,,the ,,roadmender    ,illustration3    
,rolling stretches of cloud-shadowed    
down          ,,the ,,roadmender        
,,by ,,michael ,,fairless               
,,illustrated ,,with ,,twenty           
,,photographs ,,by ,,will ,f4 ,,taylor  
,,new ,,york      ,e4 ,p4 ,,dutton      
,,co4      #aibb              ,printed  
in ,great ,britain      by ,turnbull    
,spears1 ,edinburgh              ,a4 ,m4
 ,d4 ,g4          ,,to      ,,my        
,,mother      ,,and ,,to ,,earth1 ,,my  
,,mother      ,,whom ,i ,,love          
,,foreword ,,to ,,this ,,edition        
,,the country amid which ,margaret      
,fairless ,barber 7,michael ,fairless7  
wrote ,the ,roadmender is that central  
part of ,sussex drained by the  river   
,adur1 perhaps the least known of the   
three main