RUS IN URBE
_Romæ Tibur Amem, ventosus. Tibure Romam!_ quoth the Latin satirist,
ridiculing his own foibles, like his neighbour’s, with the laughing,
half-indulgent banter that makes him the pleasantest, the chattiest,
and the most companionable of classic writers. How he loved the
cool retirement of his Sabine home, its grassy glades, its hanging
woodlands, its fragrant breezes wandering and whispering through those
summer slopes, rich in the countless allurements of a landscape that—
“Like Albunea’s echoing fountain,
All my inmost heart hath ta’en;
Give me Anio’s headlong torrent,
And Tiburnus’ grove and hills,
And its orchards sparkling dewy,
With a thousand wimpling rills,”
as Theodore Martin translates his Horace, or thus, according to Lord
Ravensworth—
“Like fair Albunea’s sybil-haunted hall,
By rocky Anio’s echoing waterfall,
And Tibur’s orchards and high-hanging wood,
Reflected graceful in the whirling flood.”
His lordship, you observe, who can himself write Latin lyrics as though
he had drunk with Augustus, and capped verses with Ovid, makes the
second syllable of Albunea long, and a very diffuse argument might be
held on this disputed quantity. Compare these with the original, and
say which you like best—
“Quam domus Albuneæ resonantis,
Et præceps Anio ac Tiburni lucus et uda
Mobilibus pomaria rivis.”
By the way, nobody who has not endeavoured to render Latin poetry into
English can appreciate the vigour and terseness of the older language.
Here are six lines in the one version and four in the other, required
to translate three of the original, perhaps without producing after all
so full a meaning or so complete a picture.
Nevertheless, and notwithstanding his poetical predilections for the
country, Horace, like many other people, seems of his two homes to have
always preferred the one at which he was _not_. An unhappy prejudice
little calculated to enhance the comfort and content of daily life.
Had he settled anywhere in the neighbourhood of our hermitage here,
he need not have accused himself of this fickle longing, which he
denounces by the somewhat ludicrous epithet of “ventose.” He might have
combined the advantages of town and country, alternating the solitude
of the desert with the society of his fellow-men, blowing the smoke
out of his lungs while inhaling the fresh breezes off the Serpentine,
stretching his own limbs and his horses’ by walks and rides round
Battersea, Victoria, and Hyde Parks.
If you look for _rus in urbe_, where will you find it in such
perfection as within a mile of the Wellington statue in almost any
direction you please to take? If you choose to saunter on a hot June
day towards the Ranger’s Lodge or the powder-magazine, I could show
you a spot from which I defy you to see houses, spires, gas-towers,
or chimneys, anything, indeed, but green grass and blue sky, and
towering elms motionless, in black massive shade, or quivering in
golden gleams of light. A spot where you might lie and dream of nymph
and faun, wood-god and satyr, Daphne pursued by Phœbus, Actæon flying
before Diana, of Pan and Syrinx and Echo, and all the rustic joys of
peaceful Arcady—or of elves and brownies, fair princesses and cruel
monsters, Launcelot, Modred, and Carodac, Sir Gawain the courteous
with his “lothely ladye,” the compromising cup, the misfitting mantle,
all the bright pageantry, quaint device, and deep, tender romance that
groups itself round good King Arthur and the Knights of his Round
Table—or of Thomas the Rhymer as he lay at length under the “linden
tree,” and espied, riding towards him on a milk-white palfrey, a dame
so beautiful, that he could not but believe she was the mother of his
lord, till undeceived by her own confession, he won from her the fatal
gift of an unearthly love. And here, perhaps, you branch off into some
more recent vision, some dream of an elfin queen of your own, who also
showed you the path to heaven, and gave you an insight into the ways
of purgatory, ere she beckoned you down the road to Fairyland, that
leads—ah! who knows where? From this sequestered nook you need not
walk a bowshot to arrive at the seaboard of the Serpentine; and here,
should there be a breath of air, if you have any taste for yachting,
you may indulge it to your heart’s content. The glittering water is
dotted with craft of every rig and, under a certain standard, of almost
every size. Yawls, cutters, schooners, barques, brigs, with here and
there a three-masted ship. On a wind and off a wind, close-hauled and
free, rolling, pitching, going about, occasionally missing stays, and
only to be extricated from the “doldrums” by a blundering, over-eager
water-dog, the mimic fleet, on its mimic ocean, carries out its
illusion so completely that you can almost fancy the air off the water
feels damp to your forehead, and tastes salt upon your lips.
