too late. All ideas of peace on a basis of compromise had</p><p>disappeared on either side. The end, it was seen clearly, must be</p><p>either absolute slavery for all but the privileged, or a system of </p><p>life founded on equality and Communism. The sloth, the hopelessness,</p><p>and if I may say so, the cowardice of the last century, had given </p><p>place to the eager, restless heroism of a declared revolutionary </p><p>period. I will not say that the people of that time foresaw the life</p><p>we are leading now, but there was a general instinct amongst them </p><p>towards the essential part of that life, and many men saw clearly </p><p>beyond the desperate struggle of the day into the peace which it was </p><p>to bring about. The men of that day who were on the side of freedom</p><p>were not unhappy, I think, though they were harassed by hopes and </p><p>fears, and sometimes torn by doubts, and the conflict of duties hard </p><p>to reconcile." </p><p>"But how did the people, the revolutionists, carry on the war? What</p><p>were the elements of success on their side?" </p><p>I put this question, because I wanted to bring the old man back to </p><p>the definite history, and take him out of the musing mood so natural </p><p>to an old man. </p><p>He answered: "Well, they did not lack organisers; for the very</p><p>conflict itself, in days when, as I told you, men of any strength of </p><p>mind cast away all consideration for the ordinary business of life, </p><p>developed the necessary talent amongst them. Indeed, from all I have</p><p>read and heard, I much doubt whether, without this seemingly dreadful </p><p>civil war, the due talent for administration would have been </p><p>developed amongst the working men. Anyhow, it was there, and they</p><p>soon got leaders far more than equal to the best men amongst the </p><p>reactionaries. For the rest, they had no difficulty about the</p><p>material of their army; for that revolutionary instinct so acted on </p><p>the ordinary soldier in the ranks that the greater part, certainly </p><p>the best part, of the soldiers joined the side of the people. But</p><p>the main element of their success was this, that wherever the working </p><p>people were not coerced, they worked, not for the reactionists, but </p><p>for 'the rebels.' The reactionists could get no work done for them</p><p>outside the districts where they were all-powerful: and even in</p><p>those districts they were harassed by continual risings; and in all </p><p>cases and everywhere got nothing done without obstruction and black </p><p>looks and sulkiness; so that not only were their armies quite worn </p><p>out with the difficulties which they had to meet, but the non- </p><p>combatants who were on their side were so worried and beset with </p><p>hatred and a thousand little troubles and annoyances that life became </p><p>almost unendurable to them on those terms. Not a few of them</p><p>actually died of the worry; many committed suicide. Of course, a</p><p>vast number of them joined actively in the cause of reaction, and </p><p>found some solace to their misery in the eagerness of conflict. </p><p>Lastly, many thousands gave way and submitted to 'the rebels'; and as </p><p>the numbers of these latter increased, it at last became clear to all </p><p>men that the cause which was once hopeless, was now triumphant, and </p><p>that the hopeless cause was that of slavery and privilege." </p><p>CHAPTER XVIII: THE BEGINNING OF THE NEW LIFE</p><p>"Well," said I, "so you got clear out of all your trouble. Were</p><p>people satisfied with the new order of things when it came?"</p><p>"People?" he said. "Well, surely all must have been glad of peace</p><p>when it came; especially when they found, as they must have found, </p><p>that after all, they--even the once rich--were not living very badly. </p><p>As to those who had been poor, all through the war, which lasted </p><p>about two years, their condition had been bettering, in spite of the </p><p>struggle; and when peace came at last, in a very short time they made </p><p>great strides towards a decent life. The great difficulty was that</p><p>the once-poor had such a feeble conception of the real pleasure of </p><p>life: so to say, they did not ask enough, did not know how to ask</p><p>enough, from the new state of things. It was perhaps rather a good</p><p>than an evil thing that the necessity for restoring the wealth </p><p>destroyed during the war forced them into working at first almost as </p><p>hard as they had been used to before the Revolution. For all</p><p>historians are agreed that there never was a war in which there was </p><p>so much destruction of wares, and instruments for making them as in </p><p>this civil war." </p><p>"I am rather surprised at that," said I. </p><p>"Are you? I don't see why," said Hammond.</p><p>"Why," I said, "because the party of order would surely look upon the </p><p>wealth as their own property, no share of which, if they could help </p><p>it, should go to their slaves, supposing they conquered. And on the</p><p>other hand, it was just for the possession of that wealth that 'the </p><p>rebels' were fighting, and I should have thought, especially when </p><p>they saw that they were winning, that they would have been careful to </p><p>destroy as little as possible of what was so soon to be their own." </p><p>"It was as I have told you, however," said he. "The party of order,</p><p>when they recovered from their first cowardice of surprise--or, if </p><p>you please, when they fairly saw that, whatever happened, they would </p><p>be ruined, fought with great bitterness, and cared little what they </p><p>did, so long as they injured the enemies who had destroyed the sweets </p><p>of life for them. As to 'the rebels,' I have told you that the</p><p>outbreak of actual war made them careless of trying to save the </p><p>wretched scraps of wealth that they had. It was a common saying</p><p>amongst them, Let the country be cleared of everything except valiant </p><p>living men, rather than that we fall into slavery again!" </p><p>He sat silently thinking a little while, and then said: </p><p>"When the conflict was once really begun, it was seen how little of </p><p>any value there was in the old world of slavery and inequality. </p><p>Don't you see what it means? In the times which you are thinking of,</p><p>and of which you seem to know so much, there was no hope; nothing but </p><p>the dull jog of the mill-horse under compulsion of collar and whip; </p><p>but in that fighting-time that followed, all was hope: 'the rebels'</p><p>at least felt themselves strong enough to build up the world again </p><p>from its dry bones,--and they did it, too!" said the old man, his </p><p>eyes glittering under his beetling brows. He went on: "And their</p><p>opponents at least and at last learned something about the reality of </p><p>life, and its sorrows, which they--their class, I mean--had once </p><p>known nothing of. In short, the two combatants, the workman and the</p><p>gentleman, between them--" </p><p>"Between them," said I, quickly, "they destroyed commercialism!" </p><p>"Yes, yes, yes," said he; "that is it. Nor could it have been</p><p>destroyed otherwise; except, perhaps, by the whole of society </p><p>gradually falling into lower depths, till it should at last reach a </p><p>condition as rude as barbarism, but lacking both the hope and the </p><p>pleasures of barbarism. Surely the sharper, shorter remedy was the</p><p>happiest." </p><p>"Most surely," said I. </p><p>"Yes," said the old man, "the world was being brought to its second </p><p>birth; how could that take place without a tragedy? Moreover, think</p><p>of it. The spirit of the new days, of our days, was to be delight in</p><p>the life of the world; intense and overweening love of the very skin </p><p>and surface of the earth on which man dwells, such as a lover has in </p><p>the fair flesh of the woman he loves; this, I say, was to be the new </p><p>spirit of the time. All other moods save this had been exhausted:</p><p>the unceasing criticism, the boundless curiosity in the ways and </p><p>thoughts of man, which was the mood of the ancient Greek, to whom </p><p>these things were not so much a means, as an end, was gone past </p><p>recovery; nor had there been really any shadow of it in the so-called </p><p>science of the nineteenth century, which, as you must know, was in </p><p>the main an appendage to the commercial system; nay, not seldom an </p><p>appendage to the police of that system. In spite of appearances, it</p><p>was limited and cowardly, because it did not really believe in </p><p>itself. It was the outcome, as it was the sole relief, of the</p><p>unhappiness of the period which made life so bitter even to the rich, </p><p>and which, as you may see with your bodily eyes, the great change has </p><p>swept away. More akin to our way of looking at life was the spirit</p><p>of the Middle Ages, to whom heaven and the life of the next world was </p><p>such a reality, that it became to them a part of the life upon the </p><p>earth; which accordingly they loved and adorned, in spite of the </p><p>ascetic doctrines of their formal creed, which bade them contemn it. </p><p>"But that also, with its assured belief in heaven and hell as two </p><p>countries in which to live, has gone, and now we do, both in word and </p><p>in deed, believe in the continuous life of the world of men, and as </p><p>it were, add every day of that common life to the little stock of </p><p>days which our own mere individual experience wins for us: and</p><p>consequently we are happy. Do you wonder at it? In times past,</p><p>indeed, men were told to love their kind, to believe in the religion </p><p>of humanity, and so forth. But look you, just in the degree that a</p><p>man had elevation of mind and refinement enough to be able to value </p><p>this idea, was he repelled by the obvious aspect of the individuals </p><p>composing the mass which he was to worship; and he could only evade </p><p>that repulsion by making a conventional abstraction of mankind that </p><p>had little actual or historical relation to the race; which to his </p><p>eyes was divided into blind tyrants on the one hand and apathetic </p><p>degraded slaves on the other. But now, where is the difficulty in</p><p>accepting the religion of humanity, when the men and women who go to </p><p>make up humanity are free, happy, and energetic at least, and most </p><p>commonly beautiful of body also, and surrounded by beautiful things </p><p>of their own fashioning, and a nature bettered and not worsened by </p><p>contact with mankind? This is what this age of the world has</p><p>reserved for us." </p><p>"It seems true," said I, "or ought to be, if what my eyes have seen </p><p>is a token of the general life you lead. Can you now tell me</p><p>anything of your progress after the years of the struggle?" </p><p>Said he: "I could easily tell you more than you have time to listen</p><p>to; but I can at least hint at one of the chief difficulties which </p><p>had to be met: and that was, that when men began to settle down</p><p>after the war, and their labour had pretty much filled up the gap in </p><p>wealth caused by the destruction of that war, a kind of </p><p>disappointment seemed coming over us, and the prophecies of some of </p><p>the reactionists of past times seemed as if they would come true, and </p><p>a dull level of utilitarian comfort be the end for a while of our </p><p>aspirations and success. The loss of the competitive spur to</p><p>exertion had not, indeed, done anything to interfere with the </p><p>necessary production of the community, but how if it should make men </p><p>dull by giving them too much time for thought or idle musing? But,</p><p>after all, this dull thunder-cloud only threatened us, and then </p><p>passed over. Probably, from what I have told you before, you will</p><p>have a guess at the remedy for such a disaster; remembering always </p><p>that many of the things which used to be produced--slave-wares for </p><p>the poor and mere wealth-wasting wares for the rich--ceased to be </p><p>made. That remedy was, in short, the production of what used to be</p><p>called art, but which has no name amongst us now, because it has </p><p>become a necessary part of the labour of every man who produces." </p><p>Said I: "What! had men any time or opportunity for cultivating the</p><p>fine arts amidst the desperate struggle for life and freedom that you </p><p>have told me of?" </p><p>Said Hammond: "You must not suppose that the new form of art was</p><p>founded chiefly on the memory of the art of the past; although, </p><p>strange to say, the civil war was much less destructive of art than </p><p>of other things, and though what of art existed under the old forms, </p><p>revived in a wonderful way during the latter part of the struggle, </p><p>especially as regards music and poetry. The art or work-pleasure, as</p><p>one ought to call it, of which I am now speaking, sprung up almost </p><p>spontaneously, it seems, from a kind of instinct amongst people, no </p><p>longer driven desperately to painful and terrible over-work, to do </p><p>the best they could with the work in hand--to make it excellent of </p><p>its kind; and when that had gone on for a little, a craving for </p><p>beauty seemed to awaken in men's minds, and they began rudely and </p><p>awkwardly to ornament the wares which they made; and when they had </p><p>once set to work at that, it soon began to grow. All this was much</p><p>helped by the abolition of the squalor which our immediate ancestors </p><p>put up with so coolly; and by the leisurely, but not stupid, country- </p><p>life which now grew (as I told you before) to be common amongst us. </p><p>Thus at last and by slow degrees we got pleasure into our work; then </p><p>we became conscious of that pleasure, and cultivated it, and took </p><p>care that we had our fill of it; and then all was gained, and we were </p><p>happy. So may it be for ages and ages!"</p><p>The old man fell into a reverie, not altogether without melancholy I </p><p>thought; but I would not break it. Suddenly he started, and said:</p><p>"Well, dear guest, here are come Dick and Clara to fetch you away, </p><p>and there is an end of my talk; which I daresay you will not be sorry </p><p>for; the long day is coming to an end, and you will have a pleasant </p><p>ride back to Hammersmith." </p><p>CHAPTER XIX: THE DRIVE BACK TO HAMMERSMITH</p><p>I said nothing, for I was not inclined for mere politeness to him </p><p>after such very serious talk; but in fact I should liked to have gone </p><p>on talking with the older man, who could understand something at </p><p>least of my wonted ways of looking at life, whereas, with the younger </p><p>people, in spite of all their kindness, I really was a being from </p><p>another planet. However, I made the best of it, and smiled as</p><p>amiably as I could on the young couple; and Dick returned the smile </p><p>by saying, "Well, guest, I am glad to have you again, and to find </p><p>that you and my kinsman have not quite talked yourselves into another </p><p>world; I was half suspecting as I was listening to the Welshmen </p><p>yonder that you would presently be vanishing away from us, and began </p><p>to picture my kinsman sitting in the hall staring at nothing and </p><p>finding that he had been talking a while past to nobody." </p><p>I felt rather uncomfortable at this speech, for suddenly the picture </p><p>of the sordid squabble, the dirty and miserable tragedy of the life I </p><p>had left for a while, came before my eyes; and I had, as it were, a </p><p>vision of all my longings for rest and peace in the past, and I </p><p>loathed the idea of going back to it again. But the old man chuckled</p><p>and said: </p><p>"Don't be afraid, Dick. In any case, I have not been talking to thin</p><p>air; nor, indeed to this new friend of ours only. Who knows but I</p><p>may not have been talking to many people? For perhaps our guest may</p><p>some day go back to the people he has come from, and may take a </p><p>message from us which may bear fruit for them, and consequently for </p><p>us." </p><p>Dick looked puzzled, and said: "Well, gaffer, I do not quite</p><p>understand what you mean. All I can say is, that I hope he will not</p><p>leave us: for don't you see, he is another kind of man to what we</p><p>are used to, and somehow he makes us think of all kind of things; and </p><p>already I feel as if I could understand Dickens the better for having </p><p>talked with him." </p><p>"Yes," said Clara, "and I think in a few months we shall make him </p><p>look younger; and I should like to see what he was like with the </p><p>wrinkles smoothed out of his face. Don't you think he will look</p><p>younger after a little time with us?" </p><p>The old man shook his head, and looked earnestly at me, but did not </p><p>answer her, and for a moment or two we were all silent. Then Clara</p><p>broke out: </p><p>"Kinsman, I don't like this: something or another troubles me, and I</p><p>feel as if something untoward were going to happen. You have been</p><p>talking of past miseries to the guest, and have been living in past </p><p>unhappy times, and it is in the air all round us, and makes us feel </p><p>as if we were longing for something that we cannot have." </p><p>The old man smiled on her kindly, and said: "Well, my child, if that</p><p>be so, go and live in the present, and you will soon shake it off." </p><p>Then he turned to me, and said: "Do you remember anything like that,</p><p>guest, in the country from which you come?" </p><p>The lovers had turned aside now, and were talking together softly, </p><p>and not heeding us; so I said, but in a low voice: "Yes, when I was</p><p>a happy child on a sunny holiday, and had everything that I could</p><p>think of." </p><p>"So it is," said he. "You remember just now you twitted me with</p><p>living in the second childhood of the world. You will find it a</p><p>happy world to live in; you will be happy there--for a while." </p><p>Again I did not like his scarcely veiled threat, and was beginning to </p><p>trouble myself with trying to remember how I had got amongst this </p><p>curious people, when the old man called out in a cheery voice: "Now,</p><p>my children, take your guest away, and make much of him; for it is </p><p>your business to make him sleek of skin and peaceful of mind: he has</p><p>by no means been as lucky as you have. Farewell, guest!" and he</p><p>grasped my hand warmly. </p><p>"Good-bye," said I, "and thank you very much for all that you have </p><p>told me. I will come and see you as soon as I come back to London.</p><p>May I?" </p><p>"Yes," he said, "come by all means--if you can." </p><p>"It won't be for some time yet," quoth Dick, in his cheery voice; </p><p>"for when the hay is in up the river, I shall be for taking him a </p><p>round through the country between hay and wheat harvest, to see how </p><p>our friends live in the north country. Then in the wheat harvest we</p><p>shall do a good stroke of work, I should hope,--in Wiltshire by </p><p>preference; for he will be getting a little hard with all the open- </p><p>air living, and I shall be as tough as nails." </p><p>"But you will take me along, won't you, Dick?" said Clara, laying her </p><p>pretty hand on his shoulder. </p><p>"Will I not?" said Dick, somewhat boisterously. "And we will manage</p><p>to send you to bed pretty tired every night; and you will look so </p><p>beautiful with your neck all brown, and your hands too, and you under </p><p>your gown as white as privet, that you will get some of those strange </p><p>discontented whims out of your head, my dear. However, our week's</p><p>haymaking will do all that for you." </p><p>The girl reddened very prettily, and not for shame but for pleasure; </p><p>and the old man laughed, and said: </p><p>"Guest, I see that you will be as comfortable as need be; for you </p><p>need not fear that those two will be too officious with you: they</p><p>will be so busy with each other, that they will leave you a good deal </p><p>to yourself, I am sure, and that is a real kindness to a guest, after </p><p>all. O, you need not be afraid of being one too many, either: it is</p><p>just what these birds in a nest like, to have a good convenient </p><p>friend to turn to, so that they may relieve the ecstasies of love </p><p>with the solid commonplace of friendship. Besides, Dick, and much</p><p>more Clara, likes a little talking at times; and you know lovers do </p><p>not talk unless they get into trouble, they only prattle. Good-bye,</p><p>guest; may you be happy!" </p><p>Clara went up to old Hammond, threw her arms about his neck and </p><p>kissed him heartily, and said: </p><p>"You are a dear old man, and may have your jest about me as much as </p><p>you please; and it won't be long before we see you again; and you may </p><p>be sure we shall make our guest happy; though, mind you, there is</p><p>some truth in what you say." </p><p>Then I shook hands again, and we went out of the hall and into the </p><p>cloisters, and so in the street found Greylocks in the shafts waiting </p><p>for us. He was well looked after; for a little lad of about seven</p><p>years old had his hand on the rein and was solemnly looking up into </p><p>his face; on his back, withal, was a girl of fourteen, holding a </p><p>three-year old sister on before her; while another girl, about a year </p><p>older than the boy, hung on behind. The three were occupied partly</p><p>with eating cherries, partly with patting and punching Greylocks, who </p><p>took all their caresses in good part, but pricked up his ears when </p><p>Dick made his appearance. The girls got off quietly, and going up to</p><p>Clara, made much of her and snuggled up to her. And then we got into</p><p>the carriage, Dick shook the reins, and we got under way at once, </p><p>Greylocks trotting soberly between the lovely trees of the London </p><p>streets, that were sending floods of fragrance into the cool evening </p><p>air; for it was now getting toward sunset. </p><p>We could hardly go but fair and softly all the way, as there were a </p><p>great many people abroad in that cool hour. Seeing so many people</p><p>made me notice their looks the more; and I must say, my taste, </p><p>cultivated in the sombre greyness, or rather brownness, of the </p><p>nineteenth century, was rather apt to condemn the gaiety and </p><p>brightness of the raiment; and I even ventured to say as much to </p><p>Clara. She seemed rather surprised, and even slightly indignant, and</p><p>said: "Well, well, what's the matter? They are not about any dirty</p><p>work; they are only amusing themselves in the fine evening; there is </p><p>nothing to foul their clothes. Come, doesn't it all look very</p><p>pretty? It isn't gaudy, you know."