I came by chance to the village--Norton, we will call it, just to call
it something, but the county in which it is situated need not be named.
It happened that about noon that day I planned to pass the night at a
village where, as I was informed at a small country town I had rested
in, there was a nice inn--"The Fox and Grapes"--to put up at, but when
I arrived, tired and hungry, I was told that I could not have a bed and
that the only thing to do was to try Norton, which also boasted an inn.
It was hard to have to turn some two or three miles out of my road at
that late hour on a chance of a shelter for the night, but there was
nothing else to do, so on to Norton I went with heavy steps, and arrived
a little after sunset, more tired and hungry than ever, only to be told
at the inn that they had no accommodation for me, that their one spare
room had been engaged! "What am I to do, then?" I demanded of the
landlord. "Beyond this village I cannot go to-night--do you want me to
go out and sleep under a hedge?" He called his spouse, and after some
conversation they said the village baker might be able to put me up, as
he had a spare bedroom in his house. So to the baker's I went, and
found it a queer, ramshackle old place, standing a little back from the
village street in a garden and green plot with a few fruit trees
growing on it. To my knock the baker himself came out--a mild-looking,
flabby-faced man, with his mouth full, in a very loose suit of
pyjama-like garments of a bluish floury colour. I told him my story, and
he listened, swallowing his mouthful, then cast his eyes down and rubbed
his chin, which had a small tuft of hairs growing on it, and finally
said, "I don't know. I must ask my wife. But come in and have a cup of
tea--we're just having a cup ourselves, and perhaps you'd like one."
I could have told him that I should like a dozen cups and a great many
slices of bread-and-butter, if there was nothing else more substantial
to be had. However, I only said, "Thank you," and followed him in to
where his wife, a nice-looking woman, with black hair and olive face,
was seated behind the teapot. Imagine my surprise when I found that
besides tea there was a big hot repast on the table--a ham, a roast
fowl, potatoes and cabbage, a rice pudding, a dish of stewed fruit,
bread-and-butter, and other things.
"You call this a cup of tea!" I exclaimed delightedly. The woman
laughed, and he explained in an apologetic way that he had formerly
suffered grievously from indigestion, so that for many years his life
was a burden to him, until he discovered that if he took one big meal a
day, after the work was over, he could keep perfectly well.
I was never hungrier than on this evening, and never, I think, ate a
bigger or more enjoyable meal; nor have I ever ceased to remember those
two with gratitude, and if I were to tell here what they told me--the
history of their two lives--I think it would be a more interesting
story than the one I am about to relate. I stayed a whole week in their
hospitable house; a week which passed only too quickly, for never had
I been in a sweeter haunt of peace than this village in a quiet, green
country remote from towns and stations. It was a small rustic place, a
few old houses and thatched cottages, and the ancient church with square
Norman tower hard to see amid the immense old oaks and elms that grew
all about it. At the end of the village were the park gates, and the
park, a solitary, green place with noble trees, was my favourite haunt;
for there was no one to forbid me, the squire being dead, the old red
Elizabethan house empty, with only a caretaker in the gardener's lodge
to mind it, and the estate for sale. Three years it had been in that
condition, but nobody seemed to want it; occasionally some important
person came rushing down in a motor-car, but after running over the
house he would come out and, remarking that it was a "rummy old place,"
remount his car and vanish in a cloud of dust to be seen no more.
The dead owner, I found, was much in the village mind; and no wonder,
since Norton had never been without a squire until he passed away,
leaving no one to succeed him. It was as if some ancient landmark, or an
immemorial oak tree on the green in whose shade the villagers had been
accustomed to sit for many generations, had been removed. There was a
sense of something wanting something gone out of their lives. Moreover,
he had been a man of a remarkable character, and though they never loved
him they yet reverenced his memory.