An ancient mariner who frequents the beach below the boat-house feels,
I am convinced, thoroughly persuaded that his occupation is strictly
professional, that he is himself a necessity, not of amusement, but
business. He will tell you that when the wind veers round like that,
“suddenways, off Kensington Gardens, you may look out for squalls;”
that “last Toosday was an awful wild night, and some on ’em broke from
their moorings afore he could turn out. The _Bellerophon_, bless ye,
was as nigh lost as could be, and that there _Water Lily_, the sweetest
thing as ever swam—she sprang her boom, damaged her bowsprit, and broke
her nose. He was refitting all Wens’day, he was, up to two o’clock, and
a precious job he had!”
Every one who constantly “takes his walks abroad” in the Great City,
becomes a philosopher in spite of himself, of the Peripatetic School,
no doubt, but still a philosopher; so you sympathise mildly with the
mariner’s troubles; for to you no human interests are either great or
small, nor does one pursuit or person bore you more than another. You
hazard an opinion, therefore, that the _Water Lily_ is somewhat too
delicate and fragile a craft to encounter boisterous weather, even on
such an inland sea as this, and find, to your dismay, that so innocent
an observation stamps you in his opinion as not only ignorant, but
presumptuous. He considers her both “wholesome,” as he calls it, and
“weatherly,” urging on you many considerations of sea-worthiness, such
as her false keel, her bulwarks, her breadth of beam, and general
calibre. “Why, she’s seven-and-twenty,” says he, rolling a peppermint
lozenge round his tongue, just as a real seaman turns a quid; “now look
at the _Sea-Sarpent_ lying away to the eastward yonder, just beyond
the point where the gravel’s been washed adrift. She’s fifty-two, she
is, but I wouldn’t trust her, not in lumpy water, you know, like the
schooner. No. If I was a-building of one now, what I call, for all work
and all weathers, thirty would be my mark, or from that to thirty-five
at the outside!”
“Thirty-five what? Tons?” you ask, a little abashed, and feeling you
have committed yourself.
“Tons!” he repeats, in a tone of intense disgust—“tons be blowed!
h’inches! I should have thought any landsman might ha’ knowed
that—h’inches!” and lurching sulkily into his cabin under the
willow-tree, disappears to be seen no more.
Later, when September has begun to tinge the topmost twigs with gold,
and autumn, like a beautiful woman, then indeed at her loveliest, who
is just upon the wane, dresses in her deepest colours, and her richest
garments, go roaming about in Kensington Gardens, and say whether you
might not fancy yourself a hundred miles from any such evidences of
civilisation as a pillar-post or a cab-stand.
It was but the other day I sauntered through the grove that stands
nearest the Uxbridge Road, and, while an afternoon mist limited my
range of vision and deadened the sounds of traffic on my ears, I could
hardly persuade myself that in less than five minutes I might if I
liked make the thirteenth in an omnibus.
Alone? you ask—of course I was. Yet, stay, not quite alone, for with
me walked the shadow that, when we have learned to prefer solitude to
society, accompanies us in all our wanderings, teaching us, I humbly
hope, the inevitable lesson, permanent and precious in proportion to
the pain with which the poor scholar gets his task by heart.
Well, I give you my word, the endless stems, the noiseless solitude,
the circumscribed horizon, reminded me of those forest ranges in North
America that stretch interminable from the waters of the St. Ann’s and
the Batsicon to the wild waves breaking dark and sullen on the desert
seaboard of Labrador.
I am not joking. I declare to you I was once more in moccasins,
blanket-coat, and _bonnet-rouge_, with an axe in my belt, a pack on
my shoulders, and a rifle in my hand, following the track of the
_treborgons_[3] on snow-shoes, in company with Thomas, the French
Canadian, and François, the half-breed, and the Huron chief with
a name I could never pronounce, that neither I nor any man alive
can spell. Ah! it was a merry life we led on those moose-hunting
expeditions, in spite of hard work, hard fare, and, on occasion, more
than a sufficiency of the discomfort our retainers called expressively
_misère_. There was a strange charm in the marches through those silent
forests, across those frozen lakes, all clothed alike in their winter
robe of white and diamonds. There was a bold, free, joyous comfort in
the hole we dug through a yard and a half of snow, wherein to build
our fire, boil our kettle, fry our pork (it is no use talking of such
things to you, but I was going to say, never forget a frying-pan on
these expeditions; it is worth all the kitchen-ranges in Belgravia), to
smoke our tobacco, ay, and to take our rest.
There was something of sweet adventurous romance in waking at midnight
to see the stars flash like brilliants through the snow-encrusted
branches overhead, wondering vaguely where and why and what were all
those countless worlds of flame. Perhaps to turn round again and dream
of starry eyes in the settlements, then closed in sleep, or winking
drowsily at a night-light, while the pretty watcher pondered, not
unmindful of ourselves, pitying us, it may be, couching here in the
bush, and thinking in her ignorance how cold we were!
