CHAPTER VIII.

Miss Lucy couldn’t be spared to go up to the hill on the second day

of the pastime, for there was some great operation going on in the

cheese room, which she had to overlook. So Mr. Warton drove me up in

the four-wheel. I was very anxious to find out, if I could, whether

there was any thing more between him and Miss Lucy than friendship,

but it wasn’t at all an easy matter. First I began speaking of the

young gentleman who had taken my place in the four-wheel; for I thought

that would be a touchstone, and that if he were like me he would be

glad to get a chance of abusing this Jack. But he only called him a

forward boy, and said he was a cousin of the Hursts, who lived in

the next parish. Then I spoke of Miss Lucy herself, and he was quite

ready to talk about her as much as I liked, and seemed never tired

of praising her. She was a thoroughly good specimen of an English

yeoman’s daughter; perfectly natural, and therefore perfectly well

bred; not above making good puddings and preserves, and proud of the

name her brother’s cheeses had won in the market, yet not negligent of

other matters, such as the schools, and her garden; never going into

follies of dress in imitation of weak women who ought to set better

examples, yet having a proper appreciation of her own good looks, and

a thorough knowledge of the colours and shapes which suited her best;

not particularly clever or well read, but with an open mind and a sound

judgment--and so he went on; and the longer he went on the more I was

puzzled, and my belief is, that on this subject the Parson got much

more out of me than I out of him, on that morning’s drive.

We had a very pleasant day on the hill, but as the sports were all

the same as those of the day before (with the exception of jumping in

sacks, which was substituted for climbing the pole, and was very good

fun), I shall not give any further account of them; especially as the

gentlemen who are going to publish my story seem to think already that

I am rather too long-winded.

We got down home in capital time for tea, and Joe followed very soon

afterwards, in the highest spirits; for, as he said, every thing had

gone off so well, and everybody was pleased and satisfied; so we were

all very merry, and had another charming evening. I couldn’t tell what

had come to me when I got up stairs alone by myself, for I seemed as if

a new life were growing up in me, and I were getting all of a sudden

into a much bigger world, full of all sorts of work and pleasure, which

I had never dreamt of, and of people whom I could get to love and

honour, though I might never see or speak to them.

I had been bred up from a child never to look beyond my own narrow

sphere. To get on in it was the purpose of my life, and I had drilled

myself into despising every thing which did not, as I thought, help

towards this end. Near relations I had none. I was really fond of my

two friends, but I don’t think I should ever have got to be friends

with them if we hadn’t been in the same office; and I used often to

be half provoked with them, and to think myself a very wise fellow,

because out of office-hours they would read poetry and novels instead

of fagging at shorthand or accounts, as I did, and spent all their

salaries instead of saving. Except those two, I knew nobody; and

though I belonged to a debating society, it wasn’t that I cared for

the members, or what they talked about, but that I thought it might be

useful to me to talk fluently if I got on in business. Sometimes, and

especially in my yearly holidays, I had felt as if I wanted something

else, and that my way of life was after all rather a one-eyed sort of

business; but I set all such misgivings down as delusions, and had

never allowed them long to trouble me. In short I begin to suspect that

I must have been getting to be a very narrow, bigoted, disagreeable

sort of fellow, and it was high time that I should find my way to

Elm Close, or some such place, to have my eyes opened a little, and

discover that a man may work just as steadily and honestly--aye, much

more steadily and honestly--at his own business, without shutting up

his brains and his heart against every thing else that is going on in

the world around him. However, I can’t be too thankful that my teaching

came to me in the way it did, for I might have had to learn my lesson

in a very different school from Elm Close Farm.

There certainly never was such a pleasant school. For the next two or

three days after ‘the Scouring,’ Mr. Warton was my chief companion. Joe

and Miss Lucy both had their work to attend to after breakfast, and so

the Parson and I were left a good deal together; and we used to start

off to see some of the old men whom he had promised to show me, who

could tell me about the old pastimes. I never liked any thing so much

as these walks--not even the walks I afterwards used to have alone with

Miss Lucy, for they were too exciting, and half the time I was in such

a fret that I couldn’t thoroughly enjoy them. But there was no drawback

in these walks with the Parson. He was full of fun, and of all sorts of

knowledge; and he liked talking, and I think rather took a fancy to me,

and was pleased to see how I worked at collecting all the information I

could about the White Horse, for he took a great deal of pains to help

me.

One morning though I remember he got me into a regular puzzle

about King Alfred, for I had been reading over my notes of the old

gentleman’s story, and couldn’t make it agree with the tales which I

had read about Alfred’s hiding away in the cowherd’s hut, and burning

the cakes. So I asked Mr. Warton about it.

“I think,” said he, “you will find that Alfred was in the cowherd’s

cottage in the year 878, after the battle at Chippenham.”

“But, Sir,” said I, “according to the old gentleman’s story, Ashdown

was Alfred’s greatest victory; and Ashdown was fought in 871. Now it

seems very odd that he should have to run away and skulk about in such

places after that.”

“Well,” said he, “I’m not well enough up in the history to explain it

to you, but I’m pretty sure you’ll find I’m right about the dates--why

shouldn’t you write and ask the old gentleman?”

So I did, and I kept a copy of my letter; but I don’t think I need

print that, because his answer will be quite enough without it. Here it

is:--

“22d September, 1857.

“My Dear Sir,--I am favoured with yours of the 20th ult., which

came safely to hand this morning. Our post is somewhat behind

the times, and I know of hardly any town or village from which

a letter can arrive at this place under two days. I do not

myself complain of this state of things.

“With regard to the subject of your letter, I have to tell you

that your friend the clergyman is right in his dates. It was in

the year 878 that Alfred was deserted by his nobles and people

after the battle of Chippenham, which was a drawn battle. Then

he fled to the Island of Athelney, in Somersetshire, and the

incident to which you allude took place, but you have not got

the verses correctly; they run,--

“‘Casn’t mind the ke-aks mun, and doosn’t zee ’em burn?

I’ze warn thee’lt yeat ’em vast enough, zo zoon az ’tiz thy turn.’

“But you are not to believe from this, that the Danish army

ever got a hold on the kingdom of Wessex. I think that the

following passage from Asser’s ‘Life of Alfred’ will explain a

good deal to you. Referring to his sojourn in Athelney, Asser

says:--

“‘We may believe that this misfortune was brought upon the

aforesaid king, because in the beginning of his reign, when

he was a youth, and influenced by youthful feelings, he would

not listen to the petitions which his subjects made to him

for help in their necessities; but he drove them from him and

paid no heed to their requests. This particular gave much pain

to the holy man, St. Neot, who was his kinsman; and often

foretold to him in the spirit of prophecy that he would suffer

great adversity on this account; but Alfred neither attended

to the reproof of the man of God, nor listened to his true

prophecy--wherefore seeing that a man’s sins must be corrected

either in this world or the next, the true and righteous Judge

willed that his sin should not go unpunished in this world, to

the end that he might spare him in the world to come. From this

cause, therefore, Alfred often fell into such great misery,

that sometimes none of his subjects knew where he was, or what

had become of him.’

“And Alfred learned his lesson well in the next few years,

for you will find that in the year 886 A.D., ‘which was the

thirty-eighth year since his birth, King Alfred, after the

burning of cities and slaying of the people, honourably rebuilt

the city of London and made it again habitable, and gave it

into the custody of his son-in-law, Æthelred, Earl of Mercia;

to which King Alfred, all the Angles and Saxons, who before

had been dispersed every where, or were in captivity with the

pagans, voluntarily turned and submitted themselves to his

rule!’

“You see they had turned from his rule many of them because it

was an unjust one in those early years of his reign. But they

were never subdued by the Danes,--so that my statement which

you quote, ‘that the battle of Ashdown saved England from one

hundred years of Paganism,’ is not shaken.

“I have directed my London bookseller to leave a copy of

Asser’s ‘Life of Alfred the Great,’ for you, at Somerset

House, directed to the care of my friend, the secretary of

the Antiquaries’ Society; you will find it to be well worth a

careful perusal. I shall be always glad to hear from you upon

the subjects on which we have conversed, and heartily desiring

that the veneration for all that is old may grow upon you, and

that God may have you in his good keeping, I am faithfully

yours,

“----.”

But to return to my subject, from which I have been wandering for the

pleasure of putting in the old gentleman’s letter. The Parson in our

walks set me thinking about fifty subjects which I never cared about

before, because I could see that he was himself deeply interested in

them, and really believed whatever he said to me. We used to get home

by about twelve o’clock, and then I would go away by myself, and think

over what we had been talking about till dinner. And, after dinner,

Miss Lucy, and sometimes Joe, would come out and walk with us till

tea. Sometimes we went to the village school, and I sat at the door

and heard them teaching; and as long as Mr. Warton was with us it was

all right, but afterwards, when he had gone, I could see that the

schoolmistress, a young woman of about thirty, sallow-faced and rather

prudish, used to look at me as if I had no business there.

When he left, Mr. Warton gave me a kind invitation to go and see him

in town, and added he had no doubt I should come, for he could see I

should soon want some such work as he could give me to do.

After he was gone I tumbled fairly head over heels into the net in

which I suppose every man “as is a man” (as old Seeley would say)

gets enmeshed once in his life. I found it was no use to struggle any

longer, and gave myself up to the stream, with all sails set. Now

there is no easier thing than going down stream somehow, when wind and

tide are with you; but to steer so as to make the most of wind and

tide, isn’t so easy--at least I didn’t find it so.

