DREAMTHORP

It matters not to relate how or when I became a denizen of Dreamthorp;

it will be sufficient to say that I am not a born native, but that I

came to reside in it a good while ago now. The several towns and

villages in which, in my time, I have pitched a tent did not please,

for one obscure reason or another; this one was too large, t'other too

small; but when, on a summer evening about the hour of eight, I first

beheld Dreamthorp, with its westward-looking windows painted by sunset,

its children playing in the single straggling street, the mothers

knitting at the open doors, the fathers standing about in long white

blouses, chatting or smoking; the great tower of the ruined castle

rising high into the rosy air, with a whole troop of swallows--by

distance made as small as gnats--skimming about its rents and

fissures;--when I first beheld all this, I felt instinctively that my

knapsack might be taken off my shoulders, that my tired feet might

wander no more, that at last, on the planet, I had found a home. From

that evening I have dwelt here, and the only journey I am like now to

make, is the very inconsiderable one, so far at least as distance is

concerned, from the house in which I live to the graveyard beside the

ruined castle. There, with the former inhabitants of the place, I

trust to sleep quietly enough, and nature will draw over our heads her

coverlet of green sod, and tenderly tuck us in, as a mother her

sleeping ones, so that no sound from the world shall ever reach us, and

no sorrow trouble us any more.

The village stands far inland; and the streams that trot through the

soft green valleys all about have as little knowledge of the sea as the

three-years' child of the storms and passions of manhood. The

surrounding country is smooth and green, full of undulations; and

pleasant country roads strike through it in every direction, bound for

distant towns and villages, yet in no hurry to reach them. On these

roads the lark in summer is continually heard; nests are plentiful in

the hedges and dry ditches; and on the grassy banks, and at the feet of

the bowed dikes, the blue-eyed speedwell smiles its benison on the

passing wayfarer. On these roads you may walk for a year and encounter

nothing more remarkable than the country cart, troops of tawny children

from the woods, laden with primroses, and at long intervals--for people

in this district live to a ripe age--a black funeral creeping in from

some remote hamlet; and to this last the people reverently doff their

hats and stand aside. Death does not walk about here often, but when

he does, he receives as much respect as the squire himself. Everything

round one is unhurried, quiet, moss-grown, and orderly. Season follows

in the track of season, and one year can hardly be distinguished from

another. Time should be measured here by the silent dial, rather than

by the ticking clock, or by the chimes of the church. Dreamthorp can

boast of a respectable antiquity, and in it the trade of the builder is

unknown. Ever since I remember, not a single stone has been laid on

the top of another. The castle, inhabited now by jackdaws and

starlings, is old; the chapel which adjoins it is older still; and the

lake behind both, and in which their shadows sleep, is, I suppose, as

old as Adam. A fountain in the market-place, all mouths and faces and

curious arabesques,--as dry, however, as the castle moat,--has a

tradition connected with it; and a great noble riding through the

street one day several hundred years ago, was shot from a window by a

man whom he had injured. The death of this noble is the chief link

which connects the place with authentic history. The houses are old,

and remote dates may yet be deciphered on the stones above the doors;

the apple-trees are mossed and ancient; countless generations of

sparrows have bred in the thatched roofs, and thereon have chirped out

their lives. In every room of the place men have been born, men have

died. On Dreamthorp centuries have fallen, and have left no more trace

than have last winter's snowflakes. This commonplace sequence and

flowing on of life is immeasurably affecting. That winter morning when

Charles lost his head in front of the banqueting-hall of his own

palace, the icicles hung from the eaves of the houses here, and the

clown kicked the snowballs from his clouted shoon, and thought but of

his supper when, at three o'clock, the red sun set in the purple mist.

On that Sunday in June while Waterloo was going on, the gossips, after

morning service, stood on the country roads discussing agricultural

prospects, without the slightest suspicion that the day passing over

their heads would be a famous one in the calendar. Battles have been

fought, kings have died, history has transacted itself; but, all

unheeding and untouched, Dreamthorp has watched apple-trees redden, and

wheat ripen, and smoked its pipe, and quaffed its mug of beer, and

rejoiced over its new-born children, and with proper solemnity carried

its dead to the churchyard. As I gaze on the village of my adoption I

think of many things very far removed, and seem to get closer to them.