Then when we reached our hunting-ground and came up with our game at
last, though, truth to tell, the sport as sport was poor enough, there
was yet a wild delightful triumph in overtaking and slaying a gigantic
animal that had never seen the face of man. The chase was exciting,
invigorating, bracing; the idea grand, heroic, Scandinavian.
“An elk came out of the pine-forest;
He snuffed up east, he snuffed up west,
Stealthy and still;
His mane and his horns were shaggy with snow,
I laid my arrow across my bow,
Stealthily and still;
The bowstring rattled—the arrow flew,
And it pierced his blade-bone through and through,
Hurrah!
I sprang at his throat like a wolf of the wood,
And I dipped my hands in the smoking blood,
Hurrah!”
Kingsley had not written _Hypatia_ then. Kingsley never went
moose-hunting in his life. How could he so vividly describe the gait
and bearing of a forest elk stalking warily, doubtfully, yet with a
kingly pride through his wintry haunts? Probably from the instinctive
sense of fitness, the intuition peculiar to poets, that enabled him
to feel alike with a fierce Goth sheltering in his snow-trench, and
a soft, seductive southern beauty, languishing, lovely and beloved,
in spite of dangerous impulses and tarnished fame, in spite of wilful
heart, reckless self-abandonment, woman weakness, and the fatal saffron
shawl.
I tell you that I could not have been more completely alone in
Robinson Crusoe’s island than I found myself here within a rifle-shot
of Kensington Palace, during a twenty minutes’ walk, to and fro, up
and down, threading the stems of those tall, metropolitan trees; nor
when my solitude was at last disturbed could I find it in me to grudge
the intruders their share of my retreat. More especially as they
were themselves thoroughly unconscious of everything but their own
companionship, sauntering on, side by side, with murmured words, and
loving looks, and steps that dwelt and lingered on the path, because
impossible roses seemed springing into bloom beneath their very feet,
and that for them Kensington Gardens were indeed as the gardens of
Paradise.
I knew right well for _me_ the mist was gathering round, ghostly and
damp and chill. It struck through my garments, it crept about my heart,
but for these, thank God! the sky was bright as a midsummer noon. They
were basking in the warmth and light of those gleams that come once
or twice in a lifetime to remind us of what we might be, to reproach
us, perhaps, gently for what we are. They did not speak much, they
laughed not at all. Their conversation seemed a little dull, trite, and
commonplace, yet I doubt if either of them has forgotten a word of it
yet. It was pleasant to observe how happy they were, and I am sure they
thought it was to last for ever. Indeed I wish it may!
But the reflections of a man on foot are to those of a man on horseback
as the tortoise to the hare, the mouse to the lion, tobacco to opium,
chalk to cheese, prose to poetry.
“As moonshine is to sunshine, and as water is to wine.”
Get into the saddle, leap on a thorough-bred horse, if you have got
one. Never mind his spoiling you for every other animal of meaner
race, and come for a “spin” up the Ride from Hyde Park Corner to
Kensington Gate, careful only to steady him sufficiently for the safety
of Her Majesty’s subjects, and the inquisition, not very rigorous,
of the policemen on duty. For seven months in the year, at least,
this is perhaps the only mile and a half in England over which you
may gallop without remorse for battering legs and feet to pieces on
the hard ground. Away you go, the breeze lifting your whiskers from
the very roots (I forgot, you have no whiskers, nor indeed would such
superfluities be in character with the severe style of your immortal
beauty). Never mind, the faster you gallop the keener and cooler comes
the air. Sit well down, just feel him on the curb, let him shake his
pretty head and play with his bridle, sailing away with his hind-legs
under your stirrup-irons, free, yet collected, so that you could let
him out at speed, or have him back in a canter within half-a-dozen
strides; pat him lovingly just where the hair turns on his glossy
neck like a knot in polished woodwork, and while he bends to meet the
caress, and bounds to acknowledge it, tell me that dancing is the
poetry of motion if you dare!
Should it not be the London season—and I am of opinion that the _rus
in urbe_ is more enjoyable to both of us at the “dead time of year”
than during the three fashionable months—do not, therefore, feel
alarmed that you will have the ride to yourself, or that if you come
to grief there will be nobody to pick you up! Here you will meet some
Life-Guardsman “taking the nonsense” out of a charger he hates; there
some fair girl, trim of waist, blue of habit, and golden of _chignon_,
giving her favourite “a breather,” ready and willing to acknowledge
that she is happier thus, speeding along in her side-saddle, than
floating round a ball-room to Coote and Tinney’s softest strains with
the best waltzer in London for a partner.