For as often as not, I think, I did the wrong thing, and provoked,

instead of pleasing her. I used to get up every morning before six, to

be ready to wish her good morning as she went out to the dairy; but I

don’t think she half liked it, for she was generally in a very old gown

tucked through her pocket holes, and pattens. Then after breakfast I

used to hanker round the kitchen, or still-room, or wherever she might

happen to be, like a Harry-long-legs round a candle. And again in the

afternoon I never could keep away, but was at her side in the garden,

or on her walks; in fact, to get rid of me, she had fairly to go up to

her room.

But I couldn’t help myself; I felt that, come what might, I must be

near her while I could; and on the whole, I think she was pleased, and

didn’t at all dislike seeing me reduced to this pitiful state.

When I was involuntarily out of her sight, I used to have a sort of

craving for poetry and often wished that I had spent a little more

time over such matters. I got Joe to lend me the key of the cupboard

where he kept his library, hoping to find something to suit me there.

But, besides a few old folios of divinity and travel, and some cookery

books, and the Farmer’s Magazine, there was nothing but Watts’s Hymns

and Pollock’s Course of Time, which I didn’t find of any use to me.

Joe used to wonder at me at first, when I refused his offers of a day’s

coursing, or a ride with him to Farringdon or Didcot markets; but he

soon got used to it, and put it down to my cockney bringing up, and

congratulated himself that, at any rate, I was pretty good company over

a pipe in the kitchen.

The autumn days sped away all too quickly, but I made the most of them

as they passed, and over and over again I wondered whether there were

any but kind and hospitable and amusing people in the Vale, for the

longer I stayed there, the more I was astonished at the kind courtesy

of everybody I came across, from the highest to the lowest, and I

suppose everybody else would find it the same as I did.

It seemed as if I were destined to leave Elm Close without a single

unkind thought of any body I had seen while there, for even Jack made

his peace with me. Only two days before my departure, Miss Lucy gave

out at breakfast that she was going to walk over to see her uncle, and

wanted to know if her mother or Joe had any message. No, they hadn’t.

But of course I managed to accompany her.

When we came to her uncle’s farm, he was out, and in five minutes

Miss Lucy was away with her dear friend and cousin, one of the girls

I had seen at the pastime, and I was left to the tender mercies of

Jack. However, Jack at his own house, with no women by to encourage

him to make a fool of himself, was a very decent fellow. He walked

me about the homestead, and chatted away about the pastime, and the

accomplishments of his terrier dog, whom he had got from the kennel of

the Berkshire hounds, and whose father used to run with them regularly.

Then he began to inquire about me in a patronizing way; how I came to

know Joe, what I was, and where I lived. And when he had satisfied

his curiosity about me, he took to talking about his cousins. Joe, I

soon found out, was his hero; and he looked forward to the time when

he should be able to breed a good horse, like Joe’s chestnut, and to

go about to all the markets and carry his head as high as any one, as

Joe could, as the height of human happiness. As to cousin Lu, if he

were looking out for any thing of the sort, there was no girl within

twenty miles that he knew of to whom she couldn’t give a stone over any

country. But she wasn’t likely to marry any of the young men about; she

was too full of fun, and laughed at them too much. “I shouldn’t be a

bit surprised now, if she was to take to some town chap like you, after

all’s said and done,” said Jack, in conclusion, as we returned to the

house.

My last day at Elm Close came swiftly and surely, and the sun rose, and

went pitilessly up into the heavens, and sank down behind White Horse

Hill, and the clocks went on striking one after another, just as if it

had been any other day. What a number of things I had in my head that

morning to say to all of them, and above all to her; but one thing or

another interfered, and I had said not one quarter of them, and these

not in the way I had intended, before it was dark, and tea on the

table. But I did go all round the farm and the village, and took a last

look at every field and nook and corner where I had been so happy.

The old lady was unusually talkative at tea, and for some time

afterwards. The fact that I was not going to leave the house till after

midnight, and was to be at business, in London, at nine o’clock the

next morning, now that she had realized it, excited her very much, and

waked up all sorts of recollections of her own travels; particularly

how, when she was a child, she had been a whole day getting to Reading

by the stage, and how, even after her marriage, she and father had had

to sleep at Windsor, on the occasion of their one visit to London. I

was watching Miss Lucy at her work all the time, and thought she seemed

a little absent and sorrowful, and when our eyes met every now and

then, she looked away directly. We hardly said a word, and left Joe to

keep up the talk with the old lady.

Before long she got tired and went off to bed, and then, I thought, if

something would only call Joe out--but nothing happened, and so we sat

on talking commonplaces, till prayer time; which, however, Joe did

consent to put off this evening, because it was my last, till past ten

o’clock. The three servants came in, and knelt down as usual; and I,

in a place where I could see her, and watch every turn of her figure,

and hear every breath she drew. I own I didn’t listen to a word that

Joe read--I couldn’t--and I don’t believe any poor fellow in my state

will ever be hardly judged, whatever square-toed people may say, for

not forcing himself to attend when he hasn’t the power to do it. I

only know that, though I couldn’t listen to the prayers, I could and

did thank God for having brought me down there, and allowed me to see

her and know her; and prayed, as heartily as was in me to pray, that I

might never do any thing which might make me unworthy of one so bright,

and pure, and good as she.

And too soon Joe shut the book, and got up, and the servants went out,

and Joe dived off into the recess; and she lighted her candle and

came up to me, holding out her hand, but without saying any thing, or

looking up in my face.

I took the hand which she held out to me in both mine, but somehow,

when I thought it might be for the last time, I couldn’t let it go.

So I stood holding it, my heart beating so that I couldn’t speak, and

feeling very uncomfortable about the throat. She didn’t take it away,

and presently I got my voice again.

“Good bye, Miss Lucy,” said I, “and God bless you. I can’t tell you

what my holiday at Elm Close has been to me--and I can’t find words to

thank you. I’m a poor lonely fellow, with nobody belonging to me, and

leading a slave of a life in the midst of the great crowd, with all

sorts of temptations to go wrong. You’ll let me think of you, and Elm

Close, and it will be like a little bright window with the sun shining

through into our musty clerks’ room. I feel it will help to keep me

straight for many a long day. You’ll let me think of you now, won’t

you?” said I, pressing the little hand which I held in mine.

“Why, you see I can’t help it if I would,” said she, looking up with a

merry light in her eyes; but she went on directly, “but, indeed, I’m

sure we shall think of you quite as often as you will of us. Joe used

to talk so often about you that I felt quite like an old friend before

we met, and now you’ve been here we shall feel so dull without you.”

“Now, you two! don’t stand talking there all night,” said Joe, coming

out of the recess, where he had been rummaging out the pipes and a

black bottle; “come, come, kiss and part.”

I felt the blood rush up to my face, when Joe said that, but I opened

my hands with a jerk, and let hers go, I hardly knew why. If I hadn’t

been so fond that I was afraid of her, I should have taken Joe at his

word. But I’m glad I didn’t; I’m sure I was right, for I stole a look

at her, and saw that she looked vexed, and flushed up to her bright

brown hair. Next moment she held out her hand again, and shook mine

heartily, and said, without looking up, “Good-bye, you must come again

soon,” and then hurried out of the room, and took away all the light

with her. Heigh-ho! when shall I see the light again.

Well, as I followed Joe into the kitchen, what between the sinking I

felt at having to leave, and the doubt whether I hadn’t made a fool of

myself at the last with Miss Lucy, I felt half mad, and the first thing

I made up my mind to was to have a good quarrel with Joe.

So when he sat down on one side of the fire, and began lighting his

pipe, I kept standing looking at him, and thinking how I should begin.

“There’s your pipe, Dick,” said he, puffing away, “on the settle--why

don’t you sit down and light up?”

“I shan’t smoke with you to-night, Joe,” said I, “you ought to be

ashamed of yourself!”

“Ashamed o’ myself,” shouted Joe, staring up at me till I could hardly

keep from laughing, angry as I was; “what, in the name o’ goodness,

have I done to be ashamed of?”

“’Tisn’t what you’ve done, but what you’ve said.”

“Said! what in the world have I said? Precious little I know, for you

always get all the talk to yourself.”

“Why, what you said just now to me and Miss Lucy,” said I.

“To you and Lu?” said he, looking puzzled; and then off he went into

one of his great laughs. “Oh, I take--well, that’s too much! To be

blown up by _you_ for it! Why, if any one is to scold, I should say

it’s Lu.”

“Do you think I like to be made the means of giving your sister pain?”

said I.

“There now, don’t be a fool, Dick--sit down like a good fellow, and

light your pipe. What I said don’t mean any thing down in these parts.

Well, I’m very sorry. She’ll never think twice about it, bless you. And

besides, you know, there can’t be any harm done, for you didn’t take my

advice.”

Well, I began to get cool, and to think I might do something better

than quarrel with Joe the last night; so I took my pipe, and filled it,

and sat down opposite him, and he began to mix two glasses of grog,

twisting his face about all the time to keep himself from laughing.

“Here’s your health, old fellow,” said he, when he had done, “and, mind

you, we shall always be glad to see you here when you can come; though

I’m afraid the place must be terrible dull for a Londoner.”

“It’s the best place I’ve ever been in,” said I, with a sigh.

This pleased Joe; and he went off about what he would find me to do

if I could come down in the winter or the spring; but I didn’t listen

much, for I was making up my mind to speak to him about his sister, and

I was afraid how he might take it.

