Uncle Simeon did not allow me to go for walks alone. Albert, however,
who was my usual companion, got into the habit of leaving me as soon
as we were away from the Quay, with a curt intimation to clear off in
another direction and to meet him later at a given place and time so
that we might return to the house together.
One fine day in early Autumn, I climbed to the top of one of the hills
that looks down on Torribridge: a picture made up of white houses,
shining river, old bridge, green bosomy hills sloping down to the
stream, and over them all the sun. The scene was pleasing, yet it
meant very little to me. There was the sun in my blood, and a young
creature's delight in the fine bright day, and in the feeling of space
and power that you may feel in high clear places; no more than that.
There was no conscious enjoyment of the loveliness beneath me. The joy
that beautiful scenery can give to the soul I did not know. Children,
like animals, do not feel it. This emotion comes from books, pictures
and art generally. As to romantic little boys who draw, or say they
draw, their deepest emotions from Nature's well--if so, it must be
because they are learned little boys who, taught by the magical words
of fine books that Nature is beautiful, have turned to her to find it
true.
The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye ... a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things.
Wordsworth (that lost soul) felt those things and described them in
authentic terms. He could do this because he was not an ordinary, but
a very extraordinary, child of the mountains. How many shepherd boys
sallying forth at dawn with their flocks up the Stye or along the
Little Langdale are haunted "like a passion" by the natural beauties
they see? They do not share the poet's emotions because they know
nothing of the lovely words and pictures and ideas that can invest poor
Nature with romance.
In any case, I was neither a romantic nor a learned little boy, but a
very ignorant and unromantic little girl. It was only when I became
suddenly a little less ignorant of books, history and ideas, that I
came to see--where before there was at most a vague unconscious sense
of pleasure--that Torribridge town seen from the hills was a fair
prospect.
This is how it happened.
I was leaning on a stile, idly looking down towards the far-away bridge
and trying to count the arches.
"Fine!" said a quiet voice behind me.
I started, turned round, and beheld a stranger looking down at me. He
was a tall young man of perhaps twenty; his face pale and rather thin.
His eyes peered. A proud mouth contrasted with earnest eyes. He wore
breeches and carried a gun. Half squire, half scholar; something of
the studious, the aristocratic and sporting all combined. All I was
sure of just then was a pair of kind brown eyes which I immediately and
favourably contrasted with the steel-blue glitter of Uncle Simeon's,
and something exquisite and somehow superior to myself in their owner.
I had an unerring instinct of class inferiority: I knew my betters.
"Fine, isn't it?" repeated the Stranger.
"Ye-es," I said. I thought him a bit silly, and felt sillier myself.
"It's a fine sight," he said, leaning against the stile by my side.
"Isn't it, little girl? Come, say Yes."
The enthusiasm I failed to understand made me combative. "What's the
good of it?" I said tartly. "It hasn't a soul."
The Stranger stared. He was surprised--or amused--I was not sure which.
"Hasn't a soul! This little town that has nestled there for a thousand
years, from the days when the Vikings first sailed up the Torridge till
the days when the New World was found, when ships sailed forth to the
Indies from that quay there and came back laden with gold and wonderful
spices? This little town we're looking at now that sent many ships to
the Armada and hundreds more to harry the Spaniards on all the seas?
Hasn't a soul, little girl! Are you sure?"
"I didn't know all that; I have never heard of all those things and
people. There's Robinson Crewjoe, who sailed away to the Indies and
lived on an island, that Aunt Jael wouldn't let Mrs. Cheese finish
telling me about. Did he sail from here?"
"I'm not sure, but plenty of people like him did."
"And what's the Vikings and the Great Armada? I've heard of the Great
Leviathan. Is that the same?"
"Not quite. Most little girls have heard of these things. It's very
strange you know nothing about them. Don't you go to school?"
"I did when I lived in Tawborough with my Grandmother and Aunt Jael: I
went to Miss Glory Clinker's. But now I'm in Torribridge I do lessons
at home with Aunt Martha."