But your horse has got his blood up, and you yourself feel that rising
within, which reminds you of the merry youthful days, when everything
in life was done, so to speak, at a gallop. You long to have _a
lark_—you cannot settle down without a jump or two at least. You look
wistfully at the single iron rail that guards the footway, but refrain:
and herein you are wise. Nevertheless, you shall not be disappointed;
you have but to jog quietly out of the Park, through Queen’s Gate,
turning thereafter to your right, and within a quarter of a mile you
shall find what you require. Yes, in good truth, our _rus in urbe_, to
be the more complete, is not without a little hunting-ground of its
own. Mr. Blackman has laid out a snug enclosure, walled in on all sides
and remote from observation, where man and horse may disport themselves
with no more fear of being crowded and jostled than in Launde Woods
or Rockingham Forest during the autumnal months. Here you will find
every description of fence in miniature, neat and new and complete,
like the furniture in a doll’s baby-house—a little hedge, a little
ditch, a little double, and a very little gate, cunningly constructed
on mechanical principles so as to let you off easily should you tamper
with its top bar, the whole admirably adapted to encourage a timid
horse or steady a bold one.
All this is child’s-play, no doubt—the merest child’s-play, compared
with the real thing. Yet there is much in the association of ideas; and
a round or two over this mimic country cannot but bring back to you the
memory of the merriest, ay, and the _happiest_, if not the _sweetest_,
moments of your life. Mounted, with a good start, in a grass country,
after a pack of foxhounds, there is no discord in the melody, no
bitter in the cup—your keenest anxiety the soundness of the level
water-meadow, your worst misgiving the strength of the farther rail,
the width of the second ditch. The goddess of your worship bids your
pulses leap and your blood thrill, but never makes your heart ache, and
the thorns that hedge the roses of Diana can only pierce skin-deep.
Wasn’t it glorious, though you rode much heavier then than you do
now,—wasn’t it glorious, I say, to view a gallant fox going straight
away from Lilburne, Loatland Wood, Shankton Holt, John-o’-Gaunt, or any
covert you please to name that lies in the heart of a good-scenting,
fair-fenced, galloping country? Yourself, sheltered and unseen, what
keen excitement to mark his stealing, easy action, gliding across
the middle of the fields, nose, back, and brush carried in what
geometricians call a “right” line, to lead you over what many people
would call a “serious” one! A chorus ringing from some twenty couple of
tongues becomes suddenly mute, and the good horse beneath you trembles
with delight while the hounds pour over the fence that bounds the
covert, scattering like a conjuror’s pack of cards, ere they converge
in the form of an arrow, heads and sterns down, racing each other for a
lead, and lengthening out from the sheer pace at which a burning scent
enables them to drive along!
They have settled to it now. You may set to and ride without
compunction or remorse. A dozen fields, as many fences, a friendly
gate, and they have thrown their heads up in a lane. Half-a-score of
sportsmen, one plastered with mud, and the huntsman now come up; you
feel conscious, though you know you are innocent, that _he_ thinks you
have been driving them! You remark, also, that there is more red than
common in the men’s faces and the horses’ nostrils; both seem to be
much excited and a little blown.
The check, however, is not of long duration. Fortunately, the hounds
have taken the matter in hand for themselves, ere the only person
qualified to do so has had time to interfere. _Rarpsody_, as he calls
her, puts her nose down and goes off again at score. You scramble
out of the lane, post-haste, narrowly escaping a fall. Your horse
has caught his wind with that timely pull. He is going as bold as a
lion, as easy as a bird, as steady as a rock. You seem to have grown
together, and move like one creature to that long swinging stride,
untiring and regular as clock-work. A line of grass is before you, a
light east wind in your face, two years’ condition and the best blood
of Newmarket in his veins render you confident of your steed’s enduring
powers, while every field as he swoops over it, every fence as he
throws it lightly behind him, convinces you more and more of his speed,
mettle, and activity. What will you have? The pleasures of imagination,
at least, are unlimited. Shall it be two-and-twenty minutes up wind
and to ground as hard as they can go? Shall it be thirty-five without
another check, crossing the best of the Vale, and indulging the good
horse with never a pull till you land in the field where old Rhapsody,
with flashing eyes and bristles all on end, runs into her quarry,
rolling him over and herself with him, to be buried in the rush of her
eager worrying followers? Would you prefer twelve miles from point to
point, accomplished in an hour and a half, comprising every variety of
country, every vicissitude of the chase, and ending only when the crows
are hovering and swooping over a staunch, courageous, travel-wearied
fox, holding on with failing strength but all-undaunted spirit for
the forest that another mile would reach but that he is never to see
again? You may take your choice. Holloa! he has disappeared!—he has
taken refuge in his cupboard. Not even such a skeleton as mine can
sustain the exorcism of so powerful a spell as fox-hunting! So be it.
Who-whoop! Gone to ground? I think we will leave him there for the
present. It is better not to dig him out!