</p><p>Indeed that was true; for many of the people were clad in colours </p><p>that were sober enough, though beautiful, and the harmony of the </p><p>colours was perfect and most delightful. </p><p>I said, "Yes, that is so; but how can everybody afford such costly </p><p>garments? Look! there goes a middle-aged man in a sober grey dress;</p><p>but I can see from here that it is made of very fine woollen stuff, </p><p>and is covered with silk embroidery." </p><p>Said Clara: "He could wear shabby clothes if he pleased,--that is,</p><p>if he didn't think he would hurt people's feelings by doing so." </p><p>"But please tell me," said I, "how can they afford it?" </p><p>As soon as I had spoken I perceived that I had got back to my old </p><p>blunder; for I saw Dick's shoulders shaking with laughter; but he </p><p>wouldn't say a word, but handed me over to the tender mercies of </p><p>Clara, who said - </p><p>"Why, I don't know what you mean. Of course we can afford it, or</p><p>else we shouldn't do it. It would be easy enough for us to say, we</p><p>will only spend our labour on making our clothes comfortable: but we</p><p>don't choose to stop there. Why do you find fault with us? Does it</p><p>seem to you as if we starved ourselves of food in order to make </p><p>ourselves fine clothes? Or do you think there is anything wrong in</p><p>liking to see the coverings of our bodies beautiful like our bodies </p><p>are?--just as a deer's or an otter's skin has been made beautiful </p><p>from the first? Come, what is wrong with you?"</p><p>I bowed before the storm, and mumbled out some excuse or other. I</p><p>must say, I might have known that people who were so fond of </p><p>architecture generally, would not be backward in ornamenting </p><p>themselves; all the more as the shape of their raiment, apart from </p><p>its colour, was both beautiful and reasonable--veiling the form, </p><p>without either muffling or caricaturing it. </p><p>Clara was soon mollified; and as we drove along toward the wood </p><p>before mentioned, she said to Dick - </p><p>"I tell you what, Dick: now that kinsman Hammond the Elder has seen</p><p>our guest in his queer clothes, I think we ought to find him </p><p>something decent to put on for our journey to-morrow: especially</p><p>since, if we do not, we shall have to answer all sorts of questions </p><p>as to his clothes and where they came from. Besides," she said</p><p>slily, "when he is clad in handsome garments he will not be so quick </p><p>to blame us for our childishness in wasting our time in making </p><p>ourselves look pleasant to each other." </p><p>"All right, Clara," said Dick; "he shall have everything that you-- </p><p>that he wants to have. I will look something out for him before he</p><p>gets up to-morrow." </p><p>CHAPTER XX: THE HAMMERSMITH GUEST-HOUSE AGAIN</p><p>Amidst such talk, driving quietly through the balmy evening, we came </p><p>to Hammersmith, and were well received by our friends there. Boffin,</p><p>in a fresh suit of clothes, welcomed me back with stately courtesy; </p><p>the weaver wanted to button-hole me and get out of me what old </p><p>Hammond had said, but was very friendly and cheerful when Dick warned </p><p>him off; Annie shook hands with me, and hoped I had had a pleasant </p><p>day--so kindly, that I felt a slight pang as our hands parted; for to </p><p>say the truth, I liked her better than Clara, who seemed to be always </p><p>a little on the defensive, whereas Annie was as frank as could be, </p><p>and seemed to get honest pleasure from everything and everybody about </p><p>her without the least effort. </p><p>We had quite a little feast that evening, partly in my honour, and </p><p>partly, I suspect, though nothing was said about it, in honour of </p><p>Dick and Clara coming together again. The wine was of the best; the</p><p>hall was redolent of rich summer flowers; and after supper we not </p><p>only had music (Annie, to my mind, surpassing all the others for </p><p>sweetness and clearness of voice, as well as for feeling and </p><p>meaning), but at last we even got to telling stories, and sat there </p><p>listening, with no other light but that of the summer moon streaming </p><p>through the beautiful traceries of the windows, as if we had belonged </p><p>to time long passed, when books were scarce and the art of reading </p><p>somewhat rare. Indeed, I may say here, that, though, as you will</p><p>have noted, my friends had mostly something to say about books, yet </p><p>they were not great readers, considering the refinement of their </p><p>manners and the great amount of leisure which they obviously had. In</p><p>fact, when Dick, especially, mentioned a book, he did so with an air </p><p>of a man who has accomplished an achievement; as much as to say, </p><p>"There, you see, I have actually read that!" </p><p>The evening passed all too quickly for me; since that day, for the </p><p>first time in my life, I was having my fill of the pleasure of the </p><p>eyes without any of that sense of incongruity, that dread of </p><p>approaching ruin, which had always beset me hitherto when I had been </p><p>amongst the beautiful works of art of the past, mingled with the </p><p>lovely nature of the present; both of them, in fact, the result of </p><p>the long centuries of tradition, which had compelled men to produce </p><p>the art, and compelled nature to run into the mould of the ages. </p><p>Here I could enjoy everything without an afterthought of the </p><p>injustice and miserable toil which made my leisure; the ignorance and </p><p>dulness of life which went to make my keen appreciation of history; </p><p>the tyranny and the struggle full of fear and mishap which went to </p><p>make my romance. The only weight I had upon my heart was a vague</p><p>fear as it drew toward bed-time concerning the place wherein I should </p><p>wake on the morrow: but I choked that down, and went to bed happy,</p><p>and in a very few moments was in a dreamless sleep. </p><p>CHAPTER XXI: GOING UP THE RIVER</p><p>When I did wake, to a beautiful sunny morning, I leapt out of bed </p><p>with my over-night apprehension still clinging to me, which vanished </p><p>delightfully however in a moment as I looked around my little </p><p>sleeping chamber and saw the pale but pure-coloured figures painted </p><p>on the plaster of the wall, with verses written underneath them which </p><p>I knew somewhat over well. I dressed speedily, in a suit of blue</p><p>laid ready for me, so handsome that I quite blushed when I had got </p><p>into it, feeling as I did so that excited pleasure of anticipation of </p><p>a holiday, which, well remembered as it was, I had not felt since I </p><p>was a boy, new come home for the summer holidays. </p><p>It seemed quite early in the morning, and I expected to have the hall </p><p>to myself when I came into it out of the corridor wherein was my </p><p>sleeping chamber; but I met Annie at once, who let fall her broom and </p><p>gave me a kiss, quite meaningless I fear, except as betokening </p><p>friendship, though she reddened as she did it, not from shyness, but </p><p>from friendly pleasure, and then stood and picked up her broom again, </p><p>and went on with her sweeping, nodding to me as if to bid me stand </p><p>out of the way and look on; which, to say the truth, I thought </p><p>amusing enough, as there were five other girls helping her, and their </p><p>graceful figures engaged in the leisurely work were worth going a </p><p>long way to see, and their merry talk and laughing as they swept in </p><p>quite a scientific manner was worth going a long way to hear. But</p><p>Annie presently threw me back a word or two as she went on to the </p><p>other end of the hall: "Guest," she said, "I am glad that you are up</p><p>early, though we wouldn't disturb you; for our Thames is a lovely </p><p>river at half-past six on a June morning: and as it would be a pity</p><p>for you to lose it, I am told just to give you a cup of milk and a </p><p>bit of bread outside there, and put you into the boat: for Dick and</p><p>Clara are all ready now. Wait half a minute till I have swept down</p><p>this row." </p><p>So presently she let her broom drop again, and came and took me by </p><p>the hand and led me out on to the terrace above the river, to a </p><p>little table under the boughs, where my bread and milk took the form </p><p>of as dainty a breakfast as any one could desire, and then sat by me</p><p>as I ate. And in a minute or two Dick and Clara came to me, the</p><p>latter looking most fresh and beautiful in a light silk embroidered </p><p>gown, which to my unused eyes was extravagantly gay and bright; while </p><p>Dick was also handsomely dressed in white flannel prettily </p><p>embroidered. Clara raised her gown in her hands as she gave me the</p><p>morning greeting, and said laughingly: "Look, guest! you see we are</p><p>at least as fine as any of the people you felt inclined to scold last </p><p>night; you see we are not going to make the bright day and the </p><p>flowers feel ashamed of themselves. Now scold me!"</p><p>Quoth I: "No, indeed; the pair of you seem as if you were born out</p><p>of the summer day itself; and I will scold you when I scold it." </p><p>"Well, you know," said Dick, "this is a special day--all these days </p><p>are, I mean. The hay-harvest is in some ways better than corn-</p><p>harvest because of the beautiful weather; and really, unless you had </p><p>worked in the hay-field in fine weather, you couldn't tell what </p><p>pleasant work it is. The women look so pretty at it, too," he said,</p><p>shyly; "so all things considered, I think we are right to adorn it in </p><p>a simple manner." </p><p>"Do the women work at it in silk dresses?" said I, smiling. </p><p>Dick was going to answer me soberly; but Clara put her hand over his </p><p>mouth, and said, "No, no, Dick; not too much information for him, or </p><p>I shall think that you are your old kinsman again. Let him find out</p><p>for himself: he will not have long to wait."</p><p>"Yes," quoth Annie, "don't make your description of the picture too </p><p>fine, or else he will be disappointed when the curtain is drawn. I</p><p>don't want him to be disappointed. But now it's time for you to be</p><p>gone, if you are to have the best of the tide, and also of the sunny </p><p>morning. Good-bye, guest."</p><p>She kissed me in her frank friendly way, and almost took away from me </p><p>my desire for the expedition thereby; but I had to get over that, as </p><p>it was clear that so delightful a woman would hardly be without a due </p><p>lover of her own age. We went down the steps of the landing stage,</p><p>and got into a pretty boat, not too light to hold us and our </p><p>belongings comfortably, and handsomely ornamented; and just as we got </p><p>in, down came Boffin and the weaver to see us off. The former had</p><p>now veiled his splendour in a due suit of working clothes, crowned </p><p>with a fantail hat, which he took off, however, to wave us farewell </p><p>with his grave old-Spanish-like courtesy. Then Dick pushed off into</p><p>the stream, and bent vigorously to his sculls, and Hammersmith, with </p><p>its noble trees and beautiful water-side houses, began to slip away </p><p>from us. </p><p>As we went, I could not help putting beside his promised picture of </p><p>the hay-field as it was then the picture of it as I remembered it, </p><p>and especially the images of the women engaged in the work rose up </p><p>before me: the row of gaunt figures, lean, flat-breasted, ugly,</p><p>without a grace of form or face about them; dressed in wretched </p><p>skimpy print gowns, and hideous flapping sun-bonnets, moving their </p><p>rakes in a listless mechanical way. How often had that marred the</p><p>loveliness of the June day to me; how often had I longed to see the </p><p>hay-fields peopled with men and women worthy of the sweet abundance </p><p>of midsummer, of its endless wealth of beautiful sights, and </p><p>delicious sounds and scents. And now, the world had grown old and</p><p>wiser, and I was to see my hope realised at last! </p><p>CHAPTER XXII: HAMPTON COURT AND A PRAISER OF PAST TIMES</p><p>So on we went, Dick rowing in an easy tireless way, and Clara sitting </p><p>by my side admiring his manly beauty and heartily good-natured face, </p><p>and thinking, I fancy, of nothing else. As we went higher up the</p><p>river, there was less difference between the Thames of that day and </p><p>Thames as I remembered it; for setting aside the hideous vulgarity of </p><p>the cockney villas of the well-to-do, stockbrokers and other such, </p><p>which in older time marred the beauty of the bough-hung banks, even </p><p>this beginning of the country Thames was always beautiful; and as we </p><p>slipped between the lovely summer greenery, I almost felt my youth </p><p>come back to me, and as if I were on one of those water excursions </p><p>which I used to enjoy so much in days when I was too happy to think </p><p>that there could be much amiss anywhere. </p><p>At last we came to a reach of the river where on the left hand a very </p><p>pretty little village with some old houses in it came down to the </p><p>edge of the water, over which was a ferry; and beyond these houses </p><p>the elm-beset meadows ended in a fringe of tall willows, while on the </p><p>right hand went the tow-path and a clear space before a row of trees, </p><p>which rose up behind huge and ancient, the ornaments of a great park: </p><p>but these drew back still further from the river at the end of the </p><p>reach to make way for a little town of quaint and pretty houses, some </p><p>new, some old, dominated by the long walls and sharp gables of a </p><p>great red-brick pile of building, partly of the latest Gothic, partly </p><p>of the court-style of Dutch William, but so blended together by the </p><p>bright sun and beautiful surroundings, including the bright blue </p><p>river, which it looked down upon, that even amidst the beautiful </p><p>buildings of that new happy time it had a strange charm about it. A</p><p>great wave of fragrance, amidst which the lime-tree blossom was </p><p>clearly to be distinguished, came down to us from its unseen gardens, </p><p>as Clara sat up in her place, and said: </p><p>"O Dick, dear, couldn't we stop at Hampton Court for to-day, and take </p><p>the guest about the park a little, and show him those sweet old </p><p>buildings? Somehow, I suppose because you have lived so near it, you</p><p>have seldom taken me to Hampton Court." </p><p>Dick rested on his oars a little, and said: "Well, well, Clara, you</p><p>are lazy to-day. I didn't feel like stopping short of Shepperton for</p><p>the night; suppose we just go and have our dinner at the Court, and </p><p>go on again about five o'clock?" </p><p>"Well," she said, "so be it; but I should like the guest to have </p><p>spent an hour or two in the Park." </p><p>"The Park!" said Dick; "why, the whole Thames-side is a park this </p><p>time of the year; and for my part, I had rather lie under an elm-tree </p><p>on the borders of a wheat-field, with the bees humming about me and </p><p>the corn-crake crying from furrow to furrow, than in any park in </p><p>England. Besides--"</p><p>"Besides," said she, "you want to get on to your dearly-loved upper</p><p>Thames, and show your prowess down the heavy swathes of the mowing </p><p>grass." </p><p>She looked at him fondly, and I could tell that she was seeing him in </p><p>her mind's eye showing his splendid form at its best amidst the </p><p>rhymed strokes of the scythes; and she looked down at her own pretty </p><p>feet with a half sigh, as though she were contrasting her slight </p><p>woman's beauty with his man's beauty; as women will when they are </p><p>really in love, and are not spoiled with conventional sentiment. </p><p>As for Dick, he looked at her admiringly a while, and then said at </p><p>last: "Well, Clara, I do wish we were there! But, hilloa! we are</p><p>getting back way." And he set to work sculling again, and in two</p><p>minutes we were all standing on the gravelly strand below the bridge, </p><p>which, as you may imagine, was no longer the old hideous iron </p><p>abortion, but a handsome piece of very solid oak framing. </p><p>We went into the Court and straight into the great hall, so well </p><p>remembered, where there were tables spread for dinner, and everything </p><p>arranged much as in Hammersmith Guest-Hall. Dinner over, we</p><p>sauntered through the ancient rooms, where the pictures and tapestry </p><p>were still preserved, and nothing was much changed, except that the </p><p>people whom we met there had an indefinable kind of look of being at </p><p>home and at ease, which communicated itself to me, so that I felt </p><p>that the beautiful old place was mine in the best sense of the word; </p><p>and my pleasure of past days seemed to add itself to that of to-day, </p><p>and filled my whole soul with content. </p><p>Dick (who, in spite of Clara's gibe, knew the place very well) told </p><p>me that the beautiful old Tudor rooms, which I remembered had been </p><p>the dwellings of the lesser fry of Court flunkies, were now much used </p><p>by people coming and going; for, beautiful as architecture had now </p><p>become, and although the whole face of the country had quite </p><p>recovered its beauty, there was still a sort of tradition of pleasure </p><p>and beauty which clung to that group of buildings, and people thought </p><p>going to Hampton Court a necessary summer outing, as they did in the </p><p>days when London was so grimy and miserable. We went into some of</p><p>the rooms looking into the old garden, and were well received by the </p><p>people in them, who got speedily into talk with us, and looked with </p><p>politely half-concealed wonder at my strange face. Besides these</p><p>birds of passage, and a few regular dwellers in the place, we saw out </p><p>in the meadows near the garden, down "the Long Water," as it used to </p><p>be called, many gay tents with men, women, and children round about </p><p>them. As it seemed, this pleasure-loving people were fond of tent-</p><p>life, with all its inconveniences, which, indeed, they turned into </p><p>pleasure also. </p><p>We left this old friend by the time appointed, and I made some feeble </p><p>show of taking the sculls; but Dick repulsed me, not much to my </p><p>grief, I must say, as I found I had quite enough to do between the </p><p>enjoyment of the beautiful time and my own lazily blended thoughts. </p><p>As to Dick, it was quite right to let him pull, for he was as strong </p><p>as a horse, and had the greatest delight in bodily exercise, whatever </p><p>it was. We really had some difficulty in getting him to stop when it</p><p>was getting rather more than dusk, and the moon was brightening just </p><p>as we were off Runnymede. We landed there, and were looking about</p><p>for a place whereon to pitch our tents (for we had brought two with </p><p>us), when an old man came up to us, bade us good evening, and asked</p><p>if we were housed for that that night; and finding that we were not, </p><p>bade us home to his house. Nothing loth, we went with him, and Clara</p><p>took his hand in a coaxing way which I noticed she used with old men; </p><p>and as we went on our way, made some commonplace remark about the </p><p>beauty of the day. The old man stopped short, and looked at her and</p><p>said: "You really like it then?"</p><p>"Yes," she said, looking very much astonished, "Don't you?" </p><p>"Well," said he, "perhaps I do. I did, at any rate, when I was</p><p>younger; but now I think I should like it cooler." </p><p>She said nothing, and went on, the night growing about as dark as it </p><p>would be; till just at the rise of the hill we came to a hedge with a </p><p>gate in it, which the old man unlatched and led us into a garden, at </p><p>the end of which we could see a little house, one of whose little </p><p>windows was already yellow with candlelight. We could see even under</p><p>the doubtful light of the moon and the last of the western glow that </p><p>the garden was stuffed full of flowers; and the fragrance it gave out </p><p>in the gathering coolness was so wonderfully sweet, that it seemed </p><p>the very heart of the delight of the June dusk; so that we three </p><p>stopped instinctively, and Clara gave forth a little sweet "O," like </p><p>a bird beginning to sing. </p><p>"What's the matter?" said the old man, a little testily, and pulling </p><p>at her hand. "There's no dog; or have you trodden on a thorn and</p><p>hurt your foot?" </p><p>"No, no, neighbour," she said; "but how sweet, how sweet it is!" </p><p>"Of course it is," said he, "but do you care so much for that?" </p><p>She laughed out musically, and we followed suit in our gruffer </p><p>voices; and then she said: "Of course I do, neighbour; don't you?"</p><p>"Well, I don't know," quoth the old fellow; then he added, as if </p><p>somewhat ashamed of himself: "Besides, you know, when the waters are</p><p>out and all Runnymede is flooded, it's none so pleasant." </p><p>"_I_ should like it," quoth Dick. "What a jolly sail one would get</p><p>about here on the floods on a bright frosty January morning!" </p><p>"WOULD you like it?" said our host. "Well, I won't argue with you,</p><p>neighbour; it isn't worth while. Come in and have some supper."</p><p>We went up a paved path between the roses, and straight into a very </p><p>pretty room, panelled and carved, and as clean as a new pin; but the </p><p>chief ornament of which was a young woman, light-haired and grey- </p><p>eyed, but with her face and hands and bare feet tanned quite brown </p><p>with the sun. Though she was very lightly clad, that was clearly</p><p>from choice, not from poverty, though these were the first cottage- </p><p>dwellers I had come across; for her gown was of silk, and on her </p><p>wrists were bracelets that seemed to me of great value. She was</p><p>lying on a sheep-skin near the window, but jumped up as soon as we </p><p>entered, and when she saw the guests behind the old man, she clapped </p><p>her hands and cried out with pleasure, and when she got us into the </p><p>middle of the room, fairly danced round us in delight of our company. </p><p>"What!" said the old man, "you are pleased, are you, Ellen?"