"Well, hasn't either the lady with the peculiar name or your aunt ever
taught you any history?"
"History? All about Saul and David and Solomon and Ahab?"
"Yes, but there's other history; the history of Torribridge for
instance, and of England; the History of the Armada we have just been
talking about."
"Why: did _you_ learn about those things at school?"
"Yes. I do still."
"But you don't go to school still?"
"I do."
"But you're grown up."
"Well, I go to a school for grown-ups, don't you see?"
"I've never heard of one. Where is it?"
"In an old city a long way from here called Oxford."
"Oxford! Why I've heard of some one who's there. Do you know Lord
Tawborough?"
The Stranger started.
"I do--well; very well. What do _you_ know about him?"
"I know he was there at Oxford, that's all; I heard my Grandmother say
so. What's he like?"
"That's rather a hard question, young woman."
"Well, is he like you?"
The Stranger smiled.
"Something like me perhaps; about the same age."
"Does he know about the Armada and all these wonderful things you've
told me about?"
"Yes, I expect so, I expect he does, and"--he switched away from Lord
Tawborough--"you must learn about them too. You shall read about them
in a book I'm going to give you."
"A book? What do you mean? My Grandmother would not let me read any
book but the Word, nor would Uncle Simeon. Torribridge doesn't come
into the Bible, nor do the Vikings nor the Armada, because I've read it
all through five times and I would remember the names."
He smiled; it was a kind smile, yet quizzical. I liked him, but was not
quite sure of him. I went on a little less confidingly.
"All other books except the Bible are full of lies. Aunt Jael says so."
This was final. How loyally I quoted Aunt Jael! Sure weapon with which
to combat error. I knew I was a little boorish; perhaps I meant to be.
"Well," said the Stranger, "your Grandmother and Uncle Simeon would let
you read this book, I know, and as it's all quite true, Aunt Jael won't
mind either. We will go down into the town and buy it."
I was proud of his company, proud of his voice, his face, his breeches,
his gun, which conferred distinction upon me. I apprehended that there
was something odd or special about me that amused him. He liked me and
I liked him. He was from a kinder handsomer world than mine. His face
was a new treasure in my heart.
I refused to go into the book-shop with him, partly through fear of
being seen by Uncle Simeon, partly as a concession to Conscience. If I
was going to read a worldly book at least I would not go into the evil
place where it was sold. He came out and thrust a parcel into my hand.
"Good-bye. Meet me on the hill some other day and tell me if you are
still quite sure."
"Thank you, Sir. Sure of what?"
"That Torribridge hasn't a soul!"
I stuffed the book into my blouse and rushed to the meeting-place
Albert had fixed. I was half an hour late and he swore at me. When we
got home, I put the parcel still unwrapped under the mattress. This
was a safe place, as I made my own bed; I must wait to begin reading
till the morning. If I were to begin tonight Uncle Simeon would see the
light under the door and come in to complain of the waste of candles.
So I resolved to wake early.
Next morning I woke at five o'clock and undid my parcel. The book was
a dark red one. On the cover was printed in gold letters "WESTWARD
HO!" It was as big as an average Bible, but not so thick. The moment
I opened it, I was struck by the scent of the new pages. All smells
are indescribable, though smell aids the memory and quickens the
imagination as much as any other sense. To this day, it is by digging
my nose between those pages that I can best recall the sentiment of
forty years ago: the pleasure of talking with the Stranger, the first
wild rapture of reading.
I began to read. Here was Torribridge, a place I knew and lived in,
described in print. I had read no other book but the Bible, which
was so familiar as to have become part of myself, part of my life,
something more than any book. Then, too, its glamour was of far-away
folk and lands, holy places and holy people. The fact that now for the
first time I saw printed words about seen and homely places--that I
read of Torridge instead of Jordan, of Torribridge instead of Nineveh,
of little oak ships that sailed from Tawborough Bay instead of great
arks of cedar wood that went forth from Tyre and Sidon--gave me a new
and exciting sensation very hard to describe. In the degree that the
little Devonshire town was less sacred than the Holy City of Mount
Zion, so it seemed to my eager eyes more wonderful to read about.