The last setting sun that Shakspeare saw reddened the windows here, and

struck warmly on the faces of the hinds coming home from the fields.

The mighty storm that raged while Cromwell lay a-dying made all the

oak-woods groan round about here, and tore the thatch from the very

roofs I gaze upon. When I think of this, I can almost, so to speak,

lay my hand on Shakspeare and on Cromwell. These poor walls were

contemporaries of both, and I find something affecting in the thought.

The mere soil is, of course, far older than either, but _it_ does not

touch one in the same way. A wall is the creation of a human hand, the

soil is not.

This place suits my whim, and I like it better year after year. As

with everything else, since I began to love it I find it gradually

growing beautiful. Dreamthorp--a castle, a chapel, a lake, a

straggling strip of gray houses, with a blue film of smoke over

all--lies embosomed in emerald. Summer, with its daisies, runs up to

every cottage door. From the little height where I am now sitting, I

see it beneath me. Nothing could be more peaceful. The wind and the

birds fly over it. A passing sunbeam makes brilliant a white

gable-end, and brings out the colours of the blossomed apple-tree

beyond, and disappears. I see figures in the street, but hear them

not. The hands on the church clock seem always pointing to one hour.

Time has fallen asleep in the afternoon sunshine. I make a frame of my

fingers, and look at my picture. On the walls of the next Academy's

Exhibition will hang nothing half so beautiful!

My village is, I think, a special favourite of summer's. Every

window-sill in it she touches with colour and fragrance; everywhere she

wakens the drowsy murmurs of the hives; every place she scents with

apple-blossom. Traces of her hand are to be seen on the weir beside

the ruined mill; and even the canal, along which the barges come and

go, has a great white water-lily asleep on its olive-coloured face.

Never was velvet on a monarch's robe so gorgeous as the green mosses

that be-ruff the roofs of farm and cottage, when the sunbeam slants on

them and goes. The old road out towards the common, and the hoary

dikes that might have been built in the reign of Alfred, have not been

forgotten by the generous adorning season; for every fissure has its

mossy cushion, and the old blocks themselves are washed by the

loveliest gray-green lichens in the world, and the large loose stones

lying on the ground have gathered to themselves the peacefulest mossy

coverings. Some of these have not been disturbed for a century.

Summer has adorned my village as gaily, and taken as much pleasure in

the task, as the people of old, when Elizabeth was queen, took in the

adornment of the May-pole against a summer festival. And, just think,

not only Dreamthorp, but every English village she has made beautiful

after one fashion or another--making vivid green the hill slope on

which straggling white Welsh hamlets hang right opposite the sea;

drowning in apple-blossom the red Sussex ones in the fat valley. And

think, once more, every spear of grass in England she has touched with

a livelier green; the crest of every bird she has burnished; every old

wall between the four seas has received her mossy and licheny

attentions; every nook in every forest she has sown with pale flowers,

every marsh she has dashed with the fires of the marigold. And in the

wonderful night the moon knows, she hangs--the planet on which so many

millions of us fight, and sin, and agonise, and die--a sphere of

glow-worm light.