Presently he stopped for a moment, and I thought, ‘now or never,’ and

began.

“I want to ask you, Joe, is your sister engaged to any one?”

“Not she,” said Joe, looking up rather surprised; “why, she’s only

eighteen come Lady-day!”

“What do you think of Mr. Warton?” said I.

“Our Parson!” laughed Joe; “that is a good ’un. Why he has got a

sweetheart of his own. Let alone that he’d know better than to court a

farmer’s daughter.”

“Are you sure?” said I; “your sister isn’t like most girls, I can tell

you.”

“Yes, I tell you,” said Joe, “he’s no more in love with our Lu than you

are.”

“Then I’m over head and ears in love with her, and that’s all about

it,” said I, and I looked straight across at him, though it wasn’t an

easy thing to do. But I felt I was in for it, and I should be much

better for having it over.

Joe gave a start, and a long whistle; and then a puff or two at his

pipe, staring at me right in the eyes till I felt my head swimming.

But I wasn’t going to look down just then; if he had looked me right

through he couldn’t have found any thing I was ashamed of, so far as

his sister was concerned, and I felt he had a right to look as hard as

he pleased, and that I was bound not to shirk it.

Presently he got up, and took a turn or two up and down the kitchen.

Then he stopped--

“Spoke to her, yet?” said he.

“No,” said I, “I haven’t.”

“Come, give us your hand, Dick,” said he, holding out his, and looking

quite bright again; “I knew you would be all on the square, let be what

might.”

“Well, I won’t deceive you, Joe,” said I, “I don’t deserve any credit

for that.”

“How not?” said he.

“Why, I meant to have spoken to her half-a-dozen times, only one little

thing or another stopped it. But I’m very glad of it, for I think you

ought to know it first.”

“Well, well,” said he, coming and sitting down again, and staring into

the fire, “it’s a precious bad job. Let’s think a bit how we be to

tackle it.”

“I know,” said I, drawing up a bit--for I didn’t feel flattered at this

speech--“that I’m not in the same position you are in, and that you’ve

a right to look for a much richer man than I am for your sister, but--”

“Oh, bother that,” said Joe, beginning to smoke again, and still

staring into the fire; “I wasn’t thinking of that. ’Twill be just as

bad for we, let who will take her. Here’s mother getting a’most blind,

and ’mazing forgetful-like about every thing. Who’s to read her her

chapter, or to find her spectacles? and what in the world’s to become

of the keys? I be no use to mother by myself, you see,” said Joe, “and

I couldn’t abide to see the old lady put about at her time of life; let

alone how the pickling and preserving is to go on.”

I was very pleased and surprised to see him taking it so coolly, and

particularly that he seemed not to be objecting to me, but only to

losing his sister at all.

“Then there’s my dairy,” said he; “that cow Daisy, as gives the richest

milk in all the Vale, nobody could ever get her to stand quiet till Lu

took to her; she’ll kick down a matter o’ six pail o’ milk a week, I’ll

warrant. And the poultry, too; there’s that drattl’d old galleeny’ll be

learning the Spanish hens to lay astray up in the brake, as soon as

ever Lu goes, and then the fox’ll have ’em all. To think of the trouble

I took to get that breed, and not a mossel o’ use at last!”

“Well, but Joe,” said I, “one would think we were going to be married

to-morrow, to hear you talk.”

“Well, you want to be married, don’t you?” said he, looking up.

“Yes, but not directly,” said I; “you see, I should like to have a tidy

place got all ready before I should think--”

“Why, she mayn’t be agreeable after all,” interrupted Joe, as if a new

light had suddenly struck him; and then he had a good laugh at the

thought, in which I didn’t join.

“Then, Joe,” said I, “I think you don’t seem to mind my being a

cockney, and not a rich man?”

“I’d sooner have had a chap that knows a horse from a handspike, and

something about four-course,” said he, “so I won’t tell a lie about it,

Dick. Put that out of the way, and I’d as lief call you brother-in-law

as any man. But you ain’t in any hurry you said just now?”

“Well, no,” said I; “but of course I should like to write to your

sister directly and tell her, and I hope you won’t object to that, and

won’t hinder me if you can’t help me.”

“Don’t have any of that writing,” said Joe, “’pend upon it, a good-bred

girl like Lu wouldn’t stand it.”

“That’s all very well,” said I, “but I’m going away to-night, you know,

and if I don’t write how’s she ever to know any thing about it?”

“Look here,” said Joe; “will you promise, Dick, to give me and mother a

year to turn round in from next Christmas--that is, supposing Lu don’t

say no?”

“Yes, certainly,” said I; “Christmas year is the earliest time I could

hope to be ready by.”

“Then I’ll tell you what,” said he; “Don’t you go writing to her at

all, and I’ll bring her up with me for Christmas cattle-show, and you

can get us lodgings, and show us some of the sights. You can have it

all out with her before we come home, and I shall be by to see all

fair.”

“No, no, Joe, I couldn’t say a word with you by.”

“I didn’t mean that I was to be in the room, you know, only if any

thing goes wrong--you understand,” said Joe, looking round, and nodding

at me with a solemn face.

“Yes, I see,” said I; “but somebody else--one of the young farmers now,

that I saw on the hill, may be stepping in before Christmas.”

“Not they. It’s busy times with us these next two months. Besides, I’ll

look after that. Is it a bargain, then?”

“Yes,” said I, “only mind, Joe, that you look sharp meantime.”

“All right,” said he; and then fell to looking into the fire again;

and I sat thinking too, and wondering at my luck, which I could hardly

believe in yet.

“And now about the pot,” said Joe; “suppose Lu says yes, what have you

got to keep the pot boiling?”

Then I told him what my salary was, and what I had saved, and where I

had put it out, and he nodded away, and seemed very well satisfied.

“Well, Lu has got £500,” said he, “under father’s will. Parson and I

are the executors. You must go and see the Parson when you get back

to London; he’s an out-and-outer, and worth more than all the chaps at

that jawing shop of yours put together. The money is out at interest,

all but £200, which we’ve never raised yet, but for that matter I can

pay it up whenever it’s wanted.”

“Of course,” said I, “I should wish all her fortune to be settled on

her.”

“Yes, I forgot,” said he; “I suppose there ought to be some sort of

tying-up done for the children. So I’ll go and see Lawyer Smith about

it next market-day.”

“Perhaps you had better wait till after Christmas,” said I.

“Aye, aye,” said he, “I forgot. We may be running a tail scent after

all. But, I say, Dick, if you get married, Lu can never live in those

dirty, dark streets, and you away all day; she’d mope to death without

a place for poultry, and a little bit of turf to cool her feet on.”

“Well,” said I, “you see I’ve got a bit of ground under a freehold land

society, down the Great Northern line. It’s a very pretty place, and

only five minutes’ walk from a station. I could build a house there in

the spring, you know, and have the garden made.”

“That’ll do,” said he; “and if you want £100 or so, to finish it off as

should be, why you know where to come for it.”

“Thank you,” said I, “but I think I can manage it.”

“I shall send her up those Spanish hens,” said he, looking up again

presently from his pipe; “they won’t be no use here.”

“I wish, Joe,” said I, “you wouldn’t talk as if it was all quite

certain; it makes me feel uncomfortable. Your sister mayn’t like me,

after all.”

“Makes no odds at all,” said he; “if she don’t have you, there’ll be

some other chap on in no time. Once a young gal gets a follower it’s

all over, so fur as I see; though ’tisn’t always the first as they

takes up with as they sticks to for better for worse.”

“Thank you for nothing, Master Joe,” said I to myself; and I smoked

away opposite him for some time without saying a word, thinking what a

queer fellow he was, and how I had better let things rest as they were,

for I couldn’t see how to handle him the least bit in the world; and I

can’t tell whether I was most glad or sorry, when we heard the fogger

come to the kitchen door to say the trap was all ready.

Joe knocked the ashes out of his last pipe, took off the last drop out

of his tumbler, and then put out his hand and gave me one of his grips.

“It’s got to be done,” said he, “there’s no mistake about that.”

“What?” said I, “what’s to be done? Don’t look so solemn, Joe, for

goodness’ sake.”

“It’s no laughing matter, mind you,” said he; and he took the candle

and went off into the passage, and came back with his whip and two

top-coats. “Here, you get into that,” he went on, handing me one of

them; “you’ll find the night rawish.”

I buttoned myself into the coat, which was a white drab one, about as

thick as a deal board, with double seams and mother-of-pearl buttons as

big as cheese-plates, and followed Joe into the yard with a heavy heart.

“Carpet-bag and hamper in?” said he, taking the reins.

“Ees, Sir, all right.”

“Jump up, Dick.”

I shook hands with the honest fogger, and gave him half-a-crown, which

he didn’t seem to know how to take; and then I got up by Joe’s side,

and we walked out of the yard at a foot’s pace, on to the grass; he

kept off the road to be more quiet. It was bright moonlight, and a

streak of white mist lay along the Close. I could hear nothing but the

soft crush of the wheels on the rich sward, and the breathing of the

great cows as we passed them in the mist. But my heart was beating like

a hammer, as I looked back over my shoulder at one window of the old

house, until it was hidden behind the elm-trees; and when I jumped down

to open the gate into the road, I tore open the great coat, or I think

I should have been suffocated.

“It’s no laughing matter, mind you,” said Joe, looking round, after we

had gone about half-a-mile along the road at a steady trot.