"All who have travelled through the delicious scenery of North
Devon, must needs know the little white town of Torribridge, which
slopes upwards from its broad tide-river paved with yellow sands, and
many-arched old bridge where salmon wait for autumn floods, towards
the pleasant upland on the west. Above the town the hills close in,
cushioned with deep oak woods, through which juts here and there a
crag of fern-fringed slate; below they lower, and open more and more
in softly-rounded knolls, and fertile squares of red and green, till
they sink into the wide expanse of hazy flats, rich salt marshes, and
rolling sand-hills, where Torridge joins her sister Taw, and both
together flow quickly toward the broad surges of the bar, and the
everlasting thunder of the long Atlantic swell. Pleasantly the old town
stands there, beneath its soft Italian sky, fanned day and night by the
fresh ocean breeze which forbids alike the keen winter frosts, and the
fierce thunder heats of the midland; and pleasantly it has stood there
for now, perhaps, eight hundred years since the first Grenville cousin
of the Conqueror, returning from the conquest of South Wales, drew
round him trusty Saxon serfs, and free Norse rovers with their golden
curls, and dark Silurian Britons from the Swansea shore...."
That afternoon I climbed the hill again, and saw for the first time
something of the romance of the little white town; the bright roofs,
the line of masts and great brown sails in the harbour, the old bridge,
the yellow sands, the fields green golden or red with pasture harvest
or loam, the dark velvet forests, deep blue sky and quiet silver river.
I could imagine now the fierce Atlantic not far away, to which the
gentle stream was flowing. I saw that it was beautiful, in the same way
that the lilies and roses in Solomon's Song are beautiful; or Heaven
in Revelation, the city of jasper and pure gold, that has set in its
midst the great white throne. This change was wrought by a book. My
Grandmother's oft-repeated words that the salvation of God could only
have been revealed in the Book came into my mind.
When I came to the story proper of men who sailed
_Westward Ho! with a rumbelow,_
_And hurra for the Spanish Main O!_
I was enthralled. The idea of a story, of a narrative of doings that
never took place, of invented events, had never entered my head.
Goldilocks, Rumplestiltskin and Little Red Riding Hood were not of my
world. I had never begged "Tell me a story," nor heard the magical
antiphone "Once upon a time."
Had Grandmother ever heard of Westward Ho!? Did she know there were
books like this; true, yet about familiar places? Surely she must.
Would she approve? I doubted for a moment, remembering the picture-book
Uncle John had once sent to me, which Aunt Jael destroyed while my
Grandmother looked on consenting; but was reassured by the godly
sentiments which I found everywhere: by familiar phrases, even on the
second page, such as "heathen Roman and Popish tyranny." Were there
other books like this? If so, I should like to read them. Were they
about the Indies too? A world of ideas possessed me, a new planet had
swum into my skies. I read hard, wildly. I woke up at four that I might
have a good long read before getting up; I went to my bedroom at odd
hours of the day to snatch a few moments' delight.
One day just after dinner Uncle Simeon came in in his usual noiseless
cat-like way. I just had time to stuff the book under the mattress
and to begin pretending to do my hair. He did not seem to have seen
anything.
I began to compare or contrast everything I read with myself or my
own experiences. Flogging, for instance,--as practised by Sir Vindex
Brimblecombe, whilom servitor of Exeter College, Oxford, and master of
the Grammar School of Torribridge. I read with interest that flogging
is the "best of all punishments" (I inclined to doubt this), "being
not only the shortest" (indeed!) "but also a mere bodily and animal
punishment" (why _mere_?), "though for the punisher himself pretty
certain to eradicate from all but the noblest spirits every trace of
chivalry and tenderness for the weak, as well as all self-control and
command of temper." How true! How Aunt Jael's chivalry had waned! How
Uncle Simeon's tenderness for the weak had withered and wilted away!