Having discoursed so long about Dreamthorp, it is but fair that I

should now introduce you to her lions. These are, for the most part,

of a commonplace kind; and I am afraid that, if you wish to find

romance in them, you must bring it with you. I might speak of the old

church-tower, or of the church-yard beneath it, in which the village

holds its dead, each resting-place marked by a simple stone, on which

is inscribed the name and age of the sleeper, and a Scripture text

beneath, in which live our hopes of immortality. But, on the whole,

perhaps it will be better to begin with the canal, which wears on its

olive-coloured face the big white water-lily already chronicled. Such

a secluded place is Dreamthorp that the railway does not come near, and

the canal is the only thing that connects it with the world. It stands

high, and from it the undulating country may be seen stretching away

into the gray of distance, with hills and woods, and stains of smoke

which mark the sites of villages. Every now and then a horse comes

staggering along the towing-path, trailing a sleepy barge filled with

merchandise. A quiet, indolent life these bargemen lead in the summer

days. One lies stretched at his length on the sun-heated plank; his

comrade sits smoking in the little dog-hutch, which I suppose he calls

a cabin. Silently they come and go; silently the wooden bridge lifts

to let them through. The horse stops at the bridge-house for a drink,

and there I like to talk a little with the men. They serve instead of

a newspaper, and retail with great willingness the news they have

picked up in their progress from town to town. I am told they

sometimes marvel who the old gentleman is who accosts them from beneath

a huge umbrella in the sun, and that they think him either very wise or

very foolish. Not in the least unnatural! We are great friends, I

believe--evidence of which they occasionally exhibit by requesting me

to disburse a trifle for drink-money. This canal is a great haunt of

mine of an evening. The water hardly invites one to bathe in it, and a

delicate stomach might suspect the flavour of the eels caught therein;

yet, to my thinking, it is not in the least destitute of beauty. A

barge trailing up through it in the sunset is a pretty sight; and the

heavenly crimsons and purples sleep quite lovingly upon its glossy

ripples. Nor does the evening star disdain it, for as I walk along I

see it mirrored therein as clearly as in the waters of the

Mediterranean itself.

The old castle and chapel already alluded to are, perhaps, to a

stranger, the points of attraction in Dreamthorp. Back from the houses

is the lake, on the green sloping banks of which, with broken windows

and tombs, the ruins stand. As it is noon, and the weather is warm,

let us go and sit on a turret. Here, on these very steps, as old

ballads tell, a queen sat once, day after day, looking southward for

the light of returning spears. I bethink me that yesterday, no further

gone, I went to visit a consumptive shoemaker; seated here I can single

out his very house, nay, the very window of the room in which he is

lying. On that straw roof might the raven alight, and flap his sable

wings. There, at this moment, is the supreme tragedy being enacted. A

woman is weeping there, and little children are looking on with a sore

bewilderment. Before nightfall the poor peaked face of the bowed

artisan will have gathered its ineffable peace, and the widow will be

led away from the bedside by the tenderness of neighbours, and the

cries of the orphan brood will be stilled. And yet this present

indubitable suffering and loss does not touch me like the sorrow of the

woman of the ballad, the phantom probably of a minstrel's brain. The

shoemaker will be forgotten--I shall be forgotten; and long after,

visitors will sit here and look out on the landscape and murmur the

simple lines. But why do death and dying obtrude themselves at the

present moment? On the turret opposite, about the distance of a

gun-shot, is as pretty a sight as eye could wish to see. Two young

people, strangers apparently, have come to visit the ruin. Neither the

ballad queen, nor the shoemaker down yonder, whose respirations are

getting shorter and shorter, touches them in the least. They are merry

and happy, and the gray-beard turret has not the heart to thrust a

foolish moral upon them. They would not thank him if he did, I dare

say. Perhaps they could not understand him. Time enough! Twenty

years hence they will be able to sit down at his feet, and count griefs

with him, and tell him tale for tale. Human hearts get ruinous in so

much less time than stone walls and towers. See, the young man has

thrown himself down at the girl's feet on a little space of grass. In

her scarlet cloak she looks like a blossom springing out of a crevice

on the ruined steps. He gives her a flower, and she bows her face down

over it almost to her knees. What did the flower say? Is it to hide a

blush? He looks delighted; and I almost fancy I see a proud colour on

his brow. As I gaze, these young people make for me a perfect idyl.

The generous, ungrudging sun, the melancholy ruin, decked, like mad

Lear, with the flowers and ivies of forgetfulness and grief, and

between them, sweet and evanescent, human truth and love!

Love!--does it yet walk the world, or is it imprisoned in poems and

romances? Has not the circulating library become the sole home of the

passion? Is love not become the exclusive property of novelists and

playwrights, to be used by them only for professional purposes?