</p><p>The girl danced up to him and threw her arms round him, and said: </p><p>"Yes I am, and so ought you to be grandfather." </p><p>"Well, well, I am," said he, "as much as I can be pleased. Guests,</p><p>please be seated." </p><p>This seemed rather strange to us; stranger, I suspect, to my friends </p><p>than to me; but Dick took the opportunity of both the host and his </p><p>grand-daughter being out of the room to say to me, softly: "A</p><p>grumbler: there are a few of them still. Once upon a time, I am</p><p>told, they were quite a nuisance." </p><p>The old man came in as he spoke and sat down beside us with a sigh, </p><p>which, indeed, seemed fetched up as if he wanted us to take notice of </p><p>it; but just then the girl came in with the victuals, and the carle </p><p>missed his mark, what between our hunger generally and that I was </p><p>pretty busy watching the grand-daughter moving about as beautiful as </p><p>a picture. </p><p>Everything to eat and drink, though it was somewhat different to what </p><p>we had had in London, was better than good, but the old man eyed </p><p>rather sulkily the chief dish on the table, on which lay a leash of </p><p>fine perch, and said: </p><p>"H'm, perch! I am sorry we can't do better for you, guests. The</p><p>time was when we might have had a good piece of salmon up from London </p><p>for you; but the times have grown mean and petty." </p><p>"Yes, but you might have had it now," said the girl, giggling, "if </p><p>you had known that they were coming." </p><p>"It's our fault for not bringing it with us, neighbours," said Dick, </p><p>good-humouredly. "But if the times have grown petty, at any rate the</p><p>perch haven't; that fellow in the middle there must have weighed a </p><p>good two pounds when he was showing his dark stripes and red fins to </p><p>the minnows yonder. And as to the salmon, why, neighbour, my friend</p><p>here, who comes from the outlands, was quite surprised yesterday </p><p>morning when I told him we had plenty of salmon at Hammersmith. I am</p><p>sure I have heard nothing of the times worsening." </p><p>He looked a little uncomfortable. And the old man, turning to me,</p><p>said very courteously: </p><p>"Well, sir, I am happy to see a man from over the water; but I really </p><p>must appeal to you to say whether on the whole you are not better off </p><p>in your country; where I suppose, from what our guest says, you are </p><p>brisker and more alive, because you have not wholly got rid of </p><p>competition. You see, I have read not a few books of the past days,</p><p>and certainly THEY are much more alive than those which are written </p><p>now; and good sound unlimited competition was the condition under </p><p>which they were written,--if we didn't know that from the record of </p><p>history, we should know it from the books themselves. There is a</p><p>spirit of adventure in them, and signs of a capacity to extract good </p><p>out of evil which our literature quite lacks now; and I cannot help </p><p>thinking that our moralists and historians exaggerate hugely the </p><p>unhappiness of the past days, in which such splendid works of </p><p>imagination and intellect were produced." </p><p>Clara listened to him with restless eyes, as if she were excited and </p><p>pleased; Dick knitted his brow and looked still more uncomfortable, </p><p>but said nothing. Indeed, the old man gradually, as he warmed to his</p><p>subject, dropped his sneering manner, and both spoke and looked very </p><p>seriously. But the girl broke out before I could deliver myself of</p><p>the answer I was framing: </p><p>"Books, books! always books, grandfather! When will you understand</p><p>that after all it is the world we live in which interests us; the </p><p>world of which we are a part, and which we can never love too much? </p><p>Look!" she said, throwing open the casement wider and showing us the </p><p>white light sparkling between the black shadows of the moonlit </p><p>garden, through which ran a little shiver of the summer night-wind, </p><p>"look! these are our books in these days!--and these," she said, </p><p>stepping lightly up to the two lovers and laying a hand on each of </p><p>their shoulders; "and the guest there, with his over-sea knowledge </p><p>and experience;--yes, and even you, grandfather" (a smile ran over </p><p>her face as she spoke), "with all your grumbling and wishing yourself </p><p>back again in the good old days,--in which, as far as I can make out, </p><p>a harmless and lazy old man like you would either have pretty nearly </p><p>starved, or have had to pay soldiers and people to take the folk's </p><p>victuals and clothes and houses away from them by force. Yes, these</p><p>are our books; and if we want more, can we not find work to do in the </p><p>beautiful buildings that we raise up all over the country (and I know </p><p>there was nothing like them in past times), wherein a man can put </p><p>forth whatever is in him, and make his hands set forth his mind and </p><p>his soul." </p><p>She paused a little, and I for my part could not help staring at her, </p><p>and thinking that if she were a book, the pictures in it were most </p><p>lovely. The colour mantled in her delicate sunburnt cheeks; her grey</p><p>eyes, light amidst the tan of her face, kindly looked on us all as </p><p>she spoke. She paused, and said again:</p><p>"As for your books, they were well enough for times when intelligent </p><p>people had but little else in which they could take pleasure, and </p><p>when they must needs supplement the sordid miseries of their own </p><p>lives with imaginations of the lives of other people. But I say</p><p>flatly that in spite of all their cleverness and vigour, and capacity </p><p>for story-telling, there is something loathsome about them. Some of</p><p>them, indeed, do here and there show some feeling for those whom the </p><p>history-books call 'poor,' and of the misery of whose lives we have </p><p>some inkling; but presently they give it up, and towards the end of </p><p>the story we must be contented to see the hero and heroine living </p><p>happily in an island of bliss on other people's troubles; and that </p><p>after a long series of sham troubles (or mostly sham) of their own </p><p>making, illustrated by dreary introspective nonsense about their </p><p>feelings and aspirations, and all the rest of it; while the world </p><p>must even then have gone on its way, and dug and sewed and baked and </p><p>built and carpentered round about these useless--animals." </p><p>"There!" said the old man, reverting to his dry sulky manner again. </p><p>"There's eloquence! I suppose you like it?"</p><p>"Yes," said I, very emphatically. </p><p>"Well," said he, "now the storm of eloquence has lulled for a little, </p><p>suppose you answer my question?--that is, if you like, you know," </p><p>quoth he, with a sudden access of courtesy.</p><p>"What question?" said I. For I must confess that Ellen's strange and</p><p>almost wild beauty had put it out of my head. </p><p>Said he: "First of all (excuse my catechising), is there competition</p><p>in life, after the old kind, in the country whence you come?" </p><p>"Yes," said I, "it is the rule there." And I wondered as I spoke</p><p>what fresh complications I should get into as a result of this </p><p>answer. </p><p>"Question two," said the carle: "Are you not on the whole much</p><p>freer, more energetic--in a word, healthier and happier--for it?" </p><p>I smiled. "You wouldn't talk so if you had any idea of our life. To</p><p>me you seem here as if you were living in heaven compared with us of </p><p>the country from which I came." </p><p>"Heaven?" said he: "you like heaven, do you?"</p><p>"Yes," said I--snappishly, I am afraid; for I was beginning rather to </p><p>resent his formula. </p><p>"Well, I am far from sure that I do," quoth he. "I think one may do</p><p>more with one's life than sitting on a damp cloud and singing hymns." </p><p>I was rather nettled by this inconsequence, and said: "Well,</p><p>neighbour, to be short, and without using metaphors, in the land </p><p>whence I come, where the competition which produced those literary </p><p>works which you admire so much is still the rule, most people are </p><p>thoroughly unhappy; here, to me at least most people seem thoroughly </p><p>happy." </p><p>"No offence, guest--no offence," said he; "but let me ask you; you </p><p>like that, do you?" </p><p>His formula, put with such obstinate persistence, made us all laugh </p><p>heartily; and even the old man joined in the laughter on the sly. </p><p>However, he was by no means beaten, and said presently: </p><p>"From all I can hear, I should judge that a young woman so beautiful </p><p>as my dear Ellen yonder would have been a lady, as they called it in </p><p>the old time, and wouldn't have had to wear a few rags of silk as she </p><p>does now, or to have browned herself in the sun as she has to do now. </p><p>What do you say to that, eh?" </p><p>Here Clara, who had been pretty much silent hitherto, struck in, and </p><p>said: "Well, really, I don't think that you would have mended</p><p>matters, or that they want mending. Don't you see that she is</p><p>dressed deliciously for this beautiful weather? And as for the sun-</p><p>burning of your hay-fields, why, I hope to pick up some of that for </p><p>myself when we get a little higher up the river. Look if I don't</p><p>need a little sun on my pasty white skin!" </p><p>And she stripped up the sleeve from her arm and laid it beside </p><p>Ellen's who was now sitting next her. To say the truth, it was</p><p>rather amusing to me to see Clara putting herself forward as a town- </p><p>bred fine lady, for she was as well-knit and clean-skinned a girl as </p><p>might be met with anywhere at the best. Dick stroked the beautiful</p><p>arm rather shyly, and pulled down the sleeve again, while she blushed </p><p>at his touch; and the old man said laughingly: "Well, I suppose you</p><p>DO like that; don't you?" </p><p>Ellen kissed her new friend, and we all sat silent for a little, till </p><p>she broke out into a sweet shrill song, and held us all entranced </p><p>with the wonder of her clear voice; and the old grumbler sat looking </p><p>at her lovingly. The other young people sang also in due time; and</p><p>then Ellen showed us to our beds in small cottage chambers, fragrant </p><p>and clean as the ideal of the old pastoral poets; and the pleasure of </p><p>the evening quite extinguished my fear of the last night, that I </p><p>should wake up in the old miserable world of worn-out pleasures, and </p><p>hopes that were half fears. </p><p>CHAPTER XXIII: AN EARLY MORNING BY RUNNYMEDE</p><p>Though there were no rough noises to wake me, I could not lie long </p><p>abed the next morning, where the world seemed so well awake, and, </p><p>despite the old grumbler, so happy; so I got up, and found that, </p><p>early as it was, someone had been stirring, since all was trim and in </p><p>its place in the little parlour, and the table laid for the morning </p><p>meal. Nobody was afoot in the house as then, however, so I went out</p><p>a-doors, and after a turn or two round the superabundant garden, I </p><p>wandered down over the meadow to the river-side, where lay our boat, </p><p>looking quite familiar and friendly to me. I walked up stream a</p><p>little, watching the light mist curling up from the river till the </p><p>sun gained power to draw it all away; saw the bleak speckling the </p><p>water under the willow boughs, whence the tiny flies they fed on were </p><p>falling in myriads; heard the great chub splashing here and there at </p><p>some belated moth or other, and felt almost back again in my boyhood. </p><p>Then I went back again to the boat, and loitered there a minute or </p><p>two, and then walked slowly up the meadow towards the little house. </p><p>I noted now that there were four more houses of about the same size </p><p>on the slope away from the river. The meadow in which I was going</p><p>was not up for hay; but a row of flake-hurdles ran up the slope not </p><p>far from me on each side, and in the field so parted off from ours on </p><p>the left they were making hay busily by now, in the simple fashion of </p><p>the days when I was a boy. My feet turned that way instinctively, as</p><p>I wanted to see how haymakers looked in these new and better times, </p><p>and also I rather expected to see Ellen there. I came to the hurdles</p><p>and stood looking over into the hay-field, and was close to the end </p><p>of the long line of haymakers who were spreading the low ridges to </p><p>dry off the night dew. The majority of these were young women clad</p><p>much like Ellen last night, though not mostly in silk, but in light </p><p>woollen mostly gaily embroidered; the men being all clad in white </p><p>flannel embroidered in bright colours. The meadow looked like a</p><p>gigantic tulip-bed because of them. All hands were working</p><p>deliberately but well and steadily, though they were as noisy with </p><p>merry talk as a grove of autumn starlings. Half a dozen of them, men</p><p>and women, came up to me and shook hands, gave me the sele of the </p><p>morning, and asked a few questions as to whence and whither, and </p><p>wishing me good luck, went back to their work. Ellen, to my</p><p>disappointment, was not amongst them, but presently I saw a light </p><p>figure come out of the hay-field higher up the slope, and make for </p><p>our house; and that was Ellen, holding a basket in her hand. But</p><p>before she had come to the garden gate, out came Dick and Clara, who, </p><p>after a minute's pause, came down to meet me, leaving Ellen in the </p><p>garden; then we three went down to the boat, talking mere morning </p><p>prattle. We stayed there a little, Dick arranging some of the</p><p>matters in her, for we had only taken up to the house such things as </p><p>we thought the dew might damage; and then we went toward the house </p><p>again; but when we came near the garden, Dick stopped us by laying a </p><p>hand on my arm and said, - </p><p>"Just look a moment." </p><p>I looked, and over the low hedge saw Ellen, shading her eyes against </p><p>the sun as she looked toward the hay-field, a light wind stirring in </p><p>her tawny hair, her eyes like light jewels amidst her sunburnt face, </p><p>which looked as if the warmth of the sun were yet in it. </p><p>"Look, guest," said Dick; "doesn't it all look like one of those very </p><p>stories out of Grimm that we were talking about up in Bloomsbury? </p><p>Here are we two lovers wandering about the world, and we have come to </p><p>a fairy garden, and there is the very fairy herself amidst of it: I</p><p>wonder what she will do for us." </p><p>Said Clara demurely, but not stiffly: "Is she a good fairy, Dick?"</p><p>"O, yes," said he; "and according to the card, she would do better, </p><p>if it were not for the gnome or wood-spirit, our grumbling friend of </p><p>last night." </p><p>We laughed at this; and I said, "I hope you see that you have left me </p><p>out of the tale." </p><p>"Well," said he, "that's true. You had better consider that you have</p><p>got the cap of darkness, and are seeing everything, yourself </p><p>invisible." </p><p>That touched me on my weak side of not feeling sure of my position in </p><p>this beautiful new country; so in order not to make matters worse, I </p><p>held my tongue, and we all went into the garden and up to the house </p><p>together. I noticed by the way that Clara must really rather have</p><p>felt the contrast between herself as a town madam and this piece of </p><p>the summer country that we all admired so, for she had rather dressed </p><p>after Ellen that morning as to thinness and scantiness, and went </p><p>barefoot also, except for light sandals. </p><p>The old man greeted us kindly in the parlour, and said: "Well,</p><p>guests, so you have been looking about to search into the nakedness </p><p>of the land: I suppose your illusions of last night have given way a</p><p>bit before the morning light? Do you still like, it, eh?"</p><p>"Very much," said I, doggedly; "it is one of the prettiest places on </p><p>the lower Thames." </p><p>"Oho!" said he; "so you know the Thames, do you?" </p><p>I reddened, for I saw Dick and Clara looking at me, and scarcely knew </p><p>what to say. However, since I had said in our early intercourse with</p><p>my Hammersmith friends that I had known Epping Forest, I thought a </p><p>hasty generalisation might be better in avoiding complications than a </p><p>downright lie; so I said -</p><p>"I have been in this country before; and I have been on the Thames in </p><p>those days." </p><p>"O," said the old man, eagerly, "so you have been in this country </p><p>before. Now really, don't you FIND it (apart from all theory, you</p><p>know) much changed for the worse?" </p><p>"No, not at all," said I; "I find it much changed for the better." </p><p>"Ah," quoth he, "I fear that you have been prejudiced by some theory </p><p>or another. However, of course the time when you were here before</p><p>must have been so near our own days that the deterioration might not </p><p>be very great: as then we were, of course, still living under the</p><p>same customs as we are now. I was thinking of earlier days than</p><p>that." </p><p>"In short," said Clara, "you have THEORIES about the change which has </p><p>taken place." </p><p>"I have facts as well," said he. "Look here! from this hill you can</p><p>see just four little houses, including this one. Well, I know for</p><p>certain that in old times, even in the summer, when the leaves were </p><p>thickest, you could see from the same place six quite big and fine </p><p>houses; and higher up the water, garden joined garden right up to </p><p>Windsor; and there were big houses in all the gardens. Ah! England</p><p>was an important place in those days." </p><p>I was getting nettled, and said: "What you mean is that you de-</p><p>cockneyised the place, and sent the damned flunkies packing, and that </p><p>everybody can live comfortably and happily, and not a few damned </p><p>thieves only, who were centres of vulgarity and corruption wherever </p><p>they were, and who, as to this lovely river, destroyed its beauty </p><p>morally, and had almost destroyed it physically, when they were </p><p>thrown out of it." </p><p>There was silence after this outburst, which for the life of me I </p><p>could not help, remembering how I had suffered from cockneyism and </p><p>its cause on those same waters of old time. But at last the old man</p><p>said, quite coolly: </p><p>"My dear guest, I really don't know what you mean by either cockneys, </p><p>or flunkies, or thieves, or damned; or how only a few people could </p><p>live happily and comfortably in a wealthy country. All I can see is</p><p>that you are angry, and I fear with me: so if you like we will</p><p>change the subject." </p><p>I thought this kind and hospitable in him, considering his obstinacy </p><p>about his theory; and hastened to say that I did not mean to be </p><p>angry, only emphatic. He bowed gravely, and I thought the storm was</p><p>over, when suddenly Ellen broke in: </p><p>"Grandfather, our guest is reticent from courtesy; but really what he </p><p>has in his mind to say to you ought to be said; so as I know pretty </p><p>well what it is, I will say it for him: for as you know, I have been</p><p>taught these things by people who--" </p><p>"Yes," said the old man, "by the sage of Bloomsbury, and others." </p><p>"O," said Dick, "so you know my old kinsman Hammond?" </p><p>"Yes," said she, "and other people too, as my grandfather says, and </p><p>they have taught me things: and this is the upshot of it. We live</p><p>in a little house now, not because we have nothing grander to do than </p><p>working in the fields, but because we please; for if we liked, we </p><p>could go and live in a big house amongst pleasant companions." </p><p>Grumbled the old man: "Just so! As if I would live amongst those</p><p>conceited fellows; all of them looking down upon me!" </p><p>She smiled on him kindly, but went on as if he had not spoken. "In</p><p>the past times, when those big houses of which grandfather speaks </p><p>were so plenty, we MUST have lived in a cottage whether we had liked </p><p>it or not; and the said cottage, instead of having in it everything </p><p>we want, would have been bare and empty. We should not have got</p><p>enough to eat; our clothes would have been ugly to look at, dirty and </p><p>frowsy. You, grandfather, have done no hard work for years now, but</p><p>wander about and read your books and have nothing to worry you; and </p><p>as for me, I work hard when I like it, because I like it, and think </p><p>it does me good, and knits up my muscles, and makes me prettier to </p><p>look at, and healthier and happier. But in those past days you,</p><p>grandfather, would have had to work hard after you were old; and </p><p>would have been always afraid of having to be shut up in a kind of </p><p>prison along with other old men, half-starved and without amusement. </p><p>And as for me, I am twenty years old. In those days my middle age</p><p>would be beginning now, and in a few years I should be pinched, thin, </p><p>and haggard, beset with troubles and miseries, so that no one could </p><p>have guessed that I was once a beautiful girl. </p><p>"Is this what you have had in your mind, guest?" said she, the tears </p><p>in her eyes at thought of the past miseries of people like herself. </p><p>"Yes," said I, much moved; "that and more. Often--in my country I</p><p>have seen that wretched change you have spoken of, from the fresh </p><p>handsome country lass to the poor draggle-tailed country woman." </p><p>The old man sat silent for a little, but presently recovered himself </p><p>and took comfort in his old phrase of "Well, you like it so, do you?" </p><p>"Yes," said Ellen, "I love life better than death." </p><p>"O, you do, do you?" said he. "Well, for my part I like reading a</p><p>good old book with plenty of fun in it, like Thackeray's 'Vanity </p><p>Fair.' Why don't you write books like that now? Ask that question</p><p>of your Bloomsbury sage." </p><p>Seeing Dick's cheeks reddening a little at this sally, and noting </p><p>that silence followed, I thought I had better do something. So I</p><p>said: "I am only the guest, friends; but I know you want to show me</p><p>your river at its best, so don't you think we had better be moving </p><p>presently, as it is certainly going to be a hot day?" </p><p>CHAPTER XXIV: UP THE THAMES: THE SECOND DAY</p><p>They were not slow to take my hint; and indeed, as to the mere time </p><p>of day, it was best for us to be off, as it was past seven o'clock, </p><p>and the day promised to be very hot. So we got up and went down to</p><p>our boat--Ellen thoughtful and abstracted; the old man very kind and </p><p>courteous, as if to make up for his crabbedness of opinion. Clara</p><p>was cheerful and natural, but a little subdued, I thought; and she at </p><p>least was not sorry to be gone, and often looked shyly and timidly at </p><p>Ellen and her strange wild beauty. So we got into the boat, Dick</p><p>saying as he took his place, "Well, it IS a fine day!" and the old </p><p>man answering "What! you like that, do you?" once more; and presently </p><p>Dick was sending the bows swiftly through the slow weed-checked </p><p>stream. I turned round as we got into mid-stream, and waving my hand</p><p>to our hosts, saw Ellen leaning on the old man's shoulder, and </p><p>caressing his healthy apple-red cheek, and quite a keen pang smote me </p><p>as I thought how I should never see the beautiful girl again. </p><p>Presently I insisted on taking the sculls, and I rowed a good deal </p><p>that day; which no doubt accounts for the fact that we got very late </p><p>to the place which Dick had aimed at. Clara was particularly</p><p>affectionate to Dick, as I noticed from the rowing