“No, indeed,” said I. I felt much more like crying, and I thought he

was trying to comfort me, in his way.

“Come, you button up that coat again, Dick; I won’t have you getting

into the train at one in the morning with a chill on you. I won’t turn

my back,” he went on, “on any man in the county at sampling wheat, or

buying a horse, or a lot of heifers, or a flock of sheep. Besides,

if a chap does get the blind side of me, it’s maybe a ten-pound note

lost, and there’s an end of it. But when you come to choosing a missus,

why, it seems like jumping in the dark, for all as I can see. There’s

nothing to sample ’em by, and you can’t look in their mouths or feel

’em over. I don’t take it as a man’s judgment of any account when he

comes to that deal--and then, if he does get the wrong sort!”

“Thank you, Joe,” said I, “but I’m not a bit afraid about getting the

wrong sort, if all goes well.”

“No, but I be,” said he; “why, one would think, Dick, that nobody had

to get a missus but you.”

Well, that made me laugh out, I was so tickled to find he was thinking

of himself all the time; and for the rest of the drive we were merry

enough, for he went on talking about his own prospects so funnily that

it was impossible to keep sad or sentimental.

We drew up at the silent station five or six minutes nearly before the

train was due, and were received by the one solitary porter.

“What luggage, Sir?” said he to me, as I got down.

“One carpet-bag,” I answered, “for Paddington.”

“And a hamper,” said Joe; “you’ll find a hamper in behind there. And

take care to keep it right side up, porter, for there are some pots of

jam in it.”

“Who is it for?” said I; “can I look after it, and take it any where

for you?”

“Why, for you, of course,” said Joe; “you don’t suppose the women would

have let you go back without some of their kickshaws; and I’ve had a

hare and a couple of chickens put in, and some bacon. You must eat the

hare this week, mind.”

I was quite taken by surprise at this fresh instance of the thoughtful

kindness of my Vale friends, and wrung Joe’s hand, mumbling out

something which I meant for thanks.

“Well, good-bye, old fellow,” he said, “I’m very glad to think you’ve

found your way down at last, and now, don’t forget it;” and he gave

me a grip which nearly crashed all my knuckles into a jelly, and was

gathering up his reins to drive off.

“But Joe, here’s your coat,” I called out, and was beginning to take it

off--“you’ve forgotten your coat.”

“No, no,” said he, “keep it on--’twill be very cold to-night, and

you’ll want it in the train. We’ll fetch it at Christmas, and the

hamper and the jam pots too, at the same time. Lu will be sure to look

after them, so mind you don’t lose ’em--Hullo! What in the world are

you cutting off the direction for?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” said I, “but I often fancy parcels go safer with

only the railway label on them. Besides, I shall have it in the

carriage with me.”

The fact was I had caught sight of the direction, which was in her

handwriting, and had quite forgotten Joe, as I was cutting it off to

put it in my pocket-book.

“Well, that’s a rum start,” said Joe, “but every one has their own

notions about travelling;” and so, with a cheery good-bye to me, off he

drove along the dark road; and in another minute the train came up, and

I and my luggage were on our way to London.

We went away up through the cold night, eastward, towards the great

city which had been my home from childhood. I felt that another man

was journeying back from the one who had come down a fortnight before;

that he who was travelling eastward had learnt to look beyond his

own narrow cellar in the great world-city, to believe in other things

than cash payments and shorthand for making his cellar liveable in,

to have glimpses of and to sympathize with the life of other men, in

his own time, and in the old times before him. These thoughts crowded

on me, but all under the shadow of and subordinated to the one great

rising hope, in which I had first found and felt my new life. Together

they lifted up my heart during the first stages of that night journey,

and I opened the window and leant out into the rushing night air, for

the carriage was too small for me, and my grand visions and resolves.

But soon it began to feel cold, and I shut up the window and squeezed

myself into a corner with my feet up on the opposite seat, and felt

very thankful that I had on Joe’s great coat. Then the lamp went out,

and it got colder as the dawn came on, and my visions and resolves

began to get less bright and firm. The other side of the picture rose

up in ugly colours, and I thought of the dirty dark clerks’ room, and

the hours of oil-lamps and bad air, and the heartless whirl and din

of the great city. And to crown all came the more than doubt whether

my hope would not fade out and die in the recesses of my own heart.

What was I? and what my prospects, that any one should ever give me a

thought again of those whom I was so fast leaving behind, much more

that she, the flower of them all, should single me out before all

others? It was absurd, I should most likely never see Elm Close, or the

Vale, or the great mysterious Hill again--I had better make up my mind

to live the next twenty years as I had the last. With some such meaning

spoke the doleful voices, but I was never much of a hand at looking at

the doleful side of things, and I made good strong fight on that night

ride; and took out my pipe, and lit it, and pressed my back firmer into

my corner.

Well, and if they don’t remember me, thought I, I can remember them at

any rate--they can’t help that; and I _will_ remember them too, and

all their kind pleasant ways, and their manlike games, and their queer

songs and stories--and the queen of them all, I can carry her in my

heart, thank God for that, and every word I ever heard her speak, and

every smile I ever saw light up her merry eyes or dimple round her

mouth--and the country, too, the fair rich Vale, and the glorious old

Hill, they are mine for ever, and all the memories of the slaying of

dragons; and of great battles with the Pagan. I wonder whether I shall

ever see the old gentleman again who conjured it up for me, and put

life into it, and made me feel as if King Alfred and his Saxons were as

near and dear to me as Sir Colin Campbell and the brave lads in India!

Just then the train stopped at Reading, and the guard put his head in

to say we stopped for three minutes, and I could get a glass of ale.

So I jumped out and had a glass of ale, and then another; and stamped

about the platform till the train started. And when I got into my

corner again, I was quite warm and jolly.

I have been always used to a good night’s rest, and I daresay the ale

made me more sleepy, and so I fell into a kind of doze almost directly.

But in my doze the same train of thought went on, and all the people

I had been living with and hearing of flitted about in the oddest

jumbles, with Elm Close and White Horse Hill for a background. I went

through the strangest scenes. One minute I was first cousin to King

Alfred, and trying to carry his messages over the Hill to Æthelred,

only Joe’s old brown horse would run away with me along the Ridgeway;

then I was the leader of the Berkshire old gamesters, playing out the

last tie with a highwayman, for a gold-laced hat and pair of buckskin

breeches; then I was married--I needn’t say to whom--and we were

keeping house under the Hill, and waiting tea for St. George, when he

should come down from killing the Dragon. And so it went on, till at

last a mist came over the Hill, and all the figures got fainter and

fainter, and seemed to be fading away. But as they faded, I could see

one great figure coming out clearer through the mist, which I had never

noticed before. It was like a grand old man, with white hair and mighty

limbs; who looked as old as the hill itself, but yet as if he were as

young now as he ever had been,--and at his feet were a pickaxe and

spade, and at his side a scythe. But great and solemn as it looked,

I felt that the figure was not a man, and I was angry with it,--why

should it come in with its great pitiful eyes and smile? why were my

brothers and sisters, the men and women, to fade away before it?

“The labour that a man doeth under the sun, it is all vanity. Prince

and peasant, the wise man and the fool, they all come to me at last,

and I garner them away, and their place knows them no more!”--so the

figure seemed to say to itself, and I felt melancholy as I watched it

sitting there at rest, playing with the fading figures.

At last it placed one of the little figures on its knee, half in

mockery, as it seemed to me, and half in sorrow. But then all changed;

and the great figure began to fade, and the small man came out clearer

and clearer. And he took no heed of his great neighbour, but rested

there where he was placed; and his face was quiet, and full of life, as

he gazed steadily and earnestly through the mist. And the other figures

came flitting by again, and chanted as they passed, “The work of one

true man is greater than all thy work. Thou hast nought but a seeming

power, over it, or over him. Every true man is greater than thee. Every

true man shall conquer more than thee; for he shall triumph over death,

and hell, and thee, oh, Time!”

And then I woke up, for the train stopped at the place where the

tickets are collected; and, in another five minutes, I was in a cab,

with my bag and the great basket of country treasures, creeping along

in the early November morning towards Gray’s Inn Lane. And so ended my

fortnight’s holiday.

[Illustration]

THE SERMON WHICH THE PARSON SENT TO MR. JOSEPH HURST, OF ELM CLOSE

FARM, IN FULFILMENT OF HIS PROMISE.

LEVITICUS xxiii. v. 1, 2.--And the Lord spake unto Moses,

saying, Speak unto the children of Israel, and say unto them,

Concerning the feasts of the Lord which ye shall proclaim to be

holy convocations, even these are my feasts.

“These are _my_ feasts,” said God to the nation He was educating; “keep

these feasts, for they are mine.” Now, what was the nature of these

feasts, my brethren, which God called his? The Bible leaves us in no

doubt about them. They were certain seasons set apart in every year,

and at longer intervals, during which the nation was “to rejoice before

the Lord their God.” Each feast commemorated some event in the nation’s

life; either a solemn act of national worship, such as the dedication

of the Temple; or some great national deliverance, such as the Exodus

commemorated by the feast of Passover, or the defeat of Haman’s plot in

the reign of Ahasuerus, commemorated by the feast Purim; or the daily

care of God for his people, in giving them rain and fruitful seasons,

the harvest and vintage, the increase of corn, and wine, and oil,

commemorated by the feast of Pentecost.