Surely, if the men I see are lovers, or ever have been lovers, they

would be nobler than they are. The knowledge that he is beloved

should--_must_ make a man tender, gentle, upright, pure. While yet a

youngster in a jacket, I can remember falling desperately in love with

a young lady several years my senior,--after the fashion of youngsters

in jackets. Could I have fibbed in these days? Could I have betrayed

a comrade? Could I have stolen eggs or callow young from the nest?

Could I have stood quietly by and seen the weak or the maimed bullied?

Nay, verily! In these absurd days she lighted up the whole world for

me. To sit in the same room with her was like the happiness of

perpetual holiday; when she asked me to run a message for her, or to do

any, the slightest, service for her, I felt as if a patent of nobility

were conferred on me. I kept my passion to myself, like a cake, and

nibbled it in private. Juliet was several years my senior, and had a

lover--was, in point of fact, actually engaged; and, in looking back, I

can remember I was too much in love to feel the slightest twinge of

jealousy. I remember also seeing Romeo for the first time, and

thinking him a greater man than Caesar or Napoleon. The worth I

credited him with, the cleverness, the goodness, the everything! He

awed me by his manner and bearing. He accepted that girl's love coolly

and as a matter of course: it put him no more about than a crown and

sceptre puts about a king. What I would have given my life to

possess--being only fourteen, it was not much to part with after

all--he wore lightly, as he wore his gloves or his cane. It did not

seem a bit too good for him. His self-possession appalled me. If I

had seen him take the sun out of the sky, and put it into his breeches'

pocket, I don't think I should have been in the least degree surprised.

Well, years after, when I had discarded my passion with my jacket, I

have assisted this middle-aged Romeo home from a roystering wine-party,

and heard him hiccup out his marital annoyances, with the strangest

remembrances of old times, and the strangest deductions therefrom. Did

that man with the idiotic laugh and the blurred utterance ever love?

Was he ever capable of loving? I protest I have my doubts. But where

are my young people? Gone! So it is always. We begin to moralise and

look wise, and Beauty, who is something of a coquette, and of an

exacting turn of mind, and likes attentions, gets disgusted with our

wisdom or our stupidity, and goes off in a huff. Let the baggage go!

The ruined chapel adjoins the ruined castle on which I am now sitting,

and is evidently a building of much older date. It is a mere shell

now. It is quite roofless, ivy covers it in part; the stone tracery of

the great western window is yet intact, but the coloured glass is gone

with the splendid vestments of the abbot, the fuming incense, the

chanting choirs, and the patient, sad-eyed monks, who muttered _Aves_,

shrived guilt, and illuminated missals. Time was when this place

breathed actual benedictions, and was a home of active peace. At

present it is visited only by the stranger, and delights but the

antiquary. The village people have so little respect for it, that they

do not even consider it haunted. There are several tombs in the

interior bearing knights' escutcheons, which time has sadly defaced.

The dust you stand upon is noble. Earls have been brought here in

dinted mail from battle, and earls' wives from the pangs of

child-bearing. The last trumpet will break the slumber of a right

honourable company. One of the tombs--the most perfect of all in point

of preservation--I look at often, and try to conjecture what it

commemorates. With all my fancies, I can get no further than the old

story of love and death. There, on the slab, the white figures sleep;

marble hands, folded in prayer, on marble breasts. And I like to think

that he was brave, she beautiful; that although the monument is worn by

time, and sullied by the stains of the weather, the qualities which it

commemorates--husbandly and wifely affection, courtesy, courage,

knightly scorn of wrong and falsehood, meekness, penitence,

charity--are existing yet somewhere, recognisable by each other. The

man who in this world can keep the whiteness of his soul, is not likely

to lose it in any other.