thwart; but as for </p><p>him, he was as frankly kind and merry as ever; and I was glad to see </p><p>it, as a man of his temperament could not have taken her caresses </p><p>cheerfully and without embarrassment if he had been at all entangled </p><p>by the fairy of our last night's abode. </p><p>I need say little about the lovely reaches of the river here. I duly</p><p>noted that absence of cockney villas which the old man had lamented; </p><p>and I saw with pleasure that my old enemies the "Gothic" cast-iron </p><p>bridges had been replaced by handsome oak and stone ones. Also the</p><p>banks of the forest that we passed through had lost their courtly </p><p>game-keeperish trimness, and were as wild and beautiful as need he, </p><p>though the trees were clearly well seen to. I thought it best, in</p><p>order to get the most direct information, to play the innocent about </p><p>Eton and Windsor; but Dick volunteered his knowledge to me as we lay </p><p>in Datchet lock about the first. Quoth he:</p><p>"Up yonder are some beautiful old buildings, which were built for a </p><p>great college or teaching-place by one of the mediaeval kings--Edward </p><p>the Sixth, I think" (I smiled to myself at his rather natural </p><p>blunder). "He meant poor people's sons to be taught there what</p><p>knowledge was going in his days; but it was a matter of course that </p><p>in the times of which you seem to know so much they spoilt whatever </p><p>good there was in the founder's intentions. My old kinsman says that</p><p>they treated them in a very simple way, and instead of teaching poor </p><p>men's sons to know something, they taught rich men's sons to know </p><p>nothing. It seems from what he says that it was a place for the</p><p>'aristocracy' (if you know what that word means; I have been told its </p><p>meaning) to get rid of the company of their male children for a great </p><p>part of the year. I daresay old Hammond would give you plenty of</p><p>information in detail about it." </p><p>"What is it used for now?" said I. </p><p>"Well," said he, "the buildings were a good deal spoilt by the last </p><p>few generations of aristocrats, who seem to have had a great hatred </p><p>against beautiful old buildings, and indeed all records of past </p><p>history; but it is still a delightful place. Of course, we cannot</p><p>use it quite as the founder intended, since our ideas about teaching </p><p>young people are so changed from the ideas of his time; so it is used </p><p>now as a dwelling for people engaged in learning; and folk from round</p><p>about come and get taught things that they want to learn; and there </p><p>is a great library there of the best books. So that I don't think</p><p>that the old dead king would be much hurt if he were to come to life </p><p>and see what we are doing there." </p><p>"Well," said Clara, laughing, "I think he would miss the boys." </p><p>"Not always, my dear," said Dick, "for there are often plenty of boys </p><p>there, who come to get taught; and also," said he, smiling, "to learn </p><p>boating and swimming. I wish we could stop there: but perhaps we</p><p>had better do that coming down the water." </p><p>The lock-gates opened as he spoke, and out we went, and on. And as</p><p>for Windsor, he said nothing till I lay on my oars (for I was </p><p>sculling then) in Clewer reach, and looking up, said, "What is all </p><p>that building up there?" </p><p>Said he: "There, I thought I would wait till you asked, yourself.</p><p>That is Windsor Castle: that also I thought I would keep for you</p><p>till we come down the water. It looks fine from here, doesn't it?</p><p>But a great deal of it has been built or skinned in the time of the </p><p>Degradation, and we wouldn't pull the buildings down, since they were </p><p>there; just as with the buildings of the Dung-Market. You know, of</p><p>course, that it was the palace of our old mediaeval kings, and was </p><p>used later on for the same purpose by the parliamentary commercial </p><p>sham-kings, as my old kinsman calls them.'' </p><p>"Yes," said I, "I know all that. What is it used for now?"</p><p>"A great many people live there," said he, "as, with all drawbacks, </p><p>it is a pleasant place; there is also a well-arranged store of </p><p>antiquities of various kinds that have seemed worth keeping--a </p><p>museum, it would have been called in the times you understand so </p><p>well." </p><p>I drew my sculls through the water at that last word, and pulled as </p><p>if I were fleeing from those times which I understood so well; and we </p><p>were soon going up the once sorely be-cockneyed reaches of the river </p><p>about Maidenhead, which now looked as pleasant and enjoyable as the </p><p>up-river reaches. </p><p>The morning was now getting on, the morning of a jewel of a summer </p><p>day; one of those days which, if they were commoner in these islands, </p><p>would make our climate the best of all climates, without dispute. A</p><p>light wind blew from the west; the little clouds that had arisen at </p><p>about our breakfast time had seemed to get higher and higher in the </p><p>heavens; and in spite of the burning sun we no more longed for rain </p><p>than we feared it. Burning as the sun was, there was a fresh feeling</p><p>in the air that almost set us a-longing for the rest of the hot </p><p>afternoon, and the stretch of blossoming wheat seen from the shadow </p><p>of the boughs. No one unburdened with very heavy anxieties could</p><p>have felt otherwise than happy that morning: and it must be said</p><p>that whatever anxieties might lie beneath the surface of things, we </p><p>didn't seem to come across any of them. </p><p>We passed by several fields where haymaking was going on, but Dick, </p><p>and especially Clara, were so jealous of our up-river festival that </p><p>they would not allow me to have much to say to them. I could only</p><p>notice that the people in the fields looked strong and handsome, both</p><p>men and women, and that so far from there being any appearance of </p><p>sordidness about their attire, they seemed to be dressed specially </p><p>for the occasion,--lightly, of course, but gaily and with plenty of </p><p>adornment. </p><p>Both on this day as well as yesterday we had, as you may think, met </p><p>and passed and been passed by many craft of one kind and another. </p><p>The most part of these were being rowed like ourselves, or were </p><p>sailing, in the sort of way that sailing is managed on the upper </p><p>reaches of the river; but every now and then we came on barges, laden </p><p>with hay or other country produce, or carrying bricks, lime, timber, </p><p>and the like, and these were going on their way without any means of </p><p>propulsion visible to me--just a man at the tiller, with often a </p><p>friend or two laughing and talking with him. Dick, seeing on one</p><p>occasion this day, that I was looking rather hard on one of these, </p><p>said: "That is one of our force-barges; it is quite as easy to work</p><p>vehicles by force by water as by land." </p><p>I understood pretty well that these "force vehicles" had taken the </p><p>place of our old steam-power carrying; but I took good care not to </p><p>ask any questions about them, as I knew well enough both that I </p><p>should never be able to understand how they were worked, and that in </p><p>attempting to do so I should betray myself, or get into some </p><p>complication impossible to explain; so I merely said, "Yes, of </p><p>course, I understand." </p><p>We went ashore at Bisham, where the remains of the old Abbey and the </p><p>Elizabethan house that had been added to them yet remained, none the </p><p>worse for many years of careful and appreciative habitation. The</p><p>folk of the place, however, were mostly in the fields that day, both </p><p>men and women; so we met only two old men there, and a younger one </p><p>who had stayed at home to get on with some literary work, which I </p><p>imagine we considerably interrupted. Yet I also think that the hard-</p><p>working man who received us was not very sorry for the interruption. </p><p>Anyhow, he kept on pressing us to stay over and over again, till at </p><p>last we did not get away till the cool of the evening. </p><p>However, that mattered little to us; the nights were light, for the </p><p>moon was shining in her third quarter, and it was all one to Dick </p><p>whether he sculled or sat quiet in the boat: so we went away a great</p><p>pace. The evening sun shone bright on the remains of the old</p><p>buildings at Medmenham; close beside which arose an irregular pile of </p><p>building which Dick told us was a very pleasant house; and there were </p><p>plenty of houses visible on the wide meadows opposite, under the </p><p>hill; for, as it seems that the beauty of Hurley had compelled people </p><p>to build and live there a good deal. The sun very low down showed us</p><p>Henley little altered in outward aspect from what I remembered it. </p><p>Actual daylight failed us as we passed through the lovely reaches of </p><p>Wargrave and Shiplake; but the moon rose behind us presently. I</p><p>should like to have seen with my eyes what success the new order of </p><p>things had had in getting rid of the sprawling mess with which </p><p>commercialism had littered the banks of the wide stream about Reading </p><p>and Caversham: certainly everything smelt too deliciously in the</p><p>early night for there to be any of the old careless sordidness of so- </p><p>called manufacture; and in answer to my question as to what sort of a </p><p>place Reading was, Dick answered: </p><p>"O, a nice town enough in its way; mostly rebuilt within the last </p><p>hundred years; and there are a good many houses, as you can see by</p><p>the lights just down under the hills yonder. In fact, it is one of</p><p>the most populous places on the Thames round about here. Keep up</p><p>your spirits, guest! we are close to our journey's end for the night. </p><p>I ought to ask your pardon for not stopping at one of the houses here </p><p>or higher up; but a friend, who is living in a very pleasant house in </p><p>the Maple-Durham meads, particularly wanted me and Clara to come and </p><p>see him on our way up the Thames; and I thought you wouldn't mind </p><p>this bit of night travelling." </p><p>He need not have adjured me to keep up my spirits, which were as high </p><p>as possible; though the strangeness and excitement of the happy and </p><p>quiet life which I saw everywhere around me was, it is true, a little </p><p>wearing off, yet a deep content, as different as possible from </p><p>languid acquiescence, was taking its place, and I was, as it were, </p><p>really new-born. </p><p>We landed presently just where I remembered the river making an elbow </p><p>to the north towards the ancient house of the Blunts; with the wide </p><p>meadows spreading on the right-hand side, and on the left the long </p><p>line of beautiful old trees overhanging the water. As we got out of</p><p>the boat, I said to Dick - </p><p>"Is it the old house we are going to?" </p><p>"No," he said, "though that is standing still in green old age, and </p><p>is well inhabited. I see, by the way, that you know your Thames</p><p>well. But my friend Walter Allen, who asked me to stop here, lives</p><p>in a house, not very big, which has been built here lately, because </p><p>these meadows are so much liked, especially in summer, that there was </p><p>getting to be rather too much of tenting on the open field; so the </p><p>parishes here about, who rather objected to that, built three houses </p><p>between this and Caversham, and quite a large one at Basildon, a </p><p>little higher up. Look, yonder are the lights of Walter Allen's</p><p>house!" </p><p>So we walked over the grass of the meadows under a flood of </p><p>moonlight, and soon came to the house, which was low and built round </p><p>a quadrangle big enough to get plenty of sunshine in it. Walter</p><p>Allen, Dick's friend, was leaning against the jamb of the doorway </p><p>waiting for us, and took us into the hall without overplus of words. </p><p>There were not many people in it, as some of the dwellers there were </p><p>away at the haymaking in the neighbourhood, and some, as Walter told </p><p>us, were wandering about the meadow enjoying the beautiful moonlit </p><p>night. Dick's friend looked to be a man of about forty; tall, black-</p><p>haired, very kind-looking and thoughtful; but rather to my surprise </p><p>there was a shade of melancholy on his face, and he seemed a little </p><p>abstracted and inattentive to our chat, in spite of obvious efforts </p><p>to listen. </p><p>Dick looked on him from time to time, and seemed troubled; and at </p><p>last he said: "I say, old fellow, if there is anything the matter</p><p>which we didn't know of when you wrote to me, don't you think you had </p><p>better tell us about it at once? Or else we shall think we have come</p><p>here at an unlucky time, and are not quite wanted." </p><p>Walter turned red, and seemed to have some difficulty in restraining </p><p>his tears, but said at last: "Of course everybody here is very glad</p><p>to see you, Dick, and your friends; but it is true that we are not at </p><p>our best, in spite of the fine weather and the glorious hay-crop. We</p><p>have had a death here." </p><p>Said Dick: "Well, you should get over that, neighbour: such things</p><p>must be." </p><p>"Yes," Walter said, "but this was a death by violence, and it seems </p><p>likely to lead to at least one more; and somehow it makes us feel </p><p>rather shy of one another; and to say the truth, that is one reason </p><p>why there are so few of us present to-night." </p><p>"Tell us the story, Walter," said Dick; "perhaps telling it will help </p><p>you to shake off your sadness." </p><p>Said Walter: "Well, I will; and I will make it short enough, though</p><p>I daresay it might be spun out into a long one, as used to be done </p><p>with such subjects in the old novels. There is a very charming girl</p><p>here whom we all like, and whom some of us do more than like; and she </p><p>very naturally liked one of us better than anybody else. And another</p><p>of us (I won't name him) got fairly bitten with love-madness, and </p><p>used to go about making himself as unpleasant as he could--not of </p><p>malice prepense, of course; so that the girl, who liked him well </p><p>enough at first, though she didn't love him, began fairly to dislike </p><p>him. Of course, those of us who knew him best--myself amongst</p><p>others--advised him to go away, as he was making matters worse and </p><p>worse for himself every day. Well, he wouldn't take our advice (that</p><p>also, I suppose, was a matter of course), so we had to tell him that </p><p>he MUST go, or the inevitable sending to Coventry would follow; for </p><p>his individual trouble had so overmastered him that we felt that WE </p><p>must go if he did not. </p><p>"He took that better than we expected, when something or other--an </p><p>interview with the girl, I think, and some hot words with the </p><p>successful lover following close upon it, threw him quite off his </p><p>balance; and he got hold of an axe and fell upon his rival when there </p><p>was no one by; and in the struggle that followed the man attacked, </p><p>hit him an unlucky blow and killed him. And now the slayer in his</p><p>turn is so upset that he is like to kill himself; and if he does, the </p><p>girl will do as much, I fear. And all this we could no more help</p><p>than the earthquake of the year before last." </p><p>"It is very unhappy," said Dick; "but since the man is dead, and </p><p>cannot be brought to life again, and since the slayer had no malice </p><p>in him, I cannot for the life of me see why he shouldn't get over it </p><p>before long. Besides, it was the right man that was killed and not</p><p>the wrong. Why should a man brood over a mere accident for ever?</p><p>And the girl?" </p><p>"As to her," said Walter, "the whole thing seems to have inspired her </p><p>with terror rather than grief. What you say about the man is true,</p><p>or it should be; but then, you see, the excitement and jealousy that </p><p>was the prelude to this tragedy had made an evil and feverish element </p><p>round about him, from which he does not seem to be able to escape. </p><p>However, we have advised him to go away--in fact, to cross the seas; </p><p>but he is in such a state that I do not think he CAN go unless </p><p>someone TAKES him, and I think it will fall to my lot to do so; which </p><p>is scarcely a cheerful outlook for me." </p><p>"O, you will find a certain kind of interest in it," said Dick. "And</p><p>of course he MUST soon look upon the affair from a reasonable point</p><p>of view sooner or later." </p><p>"Well, at any rate," quoth Walter, "now that I have eased my mind by </p><p>making you uncomfortable, let us have an end of the subject for the </p><p>present. Are you going to take your guest to Oxford?"</p><p>"Why, of course we must pass through it," said Dick, smiling, "as we </p><p>are going into the upper waters: but I thought that we wouldn't stop</p><p>there, or we shall be belated as to the haymaking up our way. So</p><p>Oxford and my learned lecture on it, all got at second-hand from my </p><p>old kinsman, must wait till we come down the water a fortnight </p><p>hence." </p><p>I listened to this story with much surprise, and could not help </p><p>wondering at first that the man who had slain the other had not been </p><p>put in custody till it could be proved that he killed his rival in </p><p>self-defence only. However, the more I thought of it, the plainer it</p><p>grew to me that no amount of examination of witnesses, who had </p><p>witnessed nothing but the ill-blood between the two rivals, would </p><p>have done anything to clear up the case. I could not help thinking,</p><p>also, that the remorse of this homicide gave point to what old </p><p>Hammond had said to me about the way in which this strange people </p><p>dealt with what I had been used to hear called crimes. Truly, the</p><p>remorse was exaggerated; but it was quite clear that the slayer took </p><p>the whole consequences of the act upon himself, and did not expect </p><p>society to whitewash him by punishing him. I had no fear any longer</p><p>that "the sacredness of human life" was likely to suffer amongst my </p><p>friends from the absence of gallows and prison. </p><p>CHAPTER XXV: THE THIRD DAY ON THE THAMES</p><p>As we went down to the boat next morning, Walter could not quite keep </p><p>off the subject of last night, though he was more hopeful than he had </p><p>been then, and seemed to think that if the unlucky homicide could not </p><p>be got to go over-sea, he might at any rate go and live somewhere in </p><p>the neighbourhood pretty much by himself; at any rate, that was what </p><p>he himself had proposed. To Dick, and I must say to me also, this</p><p>seemed a strange remedy; and Dick said as much. Quoth he:</p><p>"Friend Walter, don't set the man brooding on the tragedy by letting </p><p>him live alone. That will only strengthen his idea that he has</p><p>committed a crime, and you will have him killing himself in good </p><p>earnest." </p><p>Said Clara: "I don't know. If I may say what I think of it, it is</p><p>that he had better have his fill of gloom now, and, so to say, wake </p><p>up presently to see how little need there has been for it; and then </p><p>he will live happily afterwards. As for his killing himself, you</p><p>need not be afraid of that; for, from all you tell me, he is really </p><p>very much in love with the woman; and to speak plainly, until his </p><p>love is satisfied, he will not only stick to life as tightly as he </p><p>can, but will also make the most of every event of his life--will, so </p><p>to say, hug himself up in it; and I think that this is the real </p><p>explanation of his taking the whole matter with such an excess of </p><p>tragedy."</p><p>Walter looked thoughtful, and said: "Well, you may be right; and</p><p>perhaps we should have treated it all more lightly: but you see,</p><p>guest" (turning to me), "such things happen so seldom, that when they </p><p>do happen, we cannot help being much taken up with it. For the rest,</p><p>we are all inclined, to excuse our poor friend for making us so </p><p>unhappy, on the ground that he does it out of an exaggerated respect </p><p>for human life and its happiness. Well, I will say no more about it;</p><p>only this: will you give me a cast up stream, as I want to look</p><p>after a lonely habitation for the poor fellow, since he will have it </p><p>so, and I hear that there is one which would suit us very well on the </p><p>downs beyond Streatley; so if you will put me ashore there I will </p><p>walk up the hill and look to it." </p><p>"Is the house in question empty?" said I. </p><p>"No," said Walter, "but the man who lives there will go out of it, of </p><p>course, when he hears that we want it. You see, we think that the</p><p>fresh air of the downs and the very emptiness of the landscape will </p><p>do our friend good." </p><p>"Yes," said Clara, smiling, "and he will not be so far from his </p><p>beloved that they cannot easily meet if they have a mind to--as they </p><p>certainly will." </p><p>This talk had brought us down to the boat, and we were presently </p><p>afloat on the beautiful broad stream, Dick driving the prow swiftly </p><p>through the windless water of the early summer morning, for it was </p><p>not yet six o'clock. We were at the lock in a very little time; and</p><p>as we lay rising and rising on the in-coming water, I could not help </p><p>wondering that my old friend the pound-lock, and that of the very </p><p>simplest and most rural kind, should hold its place there; so I said: </p><p>"I have been wondering, as we passed lock after lock, that you </p><p>people, so prosperous as you are, and especially since you are so </p><p>anxious for pleasant work to do, have not invented something which </p><p>would get rid of this clumsy business of going up-stairs by means of </p><p>these rude contrivances." </p><p>Dick laughed. "My dear friend," said he, "as long as water has the</p><p>clumsy habit of running down hill, I fear we must humour it by going </p><p>up-stairs when we have our faces turned from the sea. And really I</p><p>don't see why you should fall foul of Maple-Durham lock, which I </p><p>think a very pretty place." </p><p>There was no doubt about the latter assertion, I thought, as I looked </p><p>up at the overhanging boughs of the great trees, with the sun coming </p><p>glittering through the leaves, and listened to the song of the summer </p><p>blackbirds as it mingled with the sound of the backwater near us. So</p><p>not being able to say why I wanted the locks away--which, indeed, I </p><p>didn't do at all--I held my peace. But Walter said -</p><p>"You see, guest, this is not an age of inventions. The last epoch</p><p>did all that for us, and we are now content to use such of its </p><p>inventions as we find handy, and leaving those alone which we don't </p><p>want. I believe, as a matter of fact, that some time ago (I can't</p><p>give you a date) some elaborate machinery was used for the locks, </p><p>though people did not go so far as try to make the water run up hill. </p><p>However, it was troublesome, I suppose, and the simple hatches, and</p><p>the gates, with a big counterpoising beam, were found to answer every </p><p>purpose, and were easily mended when wanted with material always to </p><p>hand: so here they are, as you see."