Surely this book too was inspired. I enjoyed Amyas' encounter with Sir
Vindex Brimblecombe. I loved to read how Sir Vindex jumped up, ferula
in hand, and exhorted Amyas to "come hither, sirrah, and be flayed
alive"; how the latter "with a serene and cheerful countenance" took
up his slate, and brought it down on the skull of Sir Vindex "with so
shrewd a blow" that slate and pate cracked on the same instant, and Sir
Vindex dropped down upon the floor and "lay for dead." Oh vicarious
joy, oh borrowed plumes of valour that I wore for that incident! I
shut my eyes and visualized Aunt Jael in the stead of Sir Vindex
Brimblecombe. "Minx!" she said (not sirrah), as she advanced upon me
"stick in hand," for although I did not know what a ferula was, I felt
it was somewhat too light and lissom a description of thorned stick or
ship's rope. How I envied Amyas' "serene and cheerful countenance" and
revelled in the crash. I rehearsed the scene also with Uncle Simeon
in the villain's part and with an even dearer joy brought down the
avenging slate on his honey-coloured coxcomb.
To every character in the book I tried to give a face. Amyas, the hero,
was my difficulty; I had met no heroes. Don Guzman I pictured as Uncle
Simeon, though statelier and nobler. Mrs. Leigh was naturally Mrs. Lee,
my Grandmother; in name and character alike. Salvation Yeo I pictured
as Brother Brawn, Frank Leigh,--tall, pale and distinguished--was of
course the Stranger. I did not care very much for the Rose of Torridge
herself, and had little interest in any of the ladies' doings. Theirs
was a secondary part. They did not do things themselves; they stayed at
home in Torribridge to think about and wait for and be loved by the men
who did the valiant deeds. Love affairs, so-called, failed to interest
me at all, though the passionate affection between Mrs. Leigh and her
sons made me husky and envious. It never occurred to me to visualize
myself as Rose; if I took any part it was Amyas'.
I was much interested in the description of Christmas Day. "It was the
blessed Christmas afternoon. The light was fading down; the even-song
was done; and the good folks of Torribridge were trooping home in merry
groups, the father with his children, the lover with his sweetheart,
to cakes and ale, and flap-dragons and mummers' plays, and all the
happy sports of Christmas night." Why _blessed_ Christmas afternoon,
I wondered? Was the word used in Mrs. Cheese's naughty sense or Miss
Glory Clinker's noble one? In either case I didn't see how it applied
to the hideous 25th of December at Bear Lawn.
I was pleased with the sound views on Popery, described as frantic,
filthy, wily, false, cruel. Papists were skulkers, dogs, slanderers,
murderers, devils. To be brought up by Catholics was to be taught the
science of villany on the motive of superstition, to learn that "all
love was lust" and all goodness foul. A Romanist was not a man, but a
thing, a tool, a Jesuit. I did not understand it all, but I approved
highly. That bigotry which mars the book in the eyes of fair-minded
men was the quality that sealed it with the mark of virtue in my
zealot eyes. Critics (I have since learnt) forgive the slanderous
religious hate of this book for the sake of the fresh spirit and the
fine story: I excused these dangerous delights to my conscience and
to my Grandmother's conscience by the author's pious attitude towards
Rome and error. I felt that the book, in spite of the wild pleasure it
gave me, must nevertheless be godly, because of the pious plenitude
with which it anathematized the Bad Old Man of the Seven Hills, the
Scarlet Woman, the Great Whore of Babylon, the Blatant Beast, the great
HIM-HER. There was self-deceiving here.