In summer I spend a good deal of time floating about the lake. The

landing-place to which my boat is tethered is ruinous, like the chapel

and palace, and my embarkation causes quite a stir in the sleepy little

village. Small boys leave their games and mud-pies, and gather round

in silence; they have seen me get off a hundred times, but their

interest in the matter seems always new. Not unfrequently an idle

cobbler, in red night-cap and leathern apron, leans on a broken stile,

and honours my proceedings with his attention. I shoot off, and the

human knot dissolves. The lake contains three islands, each with a

solitary tree, and on these islands the swans breed. I feed the birds

daily with bits of bread. See, one comes gliding towards me, with

superbly arched neck, to receive its customary alms! How wildly

beautiful its motions! How haughtily it begs! The green pasture lands

run down to the edge of the water, and into it in the afternoons the

red kine wade and stand knee-deep in their shadows, surrounded by

troops of flies. Patiently the honest creatures abide the attacks of

their tormentors. Now one swishes itself with its tail,--now its

neighbour flaps a huge ear. I draw my oars alongside, and let my boat

float at its own will. The soft blue heavenly abysses, the wandering

streams of vapour, the long beaches of rippled clouds, are glassed and

repeated in the lake. Dreamthorp is silent as a picture, the voices of

the children are mute; and the smoke from the houses, the blue pillars

all sloping in one angle, float upward as if in sleep. Grave and stern

the old castle rises from its emerald banks, which long ago came down

to the lake in terrace on terrace, gay with fruits and flowers, and

with stone nymph and satyrs hid in every nook. Silent and empty enough

to-day! A flock of daws suddenly bursts out from a turret, and round

and round they wheel, as if in panic. Has some great scandal exploded?

Has a conspiracy been discovered? Has a revolution broken out? The

excitement has subsided, and one of them, perched on the old

banner-staff, chatters confidentially to himself as he, sideways, eyes

the world beneath him. Floating about thus, time passes swiftly, for,

before I know where I am, the kine have withdrawn from the lake to

couch on the herbage, while one on a little height is lowing for the

milkmaid and her pails. Along the road I see the labourers coming home

for supper, while the sun setting behind me makes the village windows

blaze; and so I take out my oars, and pull leisurely through waters

faintly flushed with evening colours.

I do not think that Mr. Buckle could have written his "History of

Civilization" in Dreamthorp, because in it books, conversation, and the

other appurtenances of intellectual life, are not to be procured. I am

acquainted with birds, and the building of nests--with wild-flowers,

and the seasons in which they blow,--but with the big world far away,

with what men and women are thinking, and doing, and saying, I am

acquainted only through the _Times_, and the occasional magazine or

review, sent by friends whom I have not looked upon for years, but by

whom, it seems, I am not yet forgotten. The village has but few

intellectual wants, and the intellectual supply is strictly measured by

the demand. Still there is something. Down in the village, and

opposite the curiously-carved fountain, is a schoolroom which can

accommodate a couple of hundred people on a pinch. There are our

public meetings held. Musical entertainments have been given there by

a single performer. In that schoolroom last winter an American

biologist terrified the villagers, and, to their simple understandings,

mingled up the next world with this. Now and again some rare bird of

an itinerant lecturer covers dead walls with posters, yellow and blue,

and to that schoolroom we flock to hear him. His rounded periods the

eloquent gentleman devolves amidst a respectful silence. His audience

do not understand him, but they see that the clergyman does, and the

doctor does; and so they are content, and look as attentive and wise as

possible. Then, in connexion with the schoolroom, there is a public

library, where books are exchanged once a month. This library is a

kind of Greenwich Hospital for disabled novels and romances. Each of

these books has been in the wars; some are unquestionable antiques.

The tears of three generations have fallen upon their dusky pages. The

heroes and the heroines are of another age than ours. Sir Charles

Grandison is standing with his hat under his arm. Tom Jones plops from

the tree into the water, to the infinite distress of Sophia. Moses

comes home from market with his stock of shagreen spectacles. Lovers,

warriors, and villains,--as dead to the present generation of readers

as Cambyses,--are weeping, fighting, and intriguing. These books,

tattered and torn as they are, are read with delight to-day. The

viands are celestial if set forth on a dingy table-cloth. The gaps and

chasms which occur in pathetic or perilous chapters are felt to be

personal calamities. It is with a certain feeling of tenderness that I

look upon these books; I think of the dead fingers that have turned

over the leaves, of the dead eyes that have travelled along the lines.