They were _to rejoice_ before the Lord their God at all these feasts.

With what outward actions they were to rejoice we are not expressly

told; probably it was left to each generation to express their joy in

their own way. In the case of the Passover we know that they were to

eat a lamb and unleavened bread; and we gather, I think, from many

places, that both songs and dancing were freely used at the feasts; but

further than this we do not know the outward form of their rejoicing.

But we _do_ know the spirit in which they were to keep their feasts,

the temper of mind in which God would have them rejoice before Him.

This is most fully proclaimed. They were to keep alive in themselves

and one another the memory of the great deliverances and blessings,

which had been, and were being wrought for them. They were to remember

that these deliverances had been wrought for ignorant despised bondmen,

that these blessings were being poured down on a stiffnecked sinful

people. Remembering these things, they were to come to their feasts,

and rejoice before Him, with humble open hearts, thanking Him for all

they possessed, with love towards their brethren, ready to forgive

debts, to help the poor to his right, and to acknowledge and glory in

the bond which bound them all together in one nation.

Moreover, these feasts were to be feasts for the whole nation--for

the rich and the poor, the free man and the slave, “for thee, and thy

man-servant, and thy maid-servant;” for those who are in trouble and

sorrow, as well as for the prosperous and happy; “for the stranger, and

fatherless, and widow who are within thy gates.”

One thing more I wish you to notice about the Jewish feasts; they

had all the same character, all were God’s feasts--not one or two

religious feasts, as we should say, and the rest national, but all

God’s feasts, and all national also. There is no hint in the Bible of

any distinction; all feasts ordained for the nation are God’s feasts,

and their feasts also.

Now such feasts--such rejoicings before the Lord--as these, you can

see at once must have had no slight influence on the nation which kept

them. Accordingly we find them interwoven with every fibre of the

national life: sometimes kept as God’s feasts--as He had said they

were to be kept--in humbleness and thankfulness, in breaking bonds and

forgiving debts; often, as though they had been not his but the devil’s

feasts, in persecuting prophets and slaying righteous men; and no doubt

also, as the natural consequence, in debauchery, gluttony, and hard

and usurious dealings with one another; in oppression of man-servant

and maid-servant, the widow, the fatherless, and the stranger. But in

whatever way the feasts were kept they were always exercising a great

power over generation after generation.

I have begun by talking to you about the Jewish feasts, my brethren,

because I want to speak to you about our English feasts; and I think

if we understand their feasts we shall very likely learn some lessons

about our own which may do us good. Now we English, my brethren, as a

nation, have neglected this matter of feasts too much. We have very few

days on which we rejoice as a nation--in fact the Queen’s birthday is

almost our only national holiday, and this day we keep as Englishmen,

and not as Christians; while the feasts which we keep as Christians,

and not as Englishmen (such as Christmas, and Easter, and Whitsuntide),

have for this very reason lost much of their worth for us; which we

shall recover, when we begin to keep them again, not the less as

Christians, but more as Englishmen.

It is my earnest hope and prayer that we may mend in this matter,

and that the great Christian festivals and the Queen’s birthday may

so become all, and more than all, to us and our children, which the

Passover and Pentecost were to the Jews. But that it may be so, we

must, in this as in all other matters, begin mending at home, in our

own families, and our own parishes. And so, my brethren, let us to-day

think about the feasts which we keep who live in this parish, in the

Vale of White Horse, who worship in this church.

We all know well enough what these feasts are. First, there is our

village feast, a day set apart in every year which is specially _the_

feast day of this parish, and of all who belong to it. Then there are

our harvest homes, which are not parish but family festivals; when

the farmer and those who have worked with him, rejoice together over

the garnering in of the fruits which God has given. Lastly, there is

the feast which does not come every year, but at longer intervals,

the feast of Scouring the White Horse, which is not the feast of one

parish, but of the whole country side.

A few words as to the meaning of these feasts of ours. The first is the

commemoration of the opening of this parish church, and its dedication

to the worship of God. Your harvest homes you know the meaning of as

well as I. The third is the commemoration of a great victory, won a

thousand years ago by the king of this country against an army of

heathen invaders. I remind you of these things because they have been

too much forgotten, and we never can rightly use our feasts till we

remember them better.

Well, now, remember what I have told you about the Jewish feasts, or

rather take your Bibles and look for yourselves, whether I tell you

the truth, when I say, that our feasts are just such feasts as those

which you read of there. The feasts of the Jews were all either feasts

in remembrance of the dedication of the Temple, or of thanksgiving for

the good gifts of God, or of commemoration for some great national

deliverance.

And ours are the very same. Do not think I am dealing unfairly with

you in comparing our country feasts to the great national feasts

of the Jews. It is not unfair to compare small things with great:

families, parishes, nations, must stand or fall by the same laws. A

society cannot do evil or good without reaping the fruits thereof,

whether it be very small or very great. Do not think that I ought to

speak of the great Christian festivals, Christmas and Easter; they are

better understood and kept, though very badly as yet. I believe I am

taking the right way to make you understand and keep these world-wide

Christian feasts properly by bringing you down to these common

insignificant feasts of ours, which we, the members of this parish and

congregation, have power over; which we can make good or evil; for the

use or abuse of which we shall be called to account by God.

For “thus saith the Lord,” to us as He said to the Jews, “these are

_my_ feasts.” They are his, my brethren, whether we like it or not;

they are his, though we may try to make them ours, and so make them the

devil’s. There is no neutral ground, no escape from the hard fact. Let

us see now if we cannot accept them, and use them as his. Let us see

whether they will be less or more to us if we do so. We shall find the

trial worth making, I think, in the end.

They are his feasts: how, then, can we come to them as his

guests--guests who will be pleasing to him, who will use his feasts as

he would have us? For if we go to a man’s feast, the first thing we

have to do is to go in such a temper and such a dress as will make us

acceptable guests; and shall we do less as the guests of God?

The first thing, then, we have to consider is the temper, the state

of mind in which we should go to our feasts; and here, as I said

before, the Bible tells us all we want to know. The temper which he

required of the Jews, he will require of us. At his feasts we have

specially two things to do, to remember and to rejoice. To remember

the loving-kindness which he has shown to our fathers and to us, in

delivering us many a time from the hand of enemies who were stronger

than we; in giving us a Church, where for many hundred years the

prayers of generation after generation had gone up to him, the God of

all truth; in giving us the rich increase of his earth, year after

year. Remembering these things, then, we are to keep the feast in

humility, for our own unworthiness; in thankfulness, for his tender

care and unbounded love.

And we are also to rejoice before him, as members of a family, of

a parish, of a country; thinking, therefore, of others, and not of

ourselves; making up quarrels, exercising hospitality to all according

to our means, seeking to do kindnesses to all who need them, to our

debtors, to the oppressed and unfortunate amongst us, to the widows,

the fatherless, and the stranger; and in all ways strengthening and

deepening the bond which binds us to one another, and to him.

This, my brethren, is the temper and state of mind which he required

of the Jews of old, and which he requires of us at these times

especially. Think what our feasts would be, what our whole lives would

be, if we tried to remember and to rejoice before the Lord thus.

If we come to his feasts in this temper, my brethren, it matters

comparatively little what our outward acts of rejoicing may be. If our

hearts are right towards the Lord of the feast and to one another,

our dress and actions are surely right also, or will soon become so.

Nevertheless, this is a matter of plain, practical importance, and I am

not going to shrink from it. I wish to consider with you, how we keep

his feasts and our feasts now; whether our method of keeping them is

a true expression of that temper and spirit in which they ought to be

kept, whether any thing better can be suggested.

On these points, as I said above, we have not the same help which we

had before. We know very little of how the Jews rejoiced; we may be

sure that we are not meant to copy the little we do know, such as the

eating of a lamb roasted whole with unleavened bread. It is left for

us to find out, and to do, such acts as may be done by those who are

humble, and thankful, and loving in heart, towards God and towards each

other.

Now there is one thing which one sees at once is wanting in our

celebration of these feasts. In the times when they were established,

it was the chief act of them, that which gave meaning to them, and

kept alive that meaning. We have neglected and disused it, and so they

have become all but meaningless to us, mere seasons in which we are

to enjoy more pleasures than in ordinary times. This thing which we

have forgotten is public fellow-worship, and it ought to be restored

as soon as possible. At the yearly meetings of many of your benefit

and other clubs, the members go all together to the church, and there

worship before attending to their business and their pleasure. Why

should not a parish do the same? I know nothing which would so easily

and so effectually raise the tone of our village feast as the regular

celebration of worship on that day, in the Church, the dedication and

consecration of which, to the worship of God, was the cause of the

holiday.

In one respect I believe that we are, to some extent, still keeping

the feast as we ought. I believe that on that day young people who

were born in the parish and have left it, make a point, if possible,

of getting back to see their fathers and mothers, and friends, and to

revive old associations, often bringing with them part of their wages

or some present; that many of the silly quarrels and feuds which have

arisen during the year are then set to rest; that the residents in

the parish make some exertion to welcome their visitors hospitably,

and that a general kindly feeling is common throughout the parish. I

believe that this is still so, to some extent; but I fear that it is

becoming less and less so. My brethren, all this is right, and true,

and honest; this is the way to keep God’s feasts; you can’t go too far

in this direction (except by spending more money than you can afford,

which is always wrong). But the more you can deepen old family and

local ties on these occasions, the more you can heal up quarrels, and

forgive debts (both other debts, and money debts--remember that there

is no duty more insisted on in God’s Word than this of forgiving money

debts at these times), and exercise hospitality one to another without

grudging, the more will you be keeping God’s feasts as he would have

you keep them.