The story was the thing: the most chivalrous adventure of the good
ship "Rose"; how they came to Barbados, and found no men therein; how
they took the pearls at Margarita; what befell at La Guayra; Spanish
Bloodhounds and English Mastiffs; how they took the Communion under
the tree at Higuerote; the Inquisition in the Indies; the banks of
the Meta; how Amyas was tempted of the devil; how they took the gold
train. I lived in a world of gold and silver, ships and swords, Dons
and Devils. I saw the great Cordillera covered with gigantic ferns,
and the foamless blue Pacific. I caught my breath as I stumbled on
the dim ruins of dead Indian Empires; and I wiped my eyes when I read
of Salvation Yeo and his little maid. I liked to read of the Queen of
England, of Drake, Raleigh and Sir Richard Grenville, Devon men all,
and John Oxenham swaggering along Torribridge Quay. I was interested
most of all by Don Guzman, with his sweet sonorous voice, his woman's
grace and his golden hair, as of a god. He had been everywhere and
seen all. He knew the two Americas, the East Indies and the West, Old
Spain, the seven cities of Italy, the twilight-coloured Levant and the
multitudinous East....
I skimmed through each chapter quickly, and then read it slowly to
drink in every word. Excitement of another kind was added by the
difficulties of reading; I had to stop sometimes in the middle of an
exciting passage and hide the book hastily away, when I heard Uncle
Simeon on the staircase. However, I managed to get three-quarters way
through without mishap: as far as the attack on the gold train. Amyas
and his men were hiding in the forest. The long awaited Spaniards and
their treasure were just in sight. "Suddenly"--my heart beat fast,
then stood still at the sound of a stealthy foot-fall. The door opened
and Uncle Simeon came in. I had no time to stuff the book under the
mattress properly. I leaned against the place where the clothes were
ruffled and pretended to be making my bed. This, I thought bitterly,
was the only sort of excitement my life afforded: not splendid bravery
and adventure in South American forests but mere feeble cunning to save
myself from this whey-faced cringing wretch. He smiled blandly.
"Your aunt wants you to go for a walk with her," he said.
He tried to appear unconcerned, but I feared he had seen something. The
moment he had gone I hid the book carefully under the mattress, right
in the very middle of the bed. When I came back from the walk with Aunt
Martha I went straight up to my room. _The book was not there._ My
first rage at losing my treasure gave place, upon reflection, to fear.
What would he do? At tea he smiled in a sneering way and said "What
is worrying you, little one? You are pale." His manner frightened me.
The very fact that he said nothing about the matter was unusual and
presaged something exceptionally bad. Would he use the whip, or make
the worst of it to Aunt Jael and Grandmother? And what had he done
with the book? The answer to these questions, though I did not know it
till much later, is lying before me as I write. It is written on faded
yellow paper, in a neat hand, with old-fashioned pointed characters.
NO 1, THE QUAY,
TORRIBRIDGE,
Sept. 17th 1858.
Dear Kinswomen and Sisters in the Lord,--
One hopes the fine weather the Lord is sending finds both of you as
well in body and mind and as thankful in spirit for our manifold
blessings from above as I rejoice to say it finds dear Martha and
one's own poor self. Dear little Mary too is well: the happy result
of the good air of Torribridge and of the plenteous, if plainly,
fare one's table affords. But the little one is not, alas, so
thankful in spirit as her Aunt and oneself could wish. She has just
done a deed which displays but poor gratitude, dear sisters, for
your loving spiritual training of her early years and for one's
own godly, if humble, care. She has, alas, committed a grievous
sin; though it pains one to speak thus, one had best speak openly.
A grievous sin--one shrinks from writing the words, but there is
one's duty to you, to the child, to her aunt and to one's own
afflicted self. The facts are these.