An old novel has a history of its own. When fresh and new, and before

it had breathed its secret, it lay on my lady's table. She killed the

weary day with it, and when night came it was placed beneath her

pillow. At the seaside a couple of foolish heads have bent over it,

hands have touched and tingled, and it has heard vows and protestations

as passionate as any its pages contained. Coming down in the world,

Cinderella in the kitchen has blubbered over it by the light of a

surreptitious candle, conceiving herself the while the magnificent

Georgiana, and Lord Mordaunt, Georgiana's lover, the pot-boy round the

corner. Tied up with many a dingy brother, the auctioneer knocks the

bundle down to the bidder of a few pence, and it finds its way to the

quiet cove of some village library, where with some difficulty--as if

from want of teeth--and with numerous interruptions--as if from lack of

memory--it tells its old stories, and wakes tears, and blushes, and

laughter as of yore. Thus it spends its age, and in a few years it

will become unintelligible, and then, in the dust-bin, like poor human

mortals in the grave, it will rest from all its labours. It is

impossible to estimate the benefit which such books have conferred.

How often have they loosed the chain of circumstance! What unfamiliar

tears--what unfamiliar laughter they have caused! What chivalry and

tenderness they have infused into rustic loves! Of what weary hours

they have cheated and beguiled their readers! The big, solemn

history-books are in excellent preservation; the story-books are

defaced and frayed, and their out-of-elbows, condition is their pride,

and the best justification of their existence. They are tashed, as

roses are, by being eagerly handled and smelt. I observe, too, that

the most ancient romances are not in every case the most severely worn.

It is the pace that tells in horses, men, and books. There are Nestors

wonderfully hale; there are juveniles in a state of dilapidation. One

of the youngest books, "The Old Curiosity Shop," is absolutely falling

to pieces. That book, like Italy, is possessor of the fatal gift; but

happily, in its case, every thing can be rectified ay a new edition.

We have buried warriors and poets, princes and queens, but no one of

these was followed to the grave by sincerer mourners than was Little

Nell.

Besides the itinerant lecturer, and the permanent library, we have the

Sunday sermon. These sum up the intellectual aids and furtherances of

the whole place. We have a church and a chapel, and I attend both.

The Dreamthorp people are Dissenters, for the most part; why, I never

could understand; because dissent implies a certain intellectual

effort. But Dissenters they are, and Dissenters they are likely to

remain. In an ungainly building, filled with hard gaunt pews, without

an organ, without a touch of colour in the windows, with nothing to

stir the imagination or the devotional sense, the simple people

worship. On Sunday, they are put upon a diet of spiritual bread and

water. Personally, I should desire more generous food. But the

labouring people listen attentively, till once they fall asleep, and

they wake up to receive the benediction with a feeling of having done

their duty. They know they ought to go to chapel, and they go. I go

likewise, from habit, although I have long ago lost the power of

following a discourse. In my pew, and whilst the clergyman is going

on, I think of the strangest things--of the tree at the window, of the

congregation of the dead outside, of the wheat-fields and the

corn-fields beyond and all around. And the odd thing is, that it is

during sermon only that my mind flies off at a tangent and busies

itself with things removed from the place and the circumstances.

Whenever it is finished fancy returns from her wanderings, and I am

alive to the objects around me. The clergyman knows my humour, and is

good Christian enough to forgive me; and he smiles good-humouredly when

I ask him to let me have the chapel keys, that I may enter, when in the

mood, and preach a sermon to myself. To my mind, an empty chapel is

impressive; a crowded one, comparatively a commonplace affair. Alone,

I could choose my own text, and my silent discourse would not be

without its practical applications.

An idle life I live in this place, as the world counts it; but then I

have the satisfaction of differing from the world as to the meaning of

idleness. A windmill twirling its arms all day is admirable only when

there is corn to grind. Twirling its arms for the mere barren pleasure

of twirling them, or for the sake of looking busy, does not deserve any

rapturous paean of praise. I must be made happy after my own fashion,

not after the fashion of other people. Here I can live as I please,

here I can throw the reins on the neck of my whim. Here I play with my

own thoughts; here I ripen for the grave.