So much was he in their minds that I could not be in the village and not
hear the story of his life--the story which, I said, interested me less
than that of the good baker and his wife. On his father's death at a
very advanced age he came, a comparative stranger, to Norton, the first
half of his life having been spent abroad. He was then a middle-aged
man, unmarried, and a bachelor he remained to the end. He was of a
reticent disposition and was said to be proud; formal, almost cold, in
manner; furthermore, he did not share his neighbours' love of sport of
any description, nor did he care for society, and because of all this
he was regarded as peculiar, not to say eccentric. But he was deeply
interested in agriculture, especially in cattle and their improvement,
and that object grew to be his master passion. It was a period of great
depression, and as his farms fell vacant he took them into his own
hands, increased his stock and built model cowhouses, and came at last
to be known throughout his own country, and eventually everywhere, as
one of the biggest cattle-breeders in England. But he was famous in
a peculiar way. Wise breeders and buyers shook their heads and even
touched their foreheads significantly, and predicted that the squire
of Norton would finish by ruining himself. They were right, he ruined
himself; not that he was mentally weaker than those who watched and
cunningly exploited him; he was ruined because his object was a higher
one than theirs. He saw clearly that the prize system is a vicious one
and that better results may be obtained without it. He proved this at
a heavy cost by breeding better beasts than his rivals, who were
all exhibitors and prizewinners, and who by this means got their
advertisements and secured the highest prices, while he, who disdained
prizes and looked with disgust at the overfed and polished animals at
shows, got no advertisements and was compelled to sell at unremunerative
prices. The buyers, it may be mentioned, were always the breeders for
shows, and they made a splendid profit out of it.
He carried on the fight for a good many years, becoming more and more
involved, until his creditors took possession of the estate, sold off
the stock, let the farms, and succeeded in finding a tenant for the
furnished house. He went to a cottage in the village and there passed
his remaining years. To the world he appeared unmoved by his reverses.
The change from mansion and park to a small thatched cottage, with a
labourer's wife for attendant, made no change in the man, nor did he
resign his seat on the Bench of Magistrates or any other unpaid
office he held. To the last he was what he had always been, formal and
ceremonious, more gracious to those beneath him than to equals; strict
in the performance of his duties, living with extreme frugality and
giving freely to those in want, and very regular in his attendance
at church, where he would sit facing the tombs and memorials of his
ancestors, among the people but not of them--a man alone and apart,
respected by all but loved by none.
Finally he died and was buried with the others, and one more memorial
with the old name, which he bore last was placed on the wall. That
was the story as it was told me, and as it was all about a man who was
without charm and had no love interest it did not greatly interest me,
and I soon dismissed it from my thoughts. Then one day coming through a
grove in the park and finding myself standing before the ancient, empty,
desolate house--for on the squire's death everything had been sold and
taken away--I remembered that the caretaker had begged me to let him
show me over the place. I had not felt inclined to gratify him, as I
had found him a young man of a too active mind whose only desire was
to capture some person to talk to and unfold his original ideas and
schemes, but now having come to the house I thought I would suffer him,
and soon found him at work in the vast old walled garden. He joyfully
threw down his spade and let me in and then up to the top floor,
determined that I should see everything. By the time we got down to
the ground floor I was pretty tired of empty rooms, oak panelled, and
passages and oak staircases, and of talk, and impatient to get away. But
no, I had not seen the housekeeper's room--I must see that!--and so
into another great vacant room I was dragged, and to keep me as long as
possible in that last room he began unlocking and flinging open all the
old oak cupboards and presses. Glancing round at the long array of empty
shelves, I noticed a small brown-paper parcel, thick with dust, in a
corner, and as it was the only movable thing I had seen in that vacant
house I asked him what the parcel contained. Books, he replied--they had
been left as of no value when the house was cleared of furniture. As I
wished to see the books he undid the parcel; it contained forty copies
of a small quarto-shaped book of sonnets, with the late squire's name as
author on the title page. I read a sonnet, and told him I should like to
read them all. "You can have a copy, of course," he exclaimed. "Put it
in your pocket and keep it." When I asked him if he had any right to
give one away he laughed and said that if any one had thought the whole
parcel worth twopence it would not have been left behind. He was quite
right; a cracked dinner--plate or a saucepan with a hole in it or an
earthenware teapot with a broken spout would not have been left, but the
line was drawn at a book of sonnets by the late squire. Nobody wanted
it, and so without more qualms I put it in my pocket, and have it before
me now, opened at page 63, on which appears, without a headline, the
sonnet I first read, and which I quote:--
How beautiful are birds, of God's sweet air
Free denizens; no ugly earthly spot
Their boundless happiness doth seem to blot.