</p><p>"Besides," said Dick, "this kind of lock is pretty, as you can see; </p><p>and I can't help thinking that your machine-lock, winding up like a </p><p>watch, would have been ugly and would have spoiled the look of the </p><p>river: and that is surely reason enough for keeping such locks as</p><p>these. Good-bye, old fellow!" said he to the lock, as he pushed us</p><p>out through the now open gates by a vigorous stroke of the boat-hook. </p><p>"May you live long, and have your green old age renewed for ever!" </p><p>On we went; and the water had the familiar aspect to me of the days </p><p>before Pangbourne had been thoroughly cocknified, as I have seen it. </p><p>It (Pangbourne) was distinctly a village still--i.e., a definite </p><p>group of houses, and as pretty as might be. The beech-woods still</p><p>covered the hill that rose above Basildon; but the flat fields </p><p>beneath them were much more populous than I remembered them, as there </p><p>were five large houses in sight, very carefully designed so as not to </p><p>hurt the character of the country. Down on the green lip of the</p><p>river, just where the water turns toward the Goring and Streatley </p><p>reaches, were half a dozen girls playing about on the grass. They</p><p>hailed us as we were about passing them, as they noted that we were </p><p>travellers, and we stopped a minute to talk with them. They had been</p><p>bathing, and were light clad and bare-footed, and were bound for the </p><p>meadows on the Berkshire side, where the haymaking had begun, and </p><p>were passing the time merrily enough till the Berkshire folk came in </p><p>their punt to fetch them. At first nothing would content them but we</p><p>must go with them into the hay-field, and breakfast with them; but </p><p>Dick put forward his theory of beginning the hay-harvest higher up </p><p>the water, and not spoiling my pleasure therein by giving me a taste </p><p>of it elsewhere, and they gave way, though unwillingly. In revenge</p><p>they asked me a great many questions about the country I came from </p><p>and the manners of life there, which I found rather puzzling to </p><p>answer; and doubtless what answers I did give were puzzling enough to </p><p>them. I noticed both with these pretty girls and with everybody else</p><p>we met, that in default of serious news, such as we had heard at </p><p>Maple-Durham, they were eager to discuss all the little details of </p><p>life: the weather, the hay-crop, the last new house, the plenty or</p><p>lack of such and such birds, and so on; and they talked of these </p><p>things not in a fatuous and conventional way, but as taking, I say, </p><p>real interest in them. Moreover, I found that the women knew as much</p><p>about all these things as the men: could name a flower, and knew its</p><p>qualities; could tell you the habitat of such and such birds and </p><p>fish, and the like. </p><p>It is almost strange what a difference this intelligence made in my </p><p>estimate of the country life of that day; for it used to be said in </p><p>past times, and on the whole truly, that outside their daily work </p><p>country people knew little of the country, and at least could tell </p><p>you nothing about it; while here were these people as eager about all </p><p>the goings on in the fields and woods and downs as if they had been </p><p>Cockneys newly escaped from the tyranny of bricks and mortar. </p><p>I may mention as a detail worth noticing that not only did there seem </p><p>to be a great many more birds about of the non-predatory kinds, but </p><p>their enemies the birds of prey were also commoner. A kite hung over</p><p>our heads as we passed Medmenham yesterday; magpies were quite common </p><p>in the hedgerows; I saw several sparrow-hawks, and I think a merlin;</p><p>and now just as we were passing the pretty bridge which had taken the </p><p>place of Basildon railway-bridge, a couple of ravens croaked above </p><p>our boat, as they sailed off to the higher ground of the downs. I</p><p>concluded from all this that the days of the gamekeeper were over, </p><p>and did not even need to ask Dick a question about it. </p><p>CHAPTER XXVI: THE OBSTINATE REFUSERS</p><p>Before we parted from these girls we saw two sturdy young men and a </p><p>woman putting off from the Berkshire shore, and then Dick bethought </p><p>him of a little banter of the girls, and asked them how it was that </p><p>there was nobody of the male kind to go with them across the water, </p><p>and where their boats were gone to. Said one, the youngest of the</p><p>party: "O, they have got the big punt to lead stone from up the</p><p>water." </p><p>"Who do you mean by 'they,' dear child?" said Dick. </p><p>Said an older girl, laughing: "You had better go and see them. Look</p><p>there," and she pointed northwest, "don't you see building going on </p><p>there?" </p><p>"Yes," said Dick, "and I am rather surprised at this time of the </p><p>year; why are they not haymaking with you?" </p><p>The girls all laughed at this, and before their laugh was over, the </p><p>Berkshire boat had run on to the grass and the girls stepped in </p><p>lightly, still sniggering, while the new comers gave us the sele of </p><p>the day. But before they were under way again, the tall girl said:</p><p>"Excuse us for laughing, dear neighbours, but we have had some </p><p>friendly bickering with the builders up yonder, and as we have no </p><p>time to tell you the story, you had better go and ask them: they</p><p>will be glad to see you--if you don't hinder their work." </p><p>They all laughed again at that, and waved us a pretty farewell as the </p><p>punters set them over toward the other shore, and left us standing on </p><p>the bank beside our boat. </p><p>"Let us go and see them," said Clara; "that is, if you are not in a </p><p>hurry to get to Streatley, Walter?" </p><p>"O no," said Walter, "I shall be glad of the excuse to have a little </p><p>more of your company." </p><p>So we left the boat moored there, and went on up the slow slope of </p><p>the hill; but I said to Dick on the way, being somewhat mystified: </p><p>"What was all that laughing about? what was the joke!" </p><p>"I can guess pretty well," said Dick; "some of them up there have got </p><p>a piece of work which interests them, and they won't go to the </p><p>haymaking, which doesn't matter at all, because there are plenty of </p><p>people to do such easy-hard work as that; only, since haymaking is a </p><p>regular festival, the neighbours find it amusing to jeer good- </p><p>humouredly at them."</p><p>"I see," said I, "much as if in Dickens's time some young people were </p><p>so wrapped up in their work that they wouldn't keep Christmas." </p><p>"Just so," said Dick, "only these people need not be young either." </p><p>"But what did you mean by easy-hard work?" said I. </p><p>Quoth Dick: "Did I say that? I mean work that tries the muscles and</p><p>hardens them and sends you pleasantly weary to bed, but which isn't </p><p>trying in other ways: doesn't harass you in short. Such work is</p><p>always pleasant if you don't overdo it. Only, mind you, good mowing</p><p>requires some little skill. I'm a pretty good mower."</p><p>This talk brought us up to the house that was a-building, not a large </p><p>one, which stood at the end of a beautiful orchard surrounded by an </p><p>old stone wall. "O yes, I see," said Dick; "I remember, a beautiful</p><p>place for a house: but a starveling of a nineteenth century house</p><p>stood there: I am glad they are rebuilding: it's all stone, too,</p><p>though it need not have been in this part of the country: my word,</p><p>though, they are making a neat job of it: but I wouldn't have made</p><p>it all ashlar." </p><p>Walter and Clara were already talking to a tall man clad in his </p><p>mason's blouse, who looked about forty, but was I daresay older, who </p><p>had his mallet and chisel in hand; there were at work in the shed and </p><p>on the scaffold about half a dozen men and two women, blouse-clad </p><p>like the carles, while a very pretty woman who was not in the work </p><p>but was dressed in an elegant suit of blue linen came sauntering up </p><p>to us with her knitting in her hand. She welcomed us and said,</p><p>smiling: "So you are come up from the water to see the Obstinate</p><p>Refusers: where are you going haymaking, neighbours?"</p><p>"O, right up above Oxford," said Dick; "it is rather a late country. </p><p>But what share have you got with the Refusers, pretty neighbour?" </p><p>Said she, with a laugh: "O, I am the lucky one who doesn't want to</p><p>work; though sometimes I get it, for I serve as model to Mistress </p><p>Philippa there when she wants one: she is our head carver; come and</p><p>see her." </p><p>She led us up to the door of the unfinished house, where a rather </p><p>little woman was working with mallet and chisel on the wall near by. </p><p>She seemed very intent on what she was doing, and did not turn round </p><p>when we came up; but a taller woman, quite a girl she seemed, who was </p><p>at work near by, had already knocked off, and was standing looking </p><p>from Clara to Dick with delighted eyes. None of the others paid much</p><p>heed to us. </p><p>The blue-clad girl laid her hand on the carver's shoulder and said: </p><p>"Now Philippa, if you gobble up your work like that, you will soon </p><p>have none to do; and what will become of you then?" </p><p>The carver turned round hurriedly and showed us the face of a woman </p><p>of forty (or so she seemed), and said rather pettishly, but in a </p><p>sweet voice: </p><p>"Don't talk nonsense, Kate, and don't interrupt me if you can help </p><p>it." She stopped short when she saw us, then went on with the kind</p><p>smile of welcome which never failed us. "Thank you for coming to see</p><p>us, neighbours; but I am sure that you won't think me unkind if I go </p><p>on with my work, especially when I tell you that I was ill and unable </p><p>to do anything all through April and May; and this open-air and the </p><p>sun and the work together, and my feeling well again too, make a mere </p><p>delight of every hour to me; and excuse me, I must go on." </p><p>She fell to work accordingly on a carving in low relief of flowers </p><p>and figures, but talked on amidst her mallet strokes: "You see, we</p><p>all think this the prettiest place for a house up and down these </p><p>reaches; and the site has been so long encumbered with an unworthy </p><p>one, that we masons were determined to pay off fate and destiny for </p><p>once, and build the prettiest house we could compass here--and so-- </p><p>and so--" </p><p>Here she lapsed into mere carving, but the tall foreman came up and </p><p>said: "Yes, neighbours, that is it: so it is going to be all ashlar</p><p>because we want to carve a kind of a wreath of flowers and figures </p><p>all round it; and we have been much hindered by one thing or other-- </p><p>Philippa's illness amongst others,--and though we could have managed </p><p>our wreath without her--" </p><p>"Could you, though?" grumbled the last-named from the face of the </p><p>wall. </p><p>"Well, at any rate, she is our best carver, and it would not have </p><p>been kind to begin the carving without her. So you see," said he,</p><p>looking at Dick and me, "we really couldn't go haymaking, could we, </p><p>neighbours? But you see, we are getting on so fast now with this</p><p>splendid weather, that I think we may well spare a week or ten days </p><p>at wheat-harvest; and won't we go at that work then! Come down then</p><p>to the acres that lie north and by west here at our backs and you </p><p>shall see good harvesters, neighbours. </p><p>"Hurrah, for a good brag!" called a voice from the scaffold above us; </p><p>"our foreman thinks that an easier job than putting one stone on </p><p>another!" </p><p>There was a general laugh at this sally, in which the tall foreman </p><p>joined; and with that we saw a lad bringing out a little table into </p><p>the shadow of the stone-shed, which he set down there, and then going </p><p>back, came out again with the inevitable big wickered flask and tall </p><p>glasses, whereon the foreman led us up to due seats on blocks of </p><p>stone, and said: </p><p>"Well, neighbours, drink to my brag coming true, or I shall think you </p><p>don't believe me! Up there!" said he, hailing the scaffold, "are you</p><p>coming down for a glass?" Three of the workmen came running down the</p><p>ladder as men with good "building legs" will do; but the others </p><p>didn't answer, except the joker (if he must so be called), who called </p><p>out without turning round: "Excuse me, neighbours for not getting</p><p>down. I must get on: my work is not superintending, like the</p><p>gaffer's yonder; but, you fellows, send us up a glass to drink the </p><p>haymakers' health." Of course, Philippa would not turn away from her</p><p>beloved work; but the other woman carver came; she turned out to be </p><p>Philippa's daughter, but was a tall strong girl, black-haired and </p><p>gipsey-like of face and curiously solemn of manner. The rest</p><p>gathered round us and clinked glasses, and the men on the scaffold </p><p>turned about and drank to our healths; but the busy little woman by</p><p>the door would have none of it all, but only shrugged her shoulders </p><p>when her daughter came up to her and touched her. </p><p>So we shook hands and turned our backs on the Obstinate Refusers, </p><p>went down the slope to our boat, and before we had gone many steps </p><p>heard the full tune of tinkling trowels mingle with the humming of </p><p>the bees and the singing of the larks above the little plain of </p><p>Basildon. </p><p>CHAPTER XXVII: THE UPPER WATERS</p><p>We set Walter ashore on the Berkshire side, amidst all the beauties </p><p>of Streatley, and so went our ways into what once would have been the </p><p>deeper country under the foot-hills of the White Horse; and though </p><p>the contrast between half-cocknified and wholly unsophisticated </p><p>country existed no longer, a feeling of exultation rose within me (as </p><p>it used to do) at sight of the familiar and still unchanged hills of </p><p>the Berkshire range. </p><p>We stopped at Wallingford for our mid-day meal; of course, all signs </p><p>of squalor and poverty had disappeared from the streets of the </p><p>ancient town, and many ugly houses had been taken down and many </p><p>pretty new ones built, but I thought it curious, that the town still </p><p>looked like the old place I remembered so well; for indeed it looked </p><p>like that ought to have looked. </p><p>At dinner we fell in with an old, but very bright and intelligent </p><p>man, who seemed in a country way to be another edition of old </p><p>Hammond. He had an extraordinary detailed knowledge of the ancient</p><p>history of the country-side from the time of Alfred to the days of </p><p>the Parliamentary Wars, many events of which, as you may know, were </p><p>enacted round about Wallingford. But, what was more interesting to</p><p>us, he had detailed record of the period of the change to the present </p><p>state of things, and told us a great deal about it, and especially of </p><p>that exodus of the people from the town to the country, and the </p><p>gradual recovery by the town-bred people on one side, and the </p><p>country-bred people on the other, of those arts of life which they </p><p>had each lost; which loss, as he told us, had at one time gone so far </p><p>that not only was it impossible to find a carpenter or a smith in a </p><p>village or small country town, but that people in such places had </p><p>even forgotten how to bake bread, and that at Wallingford, for </p><p>instance, the bread came down with the newspapers by an early train </p><p>from London, worked in some way, the explanation of which I could not </p><p>understand. He told us also that the townspeople who came into the</p><p>country used to pick up the agricultural arts by carefully watching </p><p>the way in which the machines worked, gathering an idea of handicraft </p><p>from machinery; because at that time almost everything in and about </p><p>the fields was done by elaborate machines used quite unintelligently </p><p>by the labourers. On the other hand, the old men amongst the</p><p>labourers managed to teach the younger ones gradually a little </p><p>artizanship, such as the use of the saw and the plane, the work of </p><p>the smithy, and so forth; for once more, by that time it was as much </p><p>as--or rather, more than--a man could do to fix an ash pole to a rake </p><p>by handiwork; so that it would take a machine worth a thousand </p><p>pounds, a group of workmen, and half a day's travelling, to do five</p><p>shillings' worth of work. He showed us, among other things, an</p><p>account of a certain village council who were working hard at all </p><p>this business; and the record of their intense earnestness in getting </p><p>to the bottom of some matter which in time past would have been </p><p>thought quite trivial, as, for example, the due proportions of alkali </p><p>and oil for soap-making for the village wash, or the exact heat of </p><p>the water into which a leg of mutton should be plunged for boiling-- </p><p>all this joined to the utter absence of anything like party feeling, </p><p>which even in a village assembly would certainly have made its </p><p>appearance in an earlier epoch, was very amusing, and at the same </p><p>time instructive. </p><p>This old man, whose name was Henry Morsom, took us, after our meal </p><p>and a rest, into a biggish hall which contained a large collection of </p><p>articles of manufacture and art from the last days of the machine </p><p>period to that day; and he went over them with us, and explained them </p><p>with great care. They also were very interesting, showing the</p><p>transition from the makeshift work of the machines (which was at </p><p>about its worst a little after the Civil War before told of) into the </p><p>first years of the new handicraft period. Of course, there was much</p><p>overlapping of the periods: and at first the new handwork came in</p><p>very slowly. </p><p>"You must remember," said the old antiquary, "that the handicraft was </p><p>not the result of what used to be called material necessity: on the</p><p>contrary, by that time the machines had been so much improved that </p><p>almost all necessary work might have been done by them: and indeed</p><p>many people at that time, and before it, used to think that machinery </p><p>would entirely supersede handicraft; which certainly, on the face of </p><p>it, seemed more than likely. But there was another opinion, far less</p><p>logical, prevalent amongst the rich people before the days of </p><p>freedom, which did not die out at once after that epoch had begun. </p><p>This opinion, which from all I can learn seemed as natural then, as </p><p>it seems absurd now, was, that while the ordinary daily work of the </p><p>world would be done entirely by automatic machinery, the energies of </p><p>the more intelligent part of mankind would be set free to follow the </p><p>higher forms of the arts, as well as science and the study of </p><p>history. It was strange, was it not, that they should thus ignore</p><p>that aspiration after complete equality which we now recognise as the </p><p>bond of all happy human society?" </p><p>I did not answer, but thought the more. Dick looked thoughtful, and</p><p>said: </p><p>"Strange, neighbour? Well, I don't know. I have often heard my old</p><p>kinsman say the one aim of all people before our time was to avoid </p><p>work, or at least they thought it was; so of course the work which </p><p>their daily life forced them to do, seemed more like work than that </p><p>which they seemed to choose for themselves." </p><p>"True enough," said Morsom. "Anyhow, they soon began to find out</p><p>their mistake, and that only slaves and slaveholders could live </p><p>solely by setting machines going." </p><p>Clara broke in here, flushing a little as she spoke: "Was not their</p><p>mistake once more bred of the life of slavery that they had been </p><p>living?