Then there are the sports for which prizes are given. There is no need

to specify them all, and I shall therefore only speak of the one which

is considered the most objectionable--which many people think should be

stopped altogether--I mean wrestling. Whatever I may say on this will

apply to all the rest. Now, my brethren, are wrestling matches a proper

way of keeping God’s feasts? That is the question we have to answer.

The object of wrestling and of all other athletic sports is to

strengthen men’s bodies, and to teach them to use their strength

readily, to keep their tempers, to endure fatigue and pain. These are

all noble ends, my brethren. God gives us few more valuable gifts than

strength of body, and courage, and endurance--to you labouring men they

are beyond all price. We ought to cultivate them in all right ways, for

they are given us to protect the weak, to subdue the earth, to fight

for our homes and country if necessary.

Therefore I say that wrestling, inasmuch as it is a severe trial of

strength, temper, and endurance, may be, and ought to be, one of many

right and proper ways of rejoicing before God at these feasts. And

I say to any man who has strength for it, and can keep his temper,

and carries away no vain or proud thoughts if he wins, and no angry

or revengeful thoughts if he loses, play by all means. No doubt there

are men who ought not to play, who ought to abstain wholly from these

games, as some men ought to abstain wholly from drink, who cannot use

such things temperately, which is the more worthy and manly way--men so

constituted that these sort of games rouse all that is brutal in their

natures, others who become braggarts and bullies from success in them.

To such men (and each of you can easily find out whether he is such a

man) I say abstain wholly.

Having said this, brethren, I must add that great changes should be

made in the conduct or management of these games. They should never, on

any pretence or plea whatever, be left in the hands of publicans. You

should always endeavour to play in sides (as is, I believe, the most

common custom) for your county or your parish, and not for yourselves,

as you are much more likely in that way to play bravely and fairly.

Money prizes should be if possible avoided, for money is the lowest

motive for which men can undertake any work or any game. And lastly,

every one of you should exercise his whole strength and influence in

putting down at once all brutality and bluster and foul play.

As to the rest of the amusements, the visiting shows, the eating and

drinking, the dancing and music, I believe them all in themselves to be

lawful and right in the sight of God, and fit things to do when we are

rejoicing before Him. But, my brethren, I do _not_ think them lawful

and right, or fit things to be done before anybody but the devil, when

they end in such scenes as, I fear--as I know--they often do end in at

our feasts. No wonder that the feasts are falling off year by year;

that they cease to interest decent and respectable people who used to

care about them, when they are deliberately turned by some into scenes

of drunkenness and profligacy, which can scarcely be surpassed amongst

savages and heathens.

I need not dwell on this, for you all know well enough what I mean.

You all know, too--the voice within you tells each of you plainly

enough--the moment you are going beyond the proper limits in these

matters. It is no use to lay down rules on such subjects. Every man

and every woman must be a law to themselves. One can do safely what

would ruin another. And here again I say, as I said before, the use

of these things is right and good, and what God approves of, who in

his infinite love has given us the power of enjoying all these things,

and the things themselves to enjoy--music, and dancing, and pleasant

company, and food and drink. The abuse of them is of the devil, and

destroys body and soul.

I beseech you all to think of what I have said, and endeavour, each

in your own way, to retain, or to bring back, if necessary, God’s

feasts into your own parishes. You, old and grown-up men and women, by

living soberly and righteously; never making mischief, or quarrelling;

treating your children with forbearance and love, doing your own work,

and helping others to do theirs. To you young men, I say, as Solomon

said, rejoice in your youth; rejoice in your strength of body, and

elasticity of spirits, and the courage which follows from these; but

remember that for these gifts you will be judged--not condemned, mind,

but judged. You will have to show before a Judge who knoweth your

inmost hearts, that you have used these his great gifts well; that you

have been pure, and manly, and true.

And to you, young women, I can but say the same. Beauty, and purity,

and youth, and merry light hearts, and all the numberless attractions

which have been poured upon you, are tremendous influences for good

or evil,--gifts for which you will have to give an account. Rejoice

in them; use them freely; but avoid, as you would death itself, all

rivalry with one another, all attempts to exercise power over men you

do not care for, every light thought, and word, and look. For the light

word or look is but a step from the impure, and the experience of the

whole world is telling you

“How mirth can into folly glide,

And folly into sin.”

But now to conclude. You may ask, how are we all to keep these things

in mind? how, when we are all met together to enjoy ourselves, can we

be ever on the watch for this evil, which you say is so near us? You

cannot, my brethren; but One is with you, is in you, who can and will,

if you will let him.

Men found this out in the old time, and have felt it and known it

ever since. Three thousand years ago this truth dawned upon the old

Psalmist, and struck him with awe. He struggled with it; he tried to

escape from it, but in vain. “Whither shall I go then,” he says, “from

thy spirit? or whither shall I flee then from thy presence? If I go up

to heaven, Thou art there: if I go down to hell, Thou art there also.

If I take the wings of the morning, and reside in the uttermost parts

of the sea; even there also shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand

shall hold me.”

Is any of us stronger or wiser than the Psalmist? Is there any place

for us to flee to, which was not open to him? My brethren, had we not

better make up our minds to accept and acknowledge the truth, to which

our own consciences bear witness; that, not only in heaven, and in

hell, and in the uttermost parts of sea and earth, He is present, but

that in the inmost recesses of our own hearts there is no escape from

his Spirit--that He is there also, sustaining us, pleading with us,

punishing us.

We know it by the regret we feel for time wasted and opportunities

neglected; by the loathing coming back to us, time after time, for our

every untrue or mean thought, word, or deed; by every longing after

truth, and righteousness, and purity, which stirs our sluggish souls.

By all these things, and in a thousand other ways, we feel it, we know

it.

Let us, then, come to our feasts owning this, and giving ourselves up

to his guidance. At first it will be hard work; our will and spirits

will be like a lump of ice in a man’s hand, which yields but slowly

to the warm pressure. But do not despair; throw yourselves on his

guidance, and he will guide you, he will hide you under his wings, you

shall be safe under his feathers, his faithfulness and truth shall be

your shield and buckler.

The ice will melt into water, and the water will lie there in the

hollow of the hand, moving at the slightest motion, obeying every

impulse which is given to it.

My brethren, the Spirit of God which is in every one of us--the Spirit

of truth and love unchangeable--will take possession of our spirits,

if we will but let him, and turn not only our feasts into feasts of

the Lord, but our whole lives into the lives of children of God, and

joint-heirs of heaven with his Son.

[Illustration]

APPENDIX.

[Illustration]

NOTE I.

The earliest authentic historical notices of the White Horse are, so

far as I am aware,--

1st. A Cartulary of the Abbey of Abingdon, now in the British Museum,

of the time of Henry II., the exact date of it being, it is believed,

A.D. 1171. It runs as follows: “Consuetudinis apud Anglos tunc erat, ut

monachi qui vellent pecuniarum patrimoniorum qui forent susceptibiles,

ipsisque fruentes quomodo placeret dispensarent. Unde et in Abbendonia

duo, Leofricus et Godricus Cild appellati, quorum unus Godricus,

Spersholt juxta locum qui vulgo mons Albi Equi nuncupatur, alter

Leofricus Hwitceorce super flumen Tamisie maneria sita patrimoniali

jure obtinebant,” &c.

2dly. Another Cartulary of the same Abbey, of the reign of Richard I.,

which runs as follows: “Prope montem ubi ad Album Equum scanditur, ab

antiquo tempore Ecclesia ista manerium Offentum appellatum in dominio

possidet, juxta quod villa X hidarum adjacet ex jure Ecclesiæ quam

Speresholt nominavit,” &c.

3dly. An entry on the Close Rolls, 42 Ed. III., or A.D.

1368-9:--“Gerard de l’Isle tient en la vale de White Horse one fee,”

&c. See Archæologia, vol. xxxi. p. 290. Letter from William Thoms, Esq.

to J. Y. Ackerman, Esq., Secretary.

Coming down to comparatively modern times, it is curious that so little

notice should have been taken of the White Horse by our antiquaries.

Wise, in his Letter to Dr. Mead (1738), which has been already quoted

from in the text, regrets this, and then adds: “Leland’s journey does

not seem to have carried him this way, nor does Camden here go out of

the other’s track; though he mentions, upon another occasion, and by

the bye, _The White Horse_; but in such a manner, that I could wish,

for his own sake, he had passed it over in silence with the rest. For

his own account is altogether so unbecoming so faithful and accurate

an author, insinuating to his readers that it has no existence but in

the imagination of country people. ‘_The Thames_,’ says he, ‘_falls

into a valley, which they call_ The Vale of White Horse, _from I know

not what shape of a Horse fancied on the side of a whitish Hill_.’ Much

nearer to the truth is Mr. Aubrey, however wide of the mark, who, in

the additions to the Britannia, says: ‘I leave others to determine,

whether the White Horse on the Hill was made by Hengist, since the

Horse was the arms or figure in Hengist’s standard.’ The author of a

‘Tour through England,’ is a little more particular, though he leaves

us as much in the dark about the antiquity and design of it. ‘Between

this town of Marlborow and Abingdon, is the Vale of White Horse. The

inhabitants tell a great many fabulous stories of the original of its

name; but there is nothing of foundation in them, that I could find.