The swallow, swiftly flying here and there,
Can it be true that dreary household care
Doth goad her to incessant flight?
If not How can it be that she doth cast her lot
Now there, now here, pursuing summer everywhere?
I sadly fear that shallow, tiny brain
Is not exempt from anxious cares and fears,
That mingled heritage of joy and pain
That for some reason everywhere appears;
And yet those birds, how beautiful they are!
Sure beauty is to happiness no bar.
This has a fault that doth offend the reader of modern verse, and there
are many of the eighty sonnets in the book which do not equal it in
merit. He was manifestly an amateur; he sometimes writes with
labour, and he not infrequently ends with the unpardonable weak line.
Nevertheless he had rightly chosen this difficult form in which to
express his inner self. It suited his grave, concentrated thought, and
each little imperfect poem of fourteen lines gives us a glimpse into a
wise, beneficent mind. He had fought his fight and suffered defeat, and
had then withdrawn himself silently from the field to die. But if he
had been embittered he could have relieved himself in this little book.
There is no trace of such a feeling. He only asks, in one sonnet, where
can a balm be found for the heart fretted and torn with eternal cares;
when we have thought and striven for some great and good purpose, when
all our striving has ended in disaster? His plan, he concludes, is to go
out in the quiet night-time and look at the stars.
Here let me quote two more sonnets written in contemplative mood, just
to give the reader a fuller idea not of the verse, as verse, but of the
spirit in the old squire. There is no title to these two:--
I like a fire of wood; there is a kind
Of artless poetry in all its ways:
When first 'tis lighted, how it roars and plays,
And sways to every breath its flames, refined
By fancy to some shape by life confined.
And then how touching are its latter days;
When, all its strength decayed, and spent the blaze
Of fiery youth, grey ash is all we find.
Perhaps we know the tree, of which the pile
Once formed a part, and oft beneath its shade
Have sported in our youth; or in quaint style
Have carved upon its rugged bark a name
Of which the memory doth alone remain
A memory doomed, alas! in turn to fade.
Bad enough as verse, the critic will say; refined, confined, find--what
poor rhymes are these! and he will think me wrong to draw these
frailties from their forgotten abode. But I like to think of the
solitary old man sitting by his wood fire in the old house, not brooding
bitterly on his frustrate life, but putting his quiet thoughts into the
form of a sonnet. The other is equally good--or bad, if the critic will
have it so:--
The clock had just struck five, and all was still
Within my house, when straight I open threw
With eager hand the casement dim with dew.
Oh, what a glorious flush of light did fill
That old staircase! and then and there did kill
All those black doubts that ever do renew
Their civil war with all that's good and true
Within our hearts, when body and mind are ill
From this slight incident I would infer
A cheerful truth, that men without demur,
In times of stress and doubt, throw open wide
The windows of their breast; nor stung by pride
In stifling darkness gloomily abide;
But bid the light flow in on either side.
A "slight incident" and a beautiful thought. But all I have so far said
about the little book is preliminary to what I wish to say about another
sonnet which must also be quoted. It is perhaps, as a sonnet, as ill
done as the others, but the subject of it specially attracted me, as it
happened to be one which was much in my mind during my week's stay at
Norton. That remote little village without a squire or any person
of means or education in or near it capable of feeling the slightest
interest in the people, except the parson, an old infirm man who was
never seen but once a week--how wanting in some essential thing it
appeared! It seemed to me that the one thing which might be done in
these small centres of rural life to brighten and beautify existence is
precisely the thing which is never done, also that what really is being
done is of doubtful value and sometimes actually harmful.