--a life which was always looking upon everything, except </p><p>mankind, animate and inanimate--'nature,' as people used to call it-- </p><p>as one thing, and mankind as another, it was natural to people</p><p>thinking in this way, that they should try to make 'nature' their </p><p>slave, since they thought 'nature' was something outside them." </p><p>"Surely," said Morsom; "and they were puzzled as to what to do, till </p><p>they found the feeling against a mechanical life, which had begun </p><p>before the Great Change amongst people who had leisure to think of </p><p>such things, was spreading insensibly; till at last under the guise </p><p>of pleasure that was not supposed to be work, work that was pleasure </p><p>began to push out the mechanical toil, which they had once hoped at </p><p>the best to reduce to narrow limits indeed, but never to get rid of; </p><p>and which, moreover, they found they could not limit as they had </p><p>hoped to do." </p><p>"When did this new revolution gather head?" said I. </p><p>"In the half-century that followed the Great Change," said Morsom, </p><p>"it began to be noteworthy; machine after machine was quietly dropped </p><p>under the excuse that the machines could not produce works of art, </p><p>and that works of art were more and more called for. Look here," he</p><p>said, "here are some of the works of that time--rough and unskilful </p><p>in handiwork, but solid and showing some sense of pleasure in the </p><p>making." </p><p>"They are very curious," said I, taking up a piece of pottery from </p><p>amongst the specimens which the antiquary was showing us; "not a bit </p><p>like the work of either savages or barbarians, and yet with what </p><p>would once have been called a hatred of civilisation impressed upon </p><p>them." </p><p>"Yes," said Morsom, "you must not look for delicacy there: in that</p><p>period you could only have got that from a man who was practically a </p><p>slave. But now, you see," said he, leading me on a little, "we have</p><p>learned the trick of handicraft, and have added the utmost refinement </p><p>of workmanship to the freedom of fancy and imagination." </p><p>I looked, and wondered indeed at the deftness and abundance of beauty </p><p>of the work of men who had at last learned to accept life itself as a </p><p>pleasure, and the satisfaction of the common needs of mankind and the </p><p>preparation for them, as work fit for the best of the race. I mused</p><p>silently; but at last I said - </p><p>"What is to come after this?" </p><p>The old man laughed. "I don't know," said he; "we will meet it when</p><p>it comes." </p><p>"Meanwhile," quoth Dick, "we have got to meet the rest of our day's </p><p>journey; so out into the street and down to the strand! Will you</p><p>come a turn with us, neighbour? Our friend is greedy of your</p><p>stories." </p><p>"I will go as far as Oxford with you," said he; "I want a book or two </p><p>out of the Bodleian Library. I suppose you will sleep in the old</p><p>city?" </p><p>"No," said Dick, "we are going higher up; the hay is waiting us </p><p>there, you know." </p><p>Morsom nodded, and we all went into the street together, and got into</p><p>the boat a little above the town bridge. But just as Dick was</p><p>getting the sculls into the rowlocks, the bows of another boat came </p><p>thrusting through the low arch. Even at first sight it was a gay</p><p>little craft indeed--bright green, and painted over with elegantly </p><p>drawn flowers. As it cleared the arch, a figure as bright and gay-</p><p>clad as the boat rose up in it; a slim girl dressed in light blue </p><p>silk that fluttered in the draughty wind of the bridge. I thought I</p><p>knew the figure, and sure enough, as she turned her head to us, and </p><p>showed her beautiful face, I saw with joy that it was none other than </p><p>the fairy godmother from the abundant garden on Runnymede--Ellen, to </p><p>wit. </p><p>We all stopped to receive her. Dick rose in the boat and cried out a</p><p>genial good morrow; I tried to be as genial as Dick, but failed; </p><p>Clara waved a delicate hand to her; and Morsom nodded and looked on </p><p>with interest. As to Ellen, the beautiful brown of her face was</p><p>deepened by a flush, as she brought the gunwale of her boat alongside </p><p>ours, and said: </p><p>"You see, neighbours, I had some doubt if you would all three come </p><p>back past Runnymede, or if you did, whether you would stop there; and </p><p>besides, I am not sure whether we--my father and I--shall not be away </p><p>in a week or two, for he wants to see a brother of his in the north </p><p>country, and I should not like him to go without me. So I thought I</p><p>might never see you again, and that seemed uncomfortable to me, and-- </p><p>and so I came after you." </p><p>"Well," said Dick, "I am sure we are all very glad of that; although </p><p>you may be sure that as for Clara and me, we should have made a point </p><p>of coming to see you, and of coming the second time, if we had found </p><p>you away the first. But, dear neighbour, there you are alone in the</p><p>boat, and you have been sculling pretty hard I should think, and </p><p>might find a little quiet sitting pleasant; so we had better part our </p><p>company into two." </p><p>"Yes," said Ellen, "I thought you would do that, so I have brought a </p><p>rudder for my boat: will you help me to ship it, please?"</p><p>And she went aft in her boat and pushed along our side till she had </p><p>brought the stern close to Dick's hand. He knelt down in our boat</p><p>and she in hers, and the usual fumbling took place over hanging the </p><p>rudder on its hooks; for, as you may imagine, no change had taken </p><p>place in the arrangement of such an unimportant matter as the rudder </p><p>of a pleasure-boat. As the two beautiful young faces bent over the</p><p>rudder, they seemed to me to be very close together, and though it </p><p>only lasted a moment, a sort of pang shot through me as I looked on. </p><p>Clara sat in her place and did not look round, but presently she </p><p>said, with just the least stiffness in her tone: </p><p>"How shall we divide? Won't you go into Ellen's boat, Dick, since,</p><p>without offence to our guest, you are the better sculler?" </p><p>Dick stood up and laid his hand on her shoulder, and said: "No, no;</p><p>let Guest try what he can do--he ought to be getting into training </p><p>now. Besides, we are in no hurry: we are not going far above</p><p>Oxford; and even if we are benighted, we shall have the moon, which </p><p>will give us nothing worse of a night than a greyer day." </p><p>"Besides," said I, "I may manage to do a little more with my sculling</p><p>than merely keeping the boat from drifting down stream." </p><p>They all laughed at this, as if it had a been very good joke; and I </p><p>thought that Ellen's laugh, even amongst the others, was one of the </p><p>pleasantest sounds I had ever heard. </p><p>To be short, I got into the new-come boat, not a little elated, and </p><p>taking the sculls, set to work to show off a little. For--must I say</p><p>it?--I felt as if even that happy world were made the happier for my </p><p>being so near this strange girl; although I must say that of all the </p><p>persons I had seen in that world renewed, she was the most unfamiliar </p><p>to me, the most unlike what I could have thought of. Clara, for</p><p>instance, beautiful and bright as she was, was not unlike a VERY </p><p>pleasant and unaffected young lady; and the other girls also seemed </p><p>nothing more than specimens of very much improved types which I had </p><p>known in other times. But this girl was not only beautiful with a</p><p>beauty quite different from that of "a young lady," but was in all </p><p>ways so strangely interesting; so that I kept wondering what she </p><p>would say or do next to surprise and please me. Not, indeed, that</p><p>there was anything startling in what she actually said or did; but it </p><p>was all done in a new way, and always with that indefinable interest </p><p>and pleasure of life, which I had noticed more or less in everybody, </p><p>but which in her was more marked and more charming than in anyone </p><p>else that I had seen. </p><p>We were soon under way and going at a fair pace through the beautiful </p><p>reaches of the river, between Bensington and Dorchester. It was now</p><p>about the middle of the afternoon, warm rather than hot, and quite </p><p>windless; the clouds high up and light, pearly white, and gleaming, </p><p>softened the sun's burning, but did not hide the pale blue in most </p><p>places, though they seemed to give it height and consistency; the </p><p>sky, in short, looked really like a vault, as poets have sometimes </p><p>called it, and not like mere limitless air, but a vault so vast and </p><p>full of light that it did not in any way oppress the spirits. It was</p><p>the sort of afternoon that Tennyson must have been thinking about, </p><p>when he said of the Lotos-Eaters' land that it was a land where it </p><p>was always afternoon. </p><p>Ellen leaned back in the stern and seemed to enjoy herself </p><p>thoroughly. I could see that she was really looking at things and</p><p>let nothing escape her, and as I watched her, an uncomfortable </p><p>feeling that she had been a little touched by love of the deft, </p><p>ready, and handsome Dick, and that she had been constrained to follow </p><p>us because of it, faded out of my mind; since if it had been so, she </p><p>surely could not have been so excitedly pleased, even with the </p><p>beautiful scenes we were passing through. For some time she did not</p><p>say much, but at last, as we had passed under Shillingford Bridge </p><p>(new built, but somewhat on its old lines), she bade me hold the boat </p><p>while she had a good look at the landscape through the graceful arch. </p><p>Then she turned about to me and said: </p><p>"I do not know whether to be sorry or glad that this is the first </p><p>time that I have been in these reaches. It is true that it is a</p><p>great pleasure to see all this for the first time; but if I had had a </p><p>year or two of memory of it, how sweetly it would all have mingled </p><p>with my life, waking or dreaming! I am so glad Dick has been pulling</p><p>slowly, so as to linger out the time here. How do you feel about</p><p>your first visit to these waters?" </p><p>I do not suppose she meant a trap for me, but anyhow I fell into it, </p><p>and said: "My first visit! It is not my first visit by many a time.</p><p>I know these reaches well; indeed, I may say that I know every yard </p><p>of the Thames from Hammersmith to Cricklade." </p><p>I saw the complications that might follow, as her eyes fixed mine </p><p>with a curious look in them, that I had seen before at Runnymede, </p><p>when I had said something which made it difficult for others to </p><p>understand my present position amongst these people. I reddened, and</p><p>said, in order to cover my mistake: "I wonder you have never been up</p><p>so high as this, since you live on the Thames, and moreover row so </p><p>well that it would be no great labour to you. Let alone," quoth I,</p><p>insinuatingly, "that anybody would be glad to row you." </p><p>She laughed, clearly not at my compliment (as I am sure she need not </p><p>have done, since it was a very commonplace fact), but at something </p><p>which was stirring in her mind; and she still looked at me kindly, </p><p>but with the above-said keen look in her eyes, and then she said: </p><p>"Well, perhaps it is strange, though I have a good deal to do at </p><p>home, what with looking after my father, and dealing with two or </p><p>three young men who have taken a special liking to me, and all of </p><p>whom I cannot please at once. But you, dear neighbour; it seems to</p><p>me stranger that you should know the upper river, than that I should </p><p>not know it; for, as I understand, you have only been in England a </p><p>few days. But perhaps you mean that you have read about it in books,</p><p>and seen pictures of it?--though that does not come to much, either." </p><p>"Truly," said I. "Besides, I have not read any books about the</p><p>Thames: it was one of the minor stupidities of our time that no one</p><p>thought fit to write a decent book about what may fairly be called </p><p>our only English river." </p><p>The words were no sooner out of my mouth than I saw that I had made </p><p>another mistake; and I felt really annoyed with myself, as I did not </p><p>want to go into a long explanation just then, or begin another series </p><p>of Odyssean lies. Somehow, Ellen seemed to see this, and she took no</p><p>advantage of my slip; her piercing look changed into one of mere </p><p>frank kindness, and she said: </p><p>"Well, anyhow I am glad that I am travelling these waters with you, </p><p>since you know our river so well, and I know little of it past </p><p>Pangbourne, for you can tell me all I want to know about it." She</p><p>paused a minute, and then said: "Yet you must understand that the</p><p>part I do know, I know as thoroughly as you do. I should be sorry</p><p>for you to think that I am careless of a thing so beautiful and </p><p>interesting as the Thames." </p><p>She said this quite earnestly, and with an air of affectionate appeal </p><p>to me which pleased me very much; but I could see that she was only </p><p>keeping her doubts about me for another time. </p><p>Presently we came to Day's Lock, where Dick and his two sitters had </p><p>waited for us. He would have me go ashore, as if to show me</p><p>something which I had never seen before; and nothing loth I followed </p><p>him, Ellen by my side, to the well-remembered Dykes, and the long </p><p>church beyond them, which was still used for various purposes by the </p><p>good folk of Dorchester: where, by the way, the village guest-house</p><p>still had the sign of the Fleur-de-luce which it used to bear in the</p><p>days when hospitality had to be bought and sold. This time, however,</p><p>I made no sign of all this being familiar to me: though as we sat</p><p>for a while on the mound of the Dykes looking up at Sinodun and its </p><p>clear-cut trench, and its sister mamelon of Whittenham, I felt </p><p>somewhat uncomfortable under Ellen's serious attentive look, which </p><p>almost drew from me the cry, "How little anything is changed here!" </p><p>We stopped again at Abingdon, which, like Wallingford, was in a way </p><p>both old and new to me, since it had been lifted out of its </p><p>nineteenth-century degradation, and otherwise was as little altered </p><p>as might be. </p><p>Sunset was in the sky as we skirted Oxford by Oseney; we stopped a </p><p>minute or two hard by the ancient castle to put Henry Morsom ashore. </p><p>It was a matter of course that so far as they could be seen from the </p><p>river, I missed none of the towers and spires of that once don- </p><p>beridden city; but the meadows all round, which, when I had last </p><p>passed through them, were getting daily more and more squalid, more </p><p>and more impressed with the seal of the "stir and intellectual life </p><p>of the nineteenth century," were no longer intellectual, but had once </p><p>again become as beautiful as they should be, and the little hill of </p><p>Hinksey, with two or three very pretty stone houses new-grown on it </p><p>(I use the word advisedly; for they seemed to belong to it) looked </p><p>down happily on the full streams and waving grass, grey now, but for </p><p>the sunset, with its fast-ripening seeds. </p><p>The railway having disappeared, and therewith the various level </p><p>bridges over the streams of Thames, we were soon through Medley Lock </p><p>and in the wide water that washes Port Meadow, with its numerous </p><p>population of geese nowise diminished; and I thought with interest </p><p>how its name and use had survived from the older imperfect communal </p><p>period, through the time of the confused struggle and tyranny of the </p><p>rights of property, into the present rest and happiness of complete </p><p>Communism. </p><p>I was taken ashore again at Godstow, to see the remains of the old </p><p>nunnery, pretty nearly in the same condition as I had remembered </p><p>them; and from the high bridge over the cut close by, I could see, </p><p>even in the twilight, how beautiful the little village with its grey </p><p>stone houses had become; for we had now come into the stone-country, </p><p>in which every house must be either built, walls and roof, of grey </p><p>stone or be a blot on the landscape. </p><p>We still rowed on after this, Ellen taking the sculls in my boat; we </p><p>passed a weir a little higher up, and about three miles beyond it </p><p>came by moonlight again to a little town, where we slept at a house </p><p>thinly inhabited, as its folk were mostly tented in the hay-fields. </p><p>CHAPTER XXVIII: THE LITTLE RIVER</p><p>We started before six o'clock the next morning, as we were still </p><p>twenty-five miles from our resting place, and Dick wanted to be there </p><p>before dusk. The journey was pleasant, though to those who do not</p><p>know the upper Thames, there is little to say about it. Ellen and I</p><p>were once more together in her boat, though Dick, for fairness' sake,</p><p>was for having me in his, and letting the two women scull the green </p><p>toy. Ellen, however, would not allow this, but claimed me as the</p><p>interesting person of the company. "After having come so far," said</p><p>she, "I will not be put off with a companion who will be always </p><p>thinking of somebody else than me: the guest is the only person who</p><p>can amuse me properly. I mean that really," said she, turning to me,</p><p>"and have not said it merely as a pretty saying." </p><p>Clara blushed and looked very happy at all this; for I think up to </p><p>this time she had been rather frightened of Ellen. As for me I felt</p><p>young again, and strange hopes of my youth were mingling with the </p><p>pleasure of the present; almost destroying it, and quickening it into </p><p>something like pain. </p><p>As we passed through the short and winding reaches of the now quickly </p><p>lessening stream, Ellen said: "How pleasant this little river is to</p><p>me, who am used to a great wide wash of water; it almost seems as if </p><p>we shall have to stop at every reach-end. I expect before I get home</p><p>this evening I shall have realised what a little country England is, </p><p>since we can so soon get to the end of its biggest river." </p><p>"It is not big," said I, "but it is pretty." </p><p>"Yes," she said, "and don't you find it difficult to imagine the </p><p>times when this little pretty country was treated by its folk as if </p><p>it had been an ugly characterless waste, with no delicate beauty to </p><p>be guarded, with no heed taken of the ever fresh pleasure of the </p><p>recurring seasons, and changeful weather, and diverse quality of the </p><p>soil, and so forth? How could people be so cruel to themselves?"</p><p>"And to each other," said I. Then a sudden resolution took hold of</p><p>me, and I said: "Dear neighbour, I may as well tell you at once that</p><p>I find it easier to imagine all that ugly past than you do, because I </p><p>myself have been part of it. I see both that you have divined</p><p>something of this in me; and also I think you will believe me when I </p><p>tell you of it, so that I am going to hide nothing from you at all." </p><p>She was silent a little, and then she said: "My friend, you have</p><p>guessed right about me; and to tell you the truth I have followed you </p><p>up from Runnymede in order that I might ask you many questions, and </p><p>because I saw that you were not one of us; and that interested and </p><p>pleased me, and I wanted to make you as happy as you could be. To</p><p>say the truth, there was a risk in it," said she, blushing--"I mean </p><p>as to Dick and Clara; for I must tell you, since we are going to be </p><p>such close friends, that even amongst us, where there are so many </p><p>beautiful women, I have often troubled men's minds disastrously. </p><p>That is one reason why I was living alone with my father in the </p><p>cottage at Runnymede. But it did not answer on that score; for of</p><p>course people came there, as the place is not a desert, and they </p><p>seemed to find me all the more interesting for living alone like </p><p>that, and fell to making stories of me to themselves--like I know you </p><p>did, my friend. Well, let that pass. This evening, or to-morrow</p><p>morning, I shall make a proposal to you to do something which would </p><p>please me very much, and I think would not hurt you." </p><p>I broke in eagerly, saying that I would do anything in the world for </p><p>her; for indeed, in spite of my years and the too obvious signs of </p><p>them (though that feeling of renewed youth was not a mere passing </p><p>sensation, I think)--in spite of my years, I say, I felt altogether</p><p>too happy in the company of this delightful girl, and was prepared to </p><p>take her confidences for more than they meant perhaps. </p><p>She laughed now, but looked very kindly on me. "Well," she said,</p><p>"meantime for the present we will let it be; for I must look at this </p><p>new country that we are passing through. See how the river has</p><p>changed character again: it is broad now, and the reaches are long</p><p>and very slow-running. And look, there is a ferry!"</p><p>I told her the name of it, as I slowed off to put the ferry-chain </p><p>over our heads; and on we went passing by a bank clad with oak trees </p><p>on our left hand, till the stream narrowed again and deepened, and we </p><p>rowed on between walls of tall reeds, whose population of reed </p><p>sparrows and warblers were delightfully restless, twittering and </p><p>chuckling as the wash of the boats stirred the reeds from the water </p><p>upwards in the still, hot morning. </p><p>She smiled with pleasure, and her lazy enjoyment of the new scene </p><p>seemed to bring out her beauty doubly as she leaned back amidst the </p><p>cushions, though she was far from languid; her idleness being the </p><p>idleness of a person, strong and well-knit both in body and mind, </p><p>deliberately resting. </p><p>"Look!" she said, springing up suddenly from her place without any </p><p>obvious effort, and balancing herself with exquisite grace and ease; </p><p>"look at the beautiful old bridge ahead!" </p><p>"I need scarcely look at that," said I, not turning my head away from </p><p>her beauty. "I know what it is; though" (with a smile) "we used not</p><p>to call it the Old Bridge time agone." </p><p>She looked down upon me kindly, and said, "How well we get on now you </p><p>are no longer on your guard against me!" </p><p>And she stood looking thoughtfully at me still, till she had to sit </p><p>down as we passed under the middle one of the row of little pointed </p><p>arches of the oldest bridge across the Thames. </p><p>"O the beautiful fields!" she said; "I had no idea of the charm of a </p><p>very small river like this. The smallness of the scale of</p><p>everything, the short reaches, and the speedy change of the banks, </p><p>give one a feeling of going somewhere, of coming to something </p><p>strange, a feeling of adventure which I have not felt in bigger </p><p>waters." </p><p>I looked up at her delightedly; for her voice, saying the very thing </p><p>which I was thinking, was like a caress to me. She caught my eye and</p><p>her cheeks reddened under their tan, and she said simply: </p><p>"I must tell you, my friend, that when my father leaves the Thames </p><p>this summer he will take me away to a place near the Roman wall in </p><p>Cumberland; so that this voyage of mine is farewell to the south; of </p><p>course with my goodwill in a way; and yet I am sorry for it. I</p><p>hadn't the heart to tell Dick yesterday that we were as good as gone </p><p>from the Thames-side; but somehow to you I must needs tell it." </p><p>She stopped and seemed very thoughtful for awhile, and then said </p><p>smiling: </p><p>"I must say that I don't like moving about from one home to another; </p><p>one gets so pleasantly used to all the detail of the life about one; </p><p>it fits so harmoniously and happily into one's own life, that </p><p>beginning again, even in a small way, is a kind of pain. But I</p><p>daresay in the country which you come from, you would think this </p><p>petty and unadventurous, and would think the worse of me for it." </p><p>She smiled at me caressingly as she spoke, and I made haste to </p><p>answer: "O, no, indeed; again you echo my very thoughts. But I</p><p>hardly expected to hear you speak so. I gathered from all I have</p><p>heard that there was a great deal of changing of abode amongst you in </p><p>this country." </p><p>"Well," she said, "of course people are free to move about; but </p><p>except for pleasure-parties, especially in harvest and hay-time, like </p><p>this of ours, I don't think they do so much. I admit that I also</p><p>have other moods than that of stay-at-home, as I hinted just now, and </p><p>I should like to go with you all through the west country--thinking </p><p>of nothing," concluded she smiling. </p><p>"I should have plenty to think of," said I. </p><p>CHAPTER XXIX: A RESTING-PLACE ON THE UPPER THAMES</p><p>Presently at a place where the river flowed round a headland of the </p><p>meadows, we stopped a while for rest and victuals, and settled </p><p>ourselves on a beautiful bank which almost reached the dignity of a </p><p>hill-side: the wide meadows spread before us, and already the scythe</p><p>was busy amidst the hay. One change I noticed amidst the quiet</p><p>beauty of the fields--to wit, that they were planted with trees here </p><p>and there, often fruit-trees, and that there was none of the </p><p>niggardly begrudging of space to a handsome tree which I remembered </p><p>too well; and though the willows were often polled (or shrowded, as </p><p>they call it in that country-side), this was done with some regard to </p><p>beauty: I mean that there was no polling of rows on rows so as to</p><p>destroy the pleasantness of half a mile of country, but a thoughtful </p><p>sequence in the cutting, that prevented a sudden bareness anywhere. </p><p>To be short, the fields were everywhere treated as a garden made for </p><p>the pleasure as well as the livelihood of all, as old Hammond told me </p><p>was the case. </p><p>On this bank or bent of the hill, then, we had our mid-day meal; </p><p>somewhat early for dinner, if that mattered, but we had been stirring </p><p>early: the slender stream of the Thames winding below us between the</p><p>garden of a country I have been telling of; a furlong from us was a </p><p>beautiful little islet begrown with graceful trees; on the slopes </p><p>westward of us was a wood of varied growth overhanging the narrow </p><p>meadow on the south side of the river; while to the north was a wide </p><p>stretch of mead rising very gradually from the river's edge. A</p><p>delicate spire of an ancient building rose up from out of the trees </p><p>in the middle distance, with a few grey houses clustered about it; </p><p>while nearer to us, in fact not half a furlong from the water, was a </p><p>quite modern stone house--a wide quadrangle of one story, the </p><p>buildings that made it being quite low. There was no garden between</p><p>it and the river, nothing but a row of pear-trees still quite young</p><p>and slender; and though there did not seem to be much ornament about </p><p>it, it had a sort of natural elegance, like that of the trees </p><p>themselves. </p><p>As we sat looking down on all this in the sweet June day, rather </p><p>happy than merry, Ellen, who sat next me, her hand clasped about one </p><p>knee, leaned sideways to me, and said in a low voice which Dick and </p><p>Clara might have noted if they had not been busy in happy wordless </p><p>love-making: "Friend, in your country were the houses of your field-</p><p>labourers anything like that?" </p><p>I said: "Well, at any rate the houses of our rich men were not; they</p><p>were mere blots upon the face of the land." </p><p>"I find that hard to understand," she said. "I can see why the</p><p>workmen, who were so oppressed, should not have been able to live in </p><p>beautiful houses; for it takes time and leisure, and minds not over- </p><p>burdened with care, to make beautiful dwellings; and I quite </p><p>understand that these poor people were not allowed to live in such a </p><p>way as to have these (to us) necessary good things. But why the rich</p><p>men, who had the time and the leisure and the materials for building, </p><p>as it would be in this case, should not have housed themselves well, </p><p>I do not understand as yet. I know what you are meaning to say to</p><p>me," she said, looking me full in the eyes and blushing, "to wit that </p><p>their houses and all belonging to them were generally ugly and base, </p><p>unless they chanced to be ancient like yonder remnant of our </p><p>forefathers' work" (pointing to the spire); "that they were--let me </p><p>see; what is the word?" </p><p>"Vulgar," said I. "We used to say," said I, "that the ugliness and</p><p>vulgarity of the rich men's dwellings was a necessary reflection from </p><p>the sordidness and bareness of life which they forced upon the poor </p><p>people." </p><p>She knit her brows as in thought; then turned a brightened face on </p><p>me, as if she had caught the idea, and said: "Yes, friend, I see</p><p>what you mean. We have sometimes--those of us who look into these</p><p>things--talked this very matter over; because, to say the truth, we </p><p>have plenty of record of the so-called arts of the time before </p><p>Equality of Life; and there are not wanting people who say that the </p><p>state of that society was not the cause of all that ugliness; that </p><p>they were ugly in their life because they liked to be, and could have </p><p>had beautiful things about them if they had chosen; just as a man or </p><p>body of men now may, if they please, make things more or less </p><p>beautiful--Stop! I know what you are going to say."</p><p>"Do you?" said I, smiling, yet with a beating heart. </p><p>"Yes," she said; "you are answering me, teaching me, in some way or </p><p>another, although you have not spoken the words aloud. You were</p><p>going to say that in times of inequality it was an essential </p><p>condition of the life of these rich men that they should not </p><p>themselves make what they wanted for the adornment of their lives, </p><p>but should force those to make them whom they forced to live pinched </p><p>and sordid lives; and that as a necessary consequence the sordidness </p><p>and pinching, the ugly barrenness of those ruined lives, were worked </p><p>up into the adornment of the lives of the rich, and art died out </p><p>amongst men? Was that what you would say, my friend?"</p><p>"Yes, yes," I said, looking at her eagerly; for she had risen and was </p><p>standing on the edge of the bent, the light wind stirring her dainty </p><p>raiment, one hand laid on her bosom, the other arm stretched downward </p><p>and clenched in her earnestness. </p><p>"It is true," she said, "it is true! We have proved it true!"</p><p>I think amidst my--something more than interest in her, and </p><p>admiration for her, I was beginning to wonder how it would all end. </p><p>I had a glimmering of fear of what might follow; of anxiety as to the </p><p>remedy which this new age might offer for the missing of something </p><p>one might set one's heart on. But now Dick rose to his feet and</p><p>cried out in his hearty manner: "Neighbour Ellen, are you</p><p>quarrelling with the guest, or are you worrying him to tell you </p><p>things which he cannot properly explain to our ignorance?" </p><p>"Neither, dear neighbour," she said. "I was so far from quarrelling</p><p>with him that I think I have been making him good friends both with </p><p>himself and me. Is it so, dear guest?" she said, looking down at me</p><p>with a delightful smile of confidence in being understood. </p><p>"Indeed it is," said I. </p><p>"Well, moreover," she said, "I must say for him that he has explained </p><p>himself to me very well indeed, so that I quite understand him." </p><p>"All right," quoth Dick. "When I first set eyes on you at Runnymede</p><p>I knew that there was something wonderful in your keenness of wits. </p><p>I don't say that as a mere pretty speech to please you," said he </p><p>quickly, "but because it is true; and it made me want to see more of </p><p>you. But, come, we ought to be going; for we are not half way, and</p><p>we ought to be in well before sunset." </p><p>And therewith he took Clara's hand, and led her down the bent. But</p><p>Ellen stood thoughtfully looking down for a little, and as I took her </p><p>hand to follow Dick, she turned round to me and said: </p><p>"You might tell me a great deal and make many things clear to me, if </p><p>you would." </p><p>"Yes," said I, "I am pretty well fit for that,--and for nothing else- </p><p>-an old man like me." </p><p>She did not notice the bitterness which, whether I liked it or not, </p><p>was in my voice as I spoke, but went on: "It is not so much for</p><p>myself; I should be quite content to dream about past times, and if I </p><p>could not idealise them, yet at least idealise some of the people who </p><p>lived in them. But I think sometimes people are too careless of the</p><p>history of the past--too apt to leave it in the hands of old learned </p><p>men like Hammond. Who knows? Happy as we are, times may alter; we</p><p>may be bitten with some impulse towards change, and many things may </p><p>seem too wonderful for us to resist, too exciting not to catch at, if </p><p>we do not know that they are but phases of what has been before; and </p><p>withal ruinous, deceitful, and sordid." </p><p>As we went slowly down toward the boats she said again: "Not for</p><p>myself alone, dear friend; I shall have children; perhaps before the </p><p>end a good many;--I hope so. And though of course I cannot force any</p><p>special kind of knowledge upon them, yet, my Friend, I cannot help</p><p>thinking that just as they might be like me in body, so I might </p><p>impress upon them some part of my ways of thinking; that is, indeed, </p><p>some of the essential part of myself; that part which was not mere </p><p>moods, created by the matters and events round about me. What do you</p><p>think?" </p><p>Of one thing I was sure, that her beauty and kindness and eagerness </p><p>combined, forced me to think as she did, when she was not earnestly </p><p>laying herself open to receive my thoughts. I said, what at the time</p><p>was true, that I thought it most important; and presently stood </p><p>entranced by the wonder of her grace as she stepped into the light </p><p>boat, and held out her hand to me. And so on we went up the Thames</p><p>still--or whither? </p><p>CHAPTER XXX: THE JOURNEY'S END</p><p>On we went. In spite of my new-born excitement about Ellen, and my</p><p>gathering fear of where it would land me, I could not help taking </p><p>abundant interest in the condition of the river and its banks; all </p><p>the more as she never seemed weary of the changing picture, but </p><p>looked at every yard of flowery bank and gurgling eddy with the same </p><p>kind of affectionate interest which I myself once had so fully, as I </p><p>used to think, and perhaps had not altogether lost even in this </p><p>strangely changed society with all its wonders. Ellen seemed</p><p>delighted with my pleasure at this, that, or the other piece of </p><p>carefulness in dealing with the river: the nursing of pretty</p><p>corners; the ingenuity in dealing with difficulties of water- </p><p>engineering, so that the most obviously useful works looked beautiful </p><p>and natural also. All this, I say, pleased me hugely, and she was</p><p>pleased at my pleasure--but rather puzzled too. </p><p>"You seem astonished," she said, just after we had passed a mill {2} </p><p>which spanned all the stream save the water-way for traffic, but </p><p>which was as beautiful in its way as a Gothic cathedral--"You seem </p><p>astonished at this being so pleasant to look at." </p><p>"Yes," I said, "in a way I am; though I don't see why it should not </p><p>be." </p><p>"Ah!" she said, looking at me admiringly, yet with a lurking smile in </p><p>her face, "you know all about the history of the past. Were they not</p><p>always careful about this little stream which now adds so much </p><p>pleasantness to the country side? It would always be easy to manage</p><p>this little river. Ah! I forgot, though," she said, as her eye</p><p>caught mine, "in the days we are thinking of pleasure was wholly </p><p>neglected in such matters. But how did they manage the river in the</p><p>days that you--" Lived in she was going to say; but correcting</p><p>herself, said--"in the days of which you have record?" </p><p>"They MISmanaged it," quoth I. "Up to the first half of the</p><p>nineteenth century, when it was still more or less of a highway for </p><p>the country people, some care was taken of the river and its banks; </p><p>and though I don't suppose anyone troubled himself about its aspect, </p><p>yet it was trim and beautiful. But when the railways--of which no</p><p>doubt you have heard--came into power, they would not allow the</p><p>people of the country to use either the natural or artificial </p><p>waterways, of which latter there were a great many. I suppose when</p><p>we get higher up we shall see one of these; a very important one, </p><p>which one of these railways entirely closed to the public, so that </p><p>they might force people to send their goods by their private road, </p><p>and so tax them as heavily as they could." </p><p>Ellen laughed heartily. "Well," she said, "that is not stated</p><p>clearly enough in our history-books, and it is worth knowing. But</p><p>certainly the people of those days must have been a curiously lazy </p><p>set. We are not either fidgety or quarrelsome now, but if any one</p><p>tried such a piece of folly on us, we should use the said waterways, </p><p>whoever gaidsaid us: surely that would be simple enough. However, I</p><p>remember other cases of this stupidity: when I was on the Rhine two</p><p>years ago, I remember they showed us ruins of old castles, which, </p><p>according to what we heard, must have been made for pretty much the </p><p>same purpose as the railways were. But I am interrupting your</p><p>history of the river: pray go on."</p><p>"It is both short and stupid enough," said I. "The river having lost</p><p>its practical or commercial value--that is, being of no use to make </p><p>money of--" </p><p>She nodded. "I understand what that queer phrase means," said she.</p><p>"Go on!" </p><p>"Well, it was utterly neglected, till at last it became a nuisance--" </p><p>"Yes," quoth Ellen, "I understand: like the railways and the robber</p><p>knights. Yes?"</p><p>"So then they turned the makeshift business on to it, and handed it </p><p>over to a body up in London, who from time to time, in order to show </p><p>that they had something to do, did some damage here and there,--cut </p><p>down trees, destroying the banks thereby; dredged the river (where it </p><p>was not needed always), and threw the dredgings on the fields so as </p><p>to spoil them; and so forth. But for the most part they practised</p><p>'masterly inactivity,' as it was then called--that is, they drew </p><p>their salaries, and let things alone." </p><p>"Drew their salaries," she said. "I know that means that they were</p><p>allowed to take an extra lot of other people's goods for doing </p><p>nothing. And if that had been all, it really might have been worth</p><p>while to let them do so, if you couldn't find any other way of </p><p>keeping them quiet; but it seems to me that being so paid, they could </p><p>not help doing something, and that something was bound to be </p><p>mischief,--because," said she, kindling with sudden anger, "the whole </p><p>business was founded on lies and false pretensions. I don't mean</p><p>only these river-guardians, but all these master-people I have read </p><p>of." </p><p>"Yes," said I, "how happy you are to have got out of the parsimony of </p><p>oppression!" </p><p>"Why do you sigh?" she said, kindly and somewhat anxiously. "You</p><p>seem to think that it will not last?" </p><p>"It will last for you," quoth I. </p><p>"But why not for you?" said she. "Surely it is for all the world;</p><p>and if your country is somewhat backward, it will come into line </p><p>before long. Or," she said quickly, "are you thinking that you must</p><p>soon go back again? I will make my proposal which I told you of at</p><p>once, and so perhaps put an end to your anxiety. I was going to</p><p>propose that you should live with us where we are going. I feel</p><p>quite old friends with you, and should be sorry to lose you." Then</p><p>she smiled on me, and said: "Do you know, I begin to suspect you of</p><p>wanting to nurse a sham sorrow, like the ridiculous characters in </p><p>some of those queer old novels that I have come across now and then." </p><p>I really had almost begun to suspect it myself, but I refused to </p><p>admit so much; so I sighed no more, but fell to giving my delightful </p><p>companion what little pieces of history I knew about the river and </p><p>its borderlands; and the time passed pleasantly enough; and between </p><p>the two of us (she was a better sculler than I was, and seemed quite </p><p>tireless) we kept up fairly well with Dick, hot as the afternoon was, </p><p>and swallowed up the way at a great rate. At last we passed under</p><p>another ancient bridge; and through meadows bordered at first with </p><p>huge elm-trees mingled with sweet chestnut of younger but very </p><p>elegant growth; and the meadows widened out so much that it seemed as </p><p>if the trees must now be on the bents only, or about the houses, </p><p>except for the growth of willows on the immediate banks; so that the </p><p>wide stretch of grass was little broken here. Dick got very much</p><p>excited now, and often stood up in the boat to cry out to us that </p><p>this was such and such a field, and so forth; and we caught fire at </p><p>his enthusiasm for the hay-field and its harvest, and pulled our </p><p>best. </p><p>At last as we were passing through a reach of the river where on the </p><p>side of the towing-path was a highish bank with a thick whispering </p><p>bed of reeds before it, and on the other side a higher bank, clothed </p><p>with willows that dipped into the stream and crowned by ancient elm- </p><p>trees, we saw bright figures coming along close to the bank, as if </p><p>they were looking for something; as, indeed, they were, and we--that </p><p>is, Dick and his company--were what they were looking for. Dick lay</p><p>on his oars, and we followed his example. He gave a joyous shout to</p><p>the people on the bank, which was echoed back from it in many voices, </p><p>deep and sweetly shrill; for there were above a dozen persons, both </p><p>men, women, and children. A tall handsome woman, with black wavy</p><p>hair and deep-set grey eyes, came forward on the bank and waved her </p><p>hand gracefully to us, and said: </p><p>"Dick, my friend, we have almost had to wait for you! What excuse</p><p>have you to make for your slavish punctuality? Why didn't you take</p><p>us by surprise, and come yesterday?" </p><p>"O," said Dick, with an almost imperceptible jerk of his head toward </p><p>our boat, "we didn't want to come too quick up the water; there is so </p><p>much to see for those who have not been up here before." </p><p>"True, true," said the stately lady, for stately is the word that </p><p>must be used for her; "and we want them to get to know the wet way </p><p>from the east thoroughly well, since they must often use it now. But</p><p>come ashore at once, Dick, and you, dear neighbours; there is a break </p><p>in the reeds and a good landing-place just round the corner. We can</p><p>carry up your things, or send some of the lads after them." </p><p>"No, no," said Dick; "it is easier going by water, though it is but a</p><p>step. Besides, I want to bring my friend here to the proper place.</p><p>We will go on to the Ford; and you can talk to us from the bank as we </p><p>paddle along." </p><p>He pulled his sculls through the water, and on we went, turning a </p><p>sharp angle and going north a little. Presently we saw before us a</p><p>bank of elm-trees, which told us of a house amidst them, though I </p><p>looked in vain for the grey walls that I expected to see there. As</p><p>we went, the folk on the bank talked indeed, mingling their kind </p><p>voices with the cuckoo's song, the sweet strong whistle of the </p><p>blackbirds, and the ceaseless note of the corn-crake as he crept </p><p>through the long grass of the mowing-field; whence came waves of </p><p>fragrance from the flowering clover amidst of the ripe grass. </p><p>In a few minutes we had passed through a deep eddying pool into the </p><p>sharp stream that ran from the ford, and beached our craft on a tiny </p><p>strand of limestone-gravel, and stepped ashore into the arms of our </p><p>up-river friends, our journey done. </p><p>I disentangled myself from the merry throng, and mounting on the </p><p>cart-road that ran along the river some feet above the water, I </p><p>looked round about me. The river came down through a wide meadow on</p><p>my left, which was grey now with the ripened seeding grasses; the </p><p>gleaming water was lost presently by a turn of the bank, but over the </p><p>meadow I could see the mingled gables of a building where I knew the </p><p>lock must be, and which now seemed to combine a mill with it. A low</p><p>wooded ridge bounded the river-plain to the south and south-east, </p><p>whence we had come, and a few low houses lay about its feet and up </p><p>its slope. I turned a little to my right, and through the hawthorn</p><p>sprays and long shoots of the wild roses could see the flat country </p><p>spreading out far away under the sun of the calm evening, till </p><p>something that might be called hills with a look of sheep-pastures </p><p>about them bounded it with a soft blue line. Before me, the elm-</p><p>boughs still hid most of what houses there might be in this river- </p><p>side dwelling of men; but to the right of the cart-road a few grey </p><p>buildings of the simplest kind showed here and there. </p><p>There I stood in a dreamy mood, and rubbed my eyes as if I were not </p><p>wholly awake, and half expected to see the gay-clad company of </p><p>beautiful men and women change to two or three spindle-legged back- </p><p>bowed men and haggard, hollow-eyed, ill-favoured women, who once wore </p><p>down the soil of this land with their heavy hopeless feet, from day </p><p>to day, and season to season, and year to year. But no change came</p><p>as yet, and my heart swelled with joy as I thought of all the </p><p>beautiful grey villages, from the river to the plain and the plain to </p><p>the uplands, which I could picture to myself so well, all peopled now </p><p>with this happy and lovely folk, who had cast away riches and </p><p>attained to wealth. </p><p>CHAPTER XXXI: AN OLD HOUSE AMONGST NEW FOLK</p><p>As I stood there Ellen detached herself from our happy friends who </p><p>still stood on the little strand and came up to me. She took me by</p><p>the hand, and said softly, "Take me on to the house at once; we need </p><p>not wait for the others: I had rather not."