The whole of the story is this: Looking south from the Vale, we see a

trench cut on the side of a high, green hill, in the shape of a horse,

and not ill-shaped neither; the trench is about a yard deep, and filled

almost up with chalk, so that at a distance you see the exact shape

of a White Horse, but so large, as to take up near an acre of ground,

some say almost two acres. From this figure, the Hill is called in our

maps, White Horse Hill, and the low or flat country under it the Vale

of White Horse.’ (See pp. 30, 31.)

NOTE II.

Medeshamstede, however, was restored with great splendour in the year

963. The account in the Saxon Chronicle is so illustrative of what was

going on in England at the time, that I think I may be allowed to give

it, especially as the restoration was the work of a Vale of White Horse

man, Ethelwold, Abbot of Abingdon, who was in this year made Bishop of

Winchester.

Edgar was king, and Dunstan Archbishop of Canterbury--Ethelwold, after

strong measures at Winchester, (where “he drove the clerks out of the

bishopric because they would not observe any rule, and he set the monks

there,”) “went to the king and begged of him that he would give him all

the minsters which heathen men had of old time broken down, because he

would restore them; and the king joyfully granted it.” Then he restored

Ely, and “after that came Bishop Ethelwold to the minster which was

called Medeshamstede, which of old time had been destroyed by heathen

men. He found nothing there but old walls and wild woods. There found

he hidden in the old walls writings that Abbot Hudda had erewhile

written, how king Wulfhere and Ethelred his brother had built it, and

how they had freed it against king and against bishop, and against all

secular service, and how the pope Agatho had confirmed the same by his

rescript, and the archbishop ‘deo dedit.’ Then caused he the minster

to be built, and set there an abbot who was called Adulf, and caused

monks to be there where before was nothing. Then came he to the king

and caused him to look at the writings which before were found, and the

king answered then and said, I, Edgar, grant and give to-day before God

and before the Archbishop Dunstan, freedom to St. Peter’s minster, from

king and from bishop, and all the villages that lie thereto, that is to

say, Eastfield, and Dodthorp, and Eye, and Paxton. And thus I free it,

that no bishop have there any command without the abbot of the minster.

And I give the town which is called Oundle, with all which thereto

lieth, that is to say, that which is called ‘the eight hundreds,’ and

market and toll so freely that neither king, nor bishop, nor earl, nor

sheriff have there any command, nor any man except the Abbot alone and

him whom he thereto appointeth”--and after giving other lands to Christ

and St. Peter through the prayer of Bishop Ethelwold, “with sack and

sock, toll and team, and infangthief,” and willing “that a market be

in the same town, and no other be between Stamford and Huntingdon,”

the king ends: “And I will that all liberties and all the remissions

that my predecessors have given, that they stand, and I sign and

confirm it with Christ’s rood token. ✠” “Then Dunstan the Archbishop

of Canterbury answered and said, I grant that all the things which are

here given and spoken of, and all the things which thy predecessors

and mine have conceded, those will I that they stand; and whosoever

this breaketh, then give I him the curse of God, and of all saints, and

of all ordained heads, and of myself, unless he come to repentance. And

I give in acknowledgment to St. Peter my mass-hackel, and my stole, and

my reef, for the service of Christ.” “I, Oswald, Archbishop of York,

assent to all these words, by the holy rood which Christ suffered on. ✠”

“I, Ethelwold, bless all who shall observe this, and I excommunicate

all who shall break this, unless he come to repentance.” So the minster

at Medeshamstede was set up again under Adulf, who bought lands and

greatly enriched it, till Oswald died, and he was chosen Archbishop of

York, and was succeeded as abbot by Kenulph, who “first made the wall

about the minster; then gave he that to name Peterborough which was

before called Medeshamstede.”--_Saxon Chronicle_ A.D. 963.

NOTE III.

SITE OF THE BATTLE OF ASHDOWN.

There are four spots in Berkshire which claim the honour of being the

Œscendun of the chroniclers, where Æthelred and Alfred gained their

great victory; they are Ilsley, Ashamstead, Aston in the parish of

Bluberry, and Ashdown, close to White Horse Hill. Now it seems clear

that Ashdown was, in Saxon times, the name of a district stretching

over a considerable portion of the Berkshire chalk range, and it is

quite possible that all of the above sites may have been included in

that district; therefore, I do not insist much upon the name, though

whatever weight is to be attached to it, must tell in favour of the

latter site, that of Ashdown. Let us, however, consider the other

qualifications of the rival sites.

That of Ilsley is supported, so far as I know, only by Hewitt in his

antiquities of the Hundred of Compton (1844); and his argument rests

chiefly on the fitness of the ground for the scene of a great battle.

He tells us that the detachments of three Waterloo regiments, marching

through Ilsley in 1816, when they came to the spot, stopped and called

out, “Waterloo! Waterloo!” to one another. He also states that the name

Ilsley is, in fact, “Hilde læg,” the field of battle; but as he has no

tradition in his favour, and cannot, so far as I know, point to any

remains in the neighbourhood in support of his theory, I think his case

must fail, and only mention it to show that I have not overlooked the

claim.

Ashamstead, situate five miles to the southeast of Ilsley, is named by

the Lysons in their topographical account of Berkshire as the probable

site of the battle, but they give no reasons, and are unsupported by

tradition or remains.

Aston has a stronger case. It is situate between Wallingford and

Ilsley. The range of chalk hills rises just above it, and one detached

hill is here thrown out into the vale, on which are still visible

considerable earthworks. There is a chapel called Thorn Chapel on the

eastern slope of this hill, and I am told there is a tradition that

this chapel was built on the spot where some Saxon king heard mass on

the morning of a battle. It is suggested by Mr. Lousley and others,

that the Saxons occupied this outlying hill, the Danes the opposite

range; and that the battle was fought in the valley between, where,

when the road was recently altered, a number of bones were found,

apparently thrown in together without care, as would be the case after

a battle. There are, however, no regular barrows or other remains.

Bishop Gibson is in favour of this spot, on account, as it would seem,

of a passage in the Saxon Chronicle for the year 1006, which runs as

follows: “They” (the Danes) “destroyed Wallingford, and passed a night

at Cholsey.” Then they “turned _along Ashdown_ to Cwichelmes Low.”

The bishop says, that Cwichelmes Low (the _low_ or hill of King

Cwichelm, who reigned in these parts, and died in the year 636 A.D.)

is Cuckhamsley Hill, or Scuchamore Knob, as it is generally called;

a high hill in the same chalk range, about ten miles east of White

Horse Hill; and he argues that, as the Danes went _from_ Wallingford,

_by_ Ashdown, _to_ Cwichelmes Low, we must look for Ashdown between

Wallingford and Cuckhamsley Hill. Now Aston lies directly between the

two, therefore Aston is Ashdown, and the site of the battle. But the

place now called Ashdown is on the further side of Cuckhamsley Hill

from Wallingford--therefore the Danes could not have passed it in

getting from Wallingford to Cuckhamsley Hill--therefore the modern

Ashdown cannot be the site of the battle.

To this I answer, _First_, the Bishop _assumes_ that Cwichelmes Low is

Cuckhamsley Hill, without giving any reason.

_Secondly_, assuming Cwichelmes Low and Cuckhamsley Hill to be

identical; yet, as Ashdown was clearly a large tract of country, the

Danes might go from Wallingford, _along_ a part of it, _to_ Cwichelmes

Low without passing the battle-field.

_Thirdly_, the name Aston is written “Estone” in Domesday Book; meaning

“East town,” or enclosure, and not “Mons fraxini,” the “Hill of the

Ash-tree.”

_Fourthly_, Æthelred and Alfred would have kept to the hills in their

retreat, and never have allowed the Danes to push them out into the

Thames-valley, where the Pagan cavalry would have been invaluable; but

this must have been the case, if we suppose Aston to be the site of

the battle. Lastly, all the above sites are too near to Reading, the

farthest being only sixteen miles from that town. But Æthelred and

Alfred had been retreating three days, and would therefore much more

probably be found at Ashdown by White Horse Hill, which is ten miles

farther along the range of hills.

Ashdown, the remaining site, and the one which I believe to be the true

one, is the down which surrounds White Horse Hill, in the parish of

Uffington. On the highest point of the hill, which is 893 feet above

the level of the sea, stands Uffington Castle, a plain of more than

eight acres in extent, surrounded by earthworks, and a single deep

ditch, which Camden, and other high authorities, say are Danish.

There is another camp, with earthworks, called Hardwell Camp, about a

mile W.N.W. of Uffington Castle, and a third smaller circular camp,

called King Alfred’s camp, about a mile to the S.W., which may still

be made out, close to the wall of Ashdown Park, Lord Craven’s seat,

although Aubrey says, that in his time the works were “almost quite

defaced, by digging for the Sarsden stones to build my Lord Craven’s

house in the Park.” Wise suggests that the Danes held Uffington Castle;

that Æthelred was in Hardwell-camp, and Alfred in Alfred’s camp. A

mile and a half to the eastward, in which direction the battle must

have rolled, as the Saxons slowly gained the day, is a place called

the Seven Barrows, where are seven circular burial-mounds, and several

other large irregularly-shaped mounds, full of bones; the light soil

which covers the chalk is actually black around them. The site

agrees in all points with the description in the chroniclers; it is

the proper distance from Reading; the name is the one used by the

chroniclers,--“Ash-down,” “Mons Fraxini,” “Æscendun;” it is likely that

Æthelred would have fought somewhere hereabouts to protect Wantage, a

royal burg, and his birthplace, which would have been otherwise at the

mercy of the enemy; and lastly, there--and not at Cuckhamsley Hill,

or elsewhere--is carved the White Horse, which has been from time

immemorial held to be a monument of the great victory of Ashdown. For

the above reasons, I think we are justified in claiming this as the

site of the battle.