Leaving Norton one day I visited other small villages in the
neighbourhood and found they were no better off. I had heard of the
rector of one of these villages as a rather original man, and went and
discussed the subject with him. "It is quite useless thinking about it,"
he said. "The people here are clods, and will not respond to any effort
you can make to introduce a little light and sweetness into their
lives." There was no more to be said to him, but I knew he was wrong. I
found the villagers in that part of the country the most intelligent
and responsive people of their class I had ever encountered. It was
a delightful experience to go into their cottages, not to read them a
homily or to present them with a book or a shilling, nor to inquire into
their welfare, material and spiritual, but to converse intimately with
a human interest in them, as would be the case in a country where there
are no caste distinctions. It was delightful, because they were so
responsive, so sympathetic, so alive. Now it was just at this time,
when the subject was in my mind, that the book of sonnets came into my
hands--given to me by the generous caretaker--and I read in it this one
on "Innocent Amusements":--
There lacks a something to complete the round
Of our fair England's homely happiness
A something, yet how oft do trifles bless
When greater gifts by far redound
To honours lone, but no responsive sound
Of joy or mirth awake, nay, oft oppress,
While gifts of which we scarce the moment guess
In never-failing joys abound.
No nation can be truly great
That hath not something childlike in its life
Of every day; it should its youth renew
With simple joys that sweetly recreate
The jaded mind, conjoined in friendly strife
The pleasures of its childhood days pursue.
What wise and kindly thoughts he had--the old squire of Norton! Surely,
when telling me the story of his life, they had omitted something! I
questioned them on the point. Did he not in all the years he was at
Norton House, and later when he lived among them in a cottage in the
village--did he not go into their homes and meet them as if he knew and
felt that they were all of the same flesh, children of one universal
Father, and did he not make them feel this about him--that the
differences in fortune and position and education were mere accidents?
And the answer was: No, certainly not! as if I had asked a preposterous
question. He was the squire, a gentleman--any one might understand that
he could not come among them like that! That is what a parson can do
because he is, so to speak, paid to keep an eye on them, and besides
it's religion there and a different thing. But the squire!--their
squire, that dignified old gentleman, so upright in his saddle,
so considerate and courteous to every one--but he never forgot his
position--never in that way! I also asked if he had never tried to
establish, or advocated, or suggested to them any kind of reunions to
take place from time to time, or an entertainment or festival to
get them to come pleasantly together, making a brightness in their
lives--something which would not be cricket or football, nor any form of
sport for a few of the men, all the others being mere lookers-on and the
women and children left out altogether; something which would be for and
include everyone, from the oldest grey labourer no longer able to work
to the toddling little ones; something of their own invention, peculiar
to Norton, which would be their pride and make their village dearer
to them? And the answer was still no, and no, and no. He had never
attempted, never suggested, anything of the sort. How could he--the
squire! Yet he wrote those wise words:--
No nation can be truly great
That hath not something childlike in its life
Of every day.
Why are we lacking in that which others undoubtedly have, a something to
complete the round of homely happiness in our little rural centres;
how is it that we do not properly encourage the things which, albeit
childlike, are essential, which sweetly recreate? It is not merely
the selfishness of those who are well placed and prefer to live for
themselves, or who have light but care not to shed it on those who are
not of their class. Selfishness is common enough everywhere, in men of
all races. It is not selfishness, nor the growth of towns or decay of
agriculture, which as a fact does not decay, nor education, nor any of
the other causes usually given for the dullness, the greyness of village
life. The chief cause, I take it, is that gulf, or barrier, which
exists between men and men in different classes in our country, or
a considerable portion of it--the caste feeling which is becoming
increasingly rigid in the rural world, if my own observation, extending
over a period of twenty-five years, is not all wrong.