Yesterday one found her in her bedchamber--a homely if humble
apartment to which one has always trusted her to retire at
will--one found her in the act of reading a _vile and worldly
book_. She hid it craftily under the bed-clothes when she heard
one coming into the room as one chanced to do the other day. One
let her see plainly one had detected all, looking at her sadly, as
though to say "Ah, if Miss Vickary and dear Mrs. Lee knew what a
viper they have nourished in their respective bosoms!", and gave
her one more chance to conquer her sin by herself and destroy the
noisome thing. But no! "As a dog returneth to his vomit so a fool
to his folly" (Prov. xxvi, II--your own favourite Proverbs, dear
Miss Vickary)--and yesterday once again found her flushed with
the carnal pleasure of those evil pages. One opened the book,
not without a silent prayer that the Lord would cleanse one from
its touch. Feeling it one's plain, if painful, duty to see more
clearly the nature of the evil thing, one perused a few pages. One
found it to be a _licentious novel_, treating of haughty women
"with stretched-forth necks and wanton eyes" (Isaiah iii, 16), of
men who spend their days "in rioting and drunkenness, chambering
and wantonness" (Romans xiii, 13) and of drunkards, roisterers,
sinners and blasphemers. Here and there the writer, who is, one is
told, a Church of England minister in this town--so what could one
hope?--strives to beguile the unwary by striking a godly attitude
towards Rome. Sounding brass and tinkling cymbals--wolfish pretence
to lead poor sheep astray. There is even worse than this; foul and
wanton language abounds. A bad word on page 74 pained one much.
Nothing has been said to the child yet, awaiting your wishes. One
hopes you will not wish her to be punished _too_ severely. "Whom
the Lord loveth he correcteth!" (Prov. iii, 12). One knows! one
knows! Yet forgiveness may do much. One's heart shrinks from blows;
nothing but the direst sin ever drives one to bodily correction.
No! One will simply burn the book before her, add a few godly
words and read a Psalm together.
Apart from this, the child's spiritual state is not without hope,
but she is a tree that needs careful pruning, if she is to take up
her cross, as one hopes, in the foreign field. She holds special
place in our hearts (dear Martha's and one's own), nor do we cease
to pray for her. God has blessed her in the past, and bestowed
many gifts and advantages, but one longs to know that she has
received better things than this poor world can give, even joy and
peace, the result of sin forgiven and the assurance of eternal
life by faith in God's Son as revealed in His Word. You will bear
with one in speaking thus. One's love for her is great, and one
dares to hope, dear Mrs. Lee, that your regard for one's self is
considerable too, when you compare one with that other son-in-law,
whose evil qualities, alas, seem to be showing in his little
daughter despite her Christian environment.
Our Meetings lately have been very helpful. A new sister has been
won from Error; formerly a Wesleyan Methodist, a Miss Towl. Am
deriving great consolation from a careful study of the prophet Joel.
Forgive the length of this letter; one would have come to
Tawborough had not the Lord's work detained one. Accept Martha's
loving greetings and believe me in the Brotherhood of the Lord,
One who is less than the least of all the Saints,
SIMEON GREEBER.
P.S. The poor wayward child refuses to tell _how_ she came by the
abomination. It was new, so she must have bought it in a shop where
such things are sold. Her money should be watched. Little though
she is so wisely allowed, would it not be better for one to take
charge of it, to ensure that it be not spent in sin?
P.P.S. Hoping that the Lord is granting you both the best of health
and strength. Dear little Albert has a slight touch of quinsy, but
this is yielding to treatment and prayer.
The flattering creeping hound! His letter describes him better than any
words of mine. At the time I knew nothing of it; I was merely uneasy
and wondered why nothing was happening.
A few days later, just as we had finished evening prayers, he called me
over to the fireside and said, "There's a duty to the Lord, little one,
and to your dear Great-Aunt and Grandmother that has to be fulfilled.
One has their orders and one's Lord's to obey." He rummaged in his
cupboard and brought forth my dear book. He looked at me, the lowest
meanest triumph in his eyes, then flung the book savagely into the
midst of the flames. In the fire-light he looked livid with spite. "So
shall they burn who go a-whoring after strange gods," he hissed.
How I hated him. Yet for a moment as the dear book burned, I did not
think of him. I was wondering how Amyas captured the Gold Train, and if
Salvation Yeo found his little maid, and what the Stranger would say if
I met him again.