</p><p>I had a mind to say that I did not know the way thither, and that the </p><p>river-side dwellers should lead; but almost without my will my feet </p><p>moved on along the road they knew. The raised way led us into a</p><p>little field bounded by a backwater of the river on one side; on the </p><p>right hand we could see a cluster of small houses and barns, new and </p><p>old, and before us a grey stone barn and a wall partly overgrown with </p><p>ivy, over which a few grey gables showed. The village road ended in</p><p>the shallow of the aforesaid backwater. We crossed the road, and</p><p>again almost without my will my hand raised the latch of a door in </p><p>the wall, and we stood presently on a stone path which led up to the </p><p>old house to which fate in the shape of Dick had so strangely brought </p><p>me in this new world of men. My companion gave a sigh of pleased</p><p>surprise and enjoyment; nor did I wonder, for the garden between the </p><p>wall and the house was redolent of the June flowers, and the roses </p><p>were rolling over one another with that delicious superabundance of </p><p>small well-tended gardens which at first sight takes away all thought </p><p>from the beholder save that of beauty. The blackbirds were singing</p><p>their loudest, the doves were cooing on the roof-ridge, the rooks in </p><p>the high elm-trees beyond were garrulous among the young leaves, and </p><p>the swifts wheeled whining about the gables. And the house itself</p><p>was a fit guardian for all the beauty of this heart of summer. </p><p>Once again Ellen echoed my thoughts as she said: </p><p>"Yes, friend, this is what I came out for to see; this many-gabled </p><p>old house built by the simple country-folk of the long-past times, </p><p>regardless of all the turmoil that was going on in cities and courts, </p><p>is lovely still amidst all the beauty which these latter days have </p><p>created; and I do not wonder at our friends tending it carefully and </p><p>making much of it. It seems to me as if it had waited for these</p><p>happy days, and held in it the gathered crumbs of happiness of the </p><p>confused and turbulent past." </p><p>She led me up close to the house, and laid her shapely sun-browned </p><p>hand and arm on the lichened wall as if to embrace it, and cried out, </p><p>"O me! O me! How I love the earth, and the seasons, and weather,</p><p>and all things that deal with it, and all that grows out of it,--as </p><p>this has done!" </p><p>I could not answer her, or say a word. Her exultation and pleasure</p><p>were so keen and exquisite, and her beauty, so delicate, yet so </p><p>interfused with energy, expressed it so fully, that any added word </p><p>would have been commonplace and futile. I dreaded lest the others</p><p>should come in suddenly and break the spell she had cast about me; </p><p>but we stood there a while by the corner of the big gable of the </p><p>house, and no one came. I heard the merry voices some way off</p><p>presently, and knew that they were going along the river to the great </p><p>meadow on the other side of the house and garden. </p><p>We drew back a little, and looked up at the house: the door and the</p><p>windows were open to the fragrant sun-cured air; from the upper </p><p>window-sills hung festoons of flowers in honour of the festival, as </p><p>if the others shared in the love for the old house. </p><p>"Come in," said Ellen. "I hope nothing will spoil it inside; but I</p><p>don't think it will. Come! we must go back presently to the others.</p><p>They have gone on to the tents; for surely they must have tents </p><p>pitched for the haymakers--the house would not hold a tithe of the</p><p>folk, I am sure." </p><p>She led me on to the door, murmuring little above her breath as she </p><p>did so, "The earth and the growth of it and the life of it! If I</p><p>could but say or show how I love it!" </p><p>We went in, and found no soul in any room as we wandered from room to </p><p>room,--from the rose-covered porch to the strange and quaint garrets </p><p>amongst the great timbers of the roof, where of old time the tillers </p><p>and herdsmen of the manor slept, but which a-nights seemed now, by </p><p>the small size of the beds, and the litter of useless and disregarded </p><p>matters--bunches of dying flowers, feathers of birds, shells of </p><p>starling's eggs, caddis worms in mugs, and the like--seemed to be </p><p>inhabited for the time by children. </p><p>Everywhere there was but little furniture, and that only the most </p><p>necessary, and of the simplest forms. The extravagant love of</p><p>ornament which I had noted in this people elsewhere seemed here to </p><p>have given place to the feeling that the house itself and its </p><p>associations was the ornament of the country life amidst which it had </p><p>been left stranded from old times, and that to re-ornament it would </p><p>but take away its use as a piece of natural beauty. </p><p>We sat down at last in a room over the wall which Ellen had caressed, </p><p>and which was still hung with old tapestry, originally of no artistic </p><p>value, but now faded into pleasant grey tones which harmonised </p><p>thoroughly well with the quiet of the place, and which would have </p><p>been ill supplanted by brighter and more striking decoration. </p><p>I asked a few random questions of Ellen as we sat there, but scarcely </p><p>listened to her answers, and presently became silent, and then scarce </p><p>conscious of anything, but that I was there in that old room, the </p><p>doves crooning from the roofs of the barn and dovecot beyond the </p><p>window opposite to me. </p><p>My thought returned to me after what I think was but a minute or two, </p><p>but which, as in a vivid dream, seemed as if it had lasted a long </p><p>time, when I saw Ellen sitting, looking all the fuller of life and </p><p>pleasure and desire from the contrast with the grey faded tapestry </p><p>with its futile design, which was now only bearable because it had </p><p>grown so faint and feeble. </p><p>She looked at me kindly, but as if she read me through and through. </p><p>She said: "You have begun again your never-ending contrast between</p><p>the past and this present. Is it not so?"</p><p>"True," said I. "I was thinking of what you, with your capacity and</p><p>intelligence, joined to your love of pleasure, and your impatience of </p><p>unreasonable restraint--of what you would have been in that past. </p><p>And even now, when all is won and has been for a long time, my heart </p><p>is sickened with thinking of all the waste of life that has gone on </p><p>for so many years." </p><p>"So many centuries," she said, "so many ages!" </p><p>"True," I said; "too true," and sat silent again. </p><p>She rose up and said: "Come, I must not let you go off into a dream</p><p>again so soon. If we must lose you, I want you to see all that you</p><p>can see first before you go back again." </p><p>"Lose me?" I said--"go back again? Am I not to go up to the North</p><p>with you? What do you mean?"</p><p>She smiled somewhat sadly, and said: "Not yet; we will not talk of</p><p>that yet. Only, what were you thinking of just now?"</p><p>I said falteringly: "I was saying to myself, The past, the present?</p><p>Should she not have said the contrast of the present with the future: </p><p>of blind despair with hope?" </p><p>"I knew it," she said. Then she caught my hand and said excitedly,</p><p>"Come, while there is yet time! Come!" And she led me out of the</p><p>room; and as we were going downstairs and out of the house into the </p><p>garden by a little side door which opened out of a curious lobby, she </p><p>said in a calm voice, as if she wished me to forget her sudden </p><p>nervousness: "Come! we ought to join the others before they come</p><p>here looking for us. And let me tell you, my friend, that I can see</p><p>you are too apt to fall into mere dreamy musing: no doubt because</p><p>you are not yet used to our life of repose amidst of energy; of work </p><p>which is pleasure and pleasure which is work." </p><p>She paused a little, and as we came out into the lovely garden again, </p><p>she said: "My friend, you were saying that you wondered what I</p><p>should have been if I had lived in those past days of turmoil and </p><p>oppression. Well, I think I have studied the history of them to know</p><p>pretty well. I should have been one of the poor, for my father when</p><p>he was working was a mere tiller of the soil. Well, I could not have</p><p>borne that; therefore my beauty and cleverness and brightness" (she </p><p>spoke with no blush or simper of false shame) "would have been sold </p><p>to rich men, and my life would have been wasted indeed; for I know </p><p>enough of that to know that I should have had no choice, no power of </p><p>will over my life; and that I should never have bought pleasure from </p><p>the rich men, or even opportunity of action, whereby I might have won </p><p>some true excitement. I should have wrecked and wasted in one way or</p><p>another, either by penury or by luxury. Is it not so?"</p><p>"Indeed it is," said I. </p><p>She was going to say something else, when a little gate in the fence, </p><p>which led into a small elm-shaded field, was opened, and Dick came </p><p>with hasty cheerfulness up the garden path, and was presently </p><p>standing between us, a hand laid on the shoulder of each. He said:</p><p>"Well, neighbours, I thought you two would like to see the old house </p><p>quietly without a crowd in it. Isn't it a jewel of a house after its</p><p>kind? Well, come along, for it is getting towards dinner-time.</p><p>Perhaps you, guest, would like a swim before we sit down to what I </p><p>fancy will be a pretty long feast?" </p><p>"Yes," I said, "I should like that." </p><p>"Well, good-bye for the present, neighbour Ellen," said Dick. "Here</p><p>comes Clara to take care of you, as I fancy she is more at home </p><p>amongst our friends here." </p><p>Clara came out of the fields as he spoke; and with one look at Ellen </p><p>I turned and went with Dick, doubting, if I must say the truth, </p><p>whether I should see her again.</p><p>CHAPTER XXXII: THE FEAST'S BEGINNING--THE END</p><p>Dick brought me at once into the little field which, as I had seen </p><p>from the garden, was covered with gaily-coloured tents arranged in </p><p>orderly lanes, about which were sitting and lying on the grass some </p><p>fifty or sixty men, women, and children, all of them in the height of </p><p>good temper and enjoyment--with their holiday mood on, so to say. </p><p>"You are thinking that we don't make a great show as to numbers," </p><p>said Dick; "but you must remember that we shall have more to-morrow; </p><p>because in this haymaking work there is room for a great many people </p><p>who are not over-skilled in country matters: and there are many who</p><p>lead sedentary lives, whom it would be unkind to deprive of their </p><p>pleasure in the hay-field--scientific men and close students </p><p>generally: so that the skilled workmen, outside those who are wanted</p><p>as mowers, and foremen of the haymaking, stand aside, and take a </p><p>little downright rest, which you know is good for them, whether they </p><p>like it or not: or else they go to other countrysides, as I am doing</p><p>here. You see, the scientific men and historians, and students</p><p>generally, will not be wanted till we are fairly in the midst of the </p><p>tedding, which of course will not be till the day after to-morrow." </p><p>With that he brought me out of the little field on to a kind of </p><p>causeway above the river-side meadow, and thence turning to the left </p><p>on to a path through the mowing grass, which was thick and very tall, </p><p>led on till we came to the river above the weir and its mill. There</p><p>we had a delightful swim in the broad piece of water above the lock, </p><p>where the river looked much bigger than its natural size from its </p><p>being dammed up by the weir. </p><p>"Now we are in a fit mood for dinner," said Dick, when we had dressed </p><p>and were going through the grass again; "and certainly of all the </p><p>cheerful meals in the year, this one of haysel is the cheerfullest; </p><p>not even excepting the corn-harvest feast; for then the year is </p><p>beginning to fail, and one cannot help having a feeling behind all </p><p>the gaiety, of the coming of the dark days, and the shorn fields and </p><p>empty gardens; and the spring is almost too far off to look forward </p><p>to. It is, then, in the autumn, when one almost believes in death."</p><p>"How strangely you talk," said I, "of such a constantly recurring and </p><p>consequently commonplace matter as the sequence of the seasons." And </p><p>indeed these people were like children about such things, and had </p><p>what seemed to me a quite exaggerated interest in the weather, a fine </p><p>day, a dark night, or a brilliant one, and the like. </p><p>"Strangely?" said he. "Is it strange to sympathise with the year and</p><p>its gains and losses?" </p><p>"At any rate," said I, "if you look upon the course of the year as a </p><p>beautiful and interesting drama, which is what I think you do, you </p><p>should be as much pleased and interested with the winter and its </p><p>trouble and pain as with this wonderful summer luxury." </p><p>"And am I not?" said Dick, rather warmly; "only I can't look upon it </p><p>as if I were sitting in a theatre seeing the play going on before me,</p><p>myself taking no part of it. It is difficult," said he, smiling</p><p>good-humouredly, "for a non-literary man like me to explain myself </p><p>properly, like that dear girl Ellen would; but I mean that I am part </p><p>of it all, and feel the pain as well as the pleasure in my own </p><p>person. It is not done for me by somebody else, merely that I may</p><p>eat and drink and sleep; but I myself do my share of it." </p><p>In his way also, as Ellen in hers, I could see that Dick had that </p><p>passionate love of the earth which was common to but few people at </p><p>least, in the days I knew; in which the prevailing feeling amongst </p><p>intellectual persons was a kind of sour distaste for the changing </p><p>drama of the year, for the life of earth and its dealings with men. </p><p>Indeed, in those days it was thought poetic and imaginative to look </p><p>upon life as a thing to be borne, rather than enjoyed. </p><p>So I mused till Dick's laugh brought me back into the Oxfordshire </p><p>hay-fields. "One thing seems strange to me," said he--"that I must</p><p>needs trouble myself about the winter and its scantiness, in the </p><p>midst of the summer abundance. If it hadn't happened to me before, I</p><p>should have thought it was your doing, guest; that you had thrown a </p><p>kind of evil charm over me. Now, you know," said he, suddenly,</p><p>"that's only a joke, so you mustn't take it to heart." </p><p>"All right," said I; "I don't." Yet I did feel somewhat uneasy at</p><p>his words, after all. </p><p>We crossed the causeway this time, and did not turn back to the </p><p>house, but went along a path beside a field of wheat now almost ready </p><p>to blossom. I said:</p><p>"We do not dine in the house or garden, then?--as indeed I did not </p><p>expect to do. Where do we meet, then? For I can see that the houses</p><p>are mostly very small." </p><p>"Yes," said Dick, "you are right, they are small in this country- </p><p>side: there are so many good old houses left, that people dwell a</p><p>good deal in such small detached houses. As to our dinner, we are</p><p>going to have our feast in the church. I wish, for your sake, it</p><p>were as big and handsome as that of the old Roman town to the west, </p><p>or the forest town to the north; {3} but, however, it will hold us </p><p>all; and though it is a little thing, it is beautiful in its way." </p><p>This was somewhat new to me, this dinner in a church, and I thought </p><p>of the church-ales of the Middle Ages; but I said nothing, and </p><p>presently we came out into the road which ran through the village. </p><p>Dick looked up and down it, and seeing only two straggling groups </p><p>before us, said: "It seems as if we must be somewhat late; they are</p><p>all gone on; and they will be sure to make a point of waiting for </p><p>you, as the guest of guests, since you come from so far." </p><p>He hastened as he spoke, and I kept up with him, and presently we </p><p>came to a little avenue of lime-trees which led us straight to the </p><p>church porch, from whose open door came the sound of cheerful voices </p><p>and laughter, and varied merriment. </p><p>"Yes," said Dick, "it's the coolest place for one thing, this hot </p><p>evening. Come along; they will be glad to see you."</p><p>Indeed, in spite of my bath, I felt the weather more sultry and</p><p>oppressive than on any day of our journey yet. </p><p>We went into the church, which was a simple little building with one </p><p>little aisle divided from the nave by three round arches, a chancel, </p><p>and a rather roomy transept for so small a building, the windows </p><p>mostly of the graceful Oxfordshire fourteenth century type. There</p><p>was no modern architectural decoration in it; it looked, indeed, as </p><p>if none had been attempted since the Puritans whitewashed the </p><p>mediaeval saints and histories on the wall. It was, however, gaily</p><p>dressed up for this latter-day festival, with festoons of flowers </p><p>from arch to arch, and great pitchers of flowers standing about on </p><p>the floor; while under the west window hung two cross scythes, their </p><p>blades polished white, and gleaming from out of the flowers that </p><p>wreathed them. But its best ornament was the crowd of handsome,</p><p>happy-looking men and women that were set down to table, and who, </p><p>with their bright faces and rich hair over their gay holiday raiment, </p><p>looked, as the Persian poet puts it, like a bed of tulips in the sun. </p><p>Though the church was a small one, there was plenty of room; for a </p><p>small church makes a biggish house; and on this evening there was no </p><p>need to set cross tables along the transepts; though doubtless these </p><p>would be wanted next day, when the learned men of whom Dick has been </p><p>speaking should be come to take their more humble part in the </p><p>haymaking. </p><p>I stood on the threshold with the expectant smile on my face of a man </p><p>who is going to take part in a festivity which he is really prepared </p><p>to enjoy. Dick, standing by me was looking round the company with an</p><p>air of proprietorship in them, I thought. Opposite me sat Clara and</p><p>Ellen, with Dick's place open between them: they were smiling, but</p><p>their beautiful faces were each turned towards the neighbours on </p><p>either side, who were talking to them, and they did not seem to see </p><p>me. I turned to Dick, expecting him to lead me forward, and he</p><p>turned his face to me; but strange to say, though it was as smiling </p><p>and cheerful as ever, it made no response to my glance--nay, he </p><p>seemed to take no heed at all of my presence, and I noticed that none </p><p>of the company looked at me. A pang shot through me, as of some</p><p>disaster long expected and suddenly realised. Dick moved on a little</p><p>without a word to me. I was not three yards from the two women who,</p><p>though they had been my companions for such a short time, had really, </p><p>as I thought, become my friends. Clara's face was turned full upon</p><p>me now, but she also did not seem to see me, though I know I was </p><p>trying to catch her eye with an appealing look. I turned to Ellen,</p><p>and she DID seem to recognise me for an instant; but her bright face </p><p>turned sad directly, and she shook her head with a mournful look, and </p><p>the next moment all consciousness of my presence had faded from her </p><p>face. </p><p>I felt lonely and sick at heart past the power of words to describe. </p><p>I hung about a minute longer, and then turned and went out of the </p><p>porch again and through the lime-avenue into the road, while the </p><p>blackbirds sang their strongest from the bushes about me in the hot </p><p>June evening. </p><p>Once more without any conscious effort of will I set my face toward </p><p>the old house by the ford, but as I turned round the corner which led </p><p>to the remains of the village cross, I came upon a figure strangely </p><p>contrasting with the joyous, beautiful people I had left behind in </p><p>the church. It was a man who looked old, but whom I knew from habit,</p><p>now half forgotten, was really not much more than fifty. His face</p><p>was rugged, and grimed rather than dirty; his eyes dull and bleared; </p><p>his body bent, his calves thin and spindly, his feet dragging and </p><p>limping. His clothing was a mixture of dirt and rags long over-</p><p>familiar to me. As I passed him he touched his hat with some real</p><p>goodwill and courtesy, and much servility. </p><p>Inexpressibly shocked, I hurried past him and hastened along the road </p><p>that led to the river and the lower end of the village; but suddenly </p><p>I saw as it were a black cloud rolling along to meet me, like a </p><p>nightmare of my childish days; and for a while I was conscious of </p><p>nothing else than being in the dark, and whether I was walking, or </p><p>sitting, or lying down, I could not tell. </p><p>* * *</p><p>I lay in my bed in my house at dingy Hammersmith thinking about it </p><p>all; and trying to consider if I was overwhelmed with despair at </p><p>finding I had been dreaming a dream; and strange to say, I found that </p><p>I was not so despairing. </p><p>Or indeed WAS it a dream? If so, why was I so conscious all along</p><p>that I was really seeing all that new life from the outside, still </p><p>wrapped up in the prejudices, the anxieties, the distrust of this </p><p>time of doubt and struggle? </p><p>All along, though those friends were so real to me, I had been </p><p>feeling as if I had no business amongst them: as though the time</p><p>would come when they would reject me, and say, as Ellen's last </p><p>mournful look seemed to say, "No, it will not do; you cannot be of </p><p>us; you belong so entirely to the unhappiness of the past that our </p><p>happiness even would weary you. Go back again, now you have seen us,</p><p>and your outward eyes have learned that in spite of all the </p><p>infallible maxims of your day there is yet a time of rest in store </p><p>for the world, when mastery has changed into fellowship--but not </p><p>before. Go back again, then, and while you live you will see all</p><p>round you people engaged in making others live lives which are not </p><p>their own, while they themselves care nothing for their own real </p><p>lives--men who hate life though they fear death. Go back and be the</p><p>happier for having seen us, for having added a little hope to your </p><p>struggle. Go on living while you may, striving, with whatsoever pain</p><p>and labour needs must be, to build up little by little the new day of </p><p>fellowship, and rest, and happiness." </p><p>Yes, surely! and if others can see it as I have seen it, then it may </p><p>be called a vision rather than a dream. </p><p>Footnotes: </p><p>{1} "Elegant," I mean, as a Persian pattern is elegant; not like a</p><p>rich "elegant" lady out for a morning call. I should rather call</p><p>that genteel. </p><p>{2} I should have said that all along the Thames there were</p><p>abundance of mills used for various purposes; none of which were in </p><p>any degree unsightly, and many strikingly beautiful; and the gardens </p><p>about them marvels of loveliness. </p><p>{3} Cirencester and Burford he must have meant.</p><p>End of Project Gutenberg Etext of News from Nowhere, by William Morris </p></body></text></TEI>