NOTE IV.

WAYLAND SMITH’S CAVE.

Wise (see p. 35) says he thinks he has discovered the place of burial

of King Basreg, Bagseeg (or whatever his name might be, for it is

given in seven or eight different ways in the chroniclers), in Wayland

Smith’s cave, which place he describes as follows:--

“The place is distinguished by a parcel of stones set on edge, and

enclosing a piece of ground raised a few feet above the common level,

which every one knows was the custom of the Danes, as well as of some

other northern nations. And Wormius observes, that if any Danish chief

was slain in a foreign country, they took care to bury him as pompously

as if he had died in his own. Mr. Aubrey’s account of it is this:

‘About a mile [or less] from the Hill [White Horse Hill] there are a

great many large stones, which, though very confused, must yet be laid

there on purpose. Some of them are placed edgewise, but the rest are so

disorderly that one would imagine they were tumbled out of a cart.’ The

disorder which Mr. Aubrey speaks of is occasioned by the people having

thrown down some of the stones (for they all seem originally to have

been set on edge), and broken them to pieces to mend their highways.

Those that are left enclose a piece of ground of an irregular figure at

present, but which formerly might have been an oblong square, extending

only north and south.

“On the east side of the southern extremity stand three squarish flat

stones of about four or five feet over each way, set on edge, and

supporting a fourth of much larger dimensions, lying flat upon them.

These altogether form a cavern or sheltering-place, resembling pretty

exactly those described by Wormius, Bartholine, and others, except in

the dimensions of the stones; for whereas this may shelter only ten or

a dozen sheep from a storm, Wormius mentions one in Denmark that would

shelter a hundred.

“I know of no other monument of this sort in England; but in Wales

and the Isle of Anglesey there are several not unlike it, called by

the natives _Cromlechs_. The Isle of Anglesey having been the chief

seat of the Druids, induced its learned antiquary to ascribe them to

the ancient Britons; an assertion that I will not take upon me to

contradict, but shall only at this time observe, that I find sufficient

authorities to convince me that ours must be Danish.

“Whether this remarkable piece of antiquity ever bore the name of the

person here buried is not now to be learned, the true meaning of it

being long since lost in ignorance and fable. All the account which the

country people are able to give of it is, ‘At this place lived formerly

an invisible smith; and if a traveller’s horse had lost a shoe upon the

road, he had no more to do than to bring the horse to this place, with

a piece of money, and leaving both there for some little time, he might

come again and find the money gone, but the horse new shod.’ The stones

standing upon the _Rudgeway_, as it is called (which was the situation

that they chose for burial monuments), I suppose gave occasion to the

whole being called Wayland Smith, which is the name it was always known

by to the country people.

“An English antiquary might find business enough who should attempt to

unriddle all the fabulous traditions of the vulgar, which ascribe these

works of unknown antiquity to demons and invisible powers.

“Leaving, therefore, the story of the invisible smith to be discussed

by those who have more leisure, I only remark, that these stones are,

according to the best Danish antiquaries, a burial altar; that their

being raised in the midst of a plain field, near the great road, seems

to indicate some person there slain and buried, and that this person

was probably a chief or king; there being no monument of this sort near

that place, perhaps not in England, beside.” (See pp. 35, 36, 37.)

I have given Wise’s statement of his own case, but the better opinion

amongst antiquaries seems to be that he is wrong, and that the

cromlech, called Wayland Smith’s Cave, is of much earlier date than 871

A.D.

I insert here the note from Kenilworth (note B, p. 218) in which Sir

Walter Scott mentions Wayland Smith’s Cave:--

“The great defeat given by Alfred to the Danish invaders, is said

by Mr. Gough to have taken place near Ashdown in Berkshire. The

burial-place of Bœreg, the Danish chief who was slain in this fight, is

distinguished by a parcel of stones, less than a mile from the hill,

set on edge, enclosing a piece of ground somewhat raised. On the east

side of the southern extremity, stand three squarish flat stones, of

about four or five feet over either way, supporting a fourth, and now

called by the vulgar Wayland Smith, from an idle tradition about an

invisible smith replacing lost horseshoes there.” (Gough’s edition of

Camden’s _Britannica_. Vol. I. p. 221.)

“The popular belief still retains memory of this wild legend, which,

connected as it is with the site of a Danish sepulchre, may have arisen

from some legend concerning the northern Duergar, who resided in the

rocks, and were cunning workers in steel and iron. It was believed that

Wayland Smith’s fee was sixpence, and that, unlike other workmen, he

was offended if more was offered. Of late his offices have been again

called to memory; but fiction has in this, as in other cases, taken the

liberty to pillage the stores of oral tradition. This monument must

be very ancient, for it has been kindly pointed out to me that it is

referred to in an ancient Saxon charter as a landmark. The monument has

been of late cleared out, and made considerably more conspicuous.”

It will be seen from this that Sir Walter assumes the view of Wise to

be correct, but he never saw the place.

NOTE V.

As an illustration of one of the methods by which traditions are

kept up in the country, I insert some verses written by Job Cork, an

Uffington man of two generations back, who was a shepherd on White

Horse Hill for fifty years.

“It was early one summer’s morn,

The weather fine and very warm,

A stranger to White Horse Hill did go

To view the plains and fields below.

“As he along the hill did ride,

Taking a view on every side,

The which he did so much enjoy

Till a shepherd’s dog did him annoy.

“At length an aged man appeared,

A watching of his fleecy herd,

With threadbare coat and downcast eye,

To which the stranger did draw nigh.

“‘O noble shepherd, can you tell

How long you kept sheep on this hill?’

‘Zeven yeur in Zundays I have been

A shepherd on this hill so green.’

“‘That is a long time, I must own,

You have kept sheep upon this down;

I think that you must have been told

Of things that have been done of old.’

“‘Ah, Zur, I can remember well

The stories the old voke do tell--

Upon this hill which here is seen

Many a battle there have been.

“‘If it is true as I heard zay,

King Gaarge did here the dragon slay,

And down below on yonder hill

They buried him as I heard tell.

“‘If you along the Rudgeway go,

About a mile for aught I know,

There Wayland’s Cave then you may see

Surrounded by a group of trees.

“‘They say that in this cave did dwell

A smith that was invisible;

At last he was found out, they say,

He blew up the place and vlod away.

“‘To Devonshire then he did go,

Full of sorrow, grief, and woe,

Never to return again,

So here I’ll add the shepherd’s name--

“JOB CORK.’”

There is no merit in the lines beyond quaintness; but they are written

in the sort of jingle which the poor remember; they have lived for

fifty years and more, and will probably, in quiet corners of the Vale,

outlive the productions of much more celebrated versemakers than Job

Cork, though probably they were never reduced into writing until

written out at my request.

Job Cork was a village humorist, and stories are still told of his

sayings, some of which have a good deal of fun in them; I give one

example in the exact words in which it was told to me:--

“One night as Job Cork came off the downs, drough-wet to his very skin,

it happened his wife had been a baking. So, when he went to bed, his

wife took his leather breeches, and put ’em in the oven to dry ’em.

When he woke in the morning he began to feel about for his thengs,

and he called out, and zed, ‘Betty, where be mee thengs?’ ‘In the

oven,’ zed his wife. Zo he looked in the oven and found his leather

breeches all cockled up together like a piece of parchment, and he

bawled out, ‘O Lard! O Lard! what be I to do? Was ever man plagued as

I be?’ ‘Patience, Job, patience, Job,’ zed his wife; ‘remember thy old

namesake, how he was plagued.’ ‘Ah!’ zed the old man, ‘’a was plagued

surely; but his wife never baked his breeches.’”

Other shepherds of the Hill have been poets in a rough sort of way. I

add one of their home-made songs, as I am anxious to uphold the credit

of my countrymen as a tuneful race.

“Come, all you shepherds as minds for to be,

You must have a gallant heart,

You must not be down-hearted,

You must a-bear the smart;

You must a-bear the smart, my boys,

Let it hail or rain or snow,

For there is no ale to be had on the Hill

Where the wintry wind doth blow.

“When I kept sheep on White Horse Hill

My heart began to ache,

My old ewes all hung down their heads,

And my lambs began to bleat.

Then I cheered up with courage bold,

And over the Hill did go,

For there is no ale to be had on the Hill

When the wintry wind doth blow.

“I drive my sheep into the fold,

To keep them safe all night,

For drinking of good ale, my boys,

It is my heart’s delight.

I drove my sheep into the fold,

And homeward I did go,

For there is no ale to be had on the Hill

When the wintry wind doth blow.

“We shepherds are the liveliest lads

As ever trod English ground,

If we drops into an ale-house

We values not a crownd.

We values not a crownd, my boys,

We’ll pay before we go,

For there is no ale to be had on the Hill

When the wintry wind doth blow.”

THE END.

A LIST OF BOOKS PUBLISHED BY TICKNOR AND FIELDS.

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Sir Walter Scott.

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End of Project Gutenberg's The Scouring of the White Horse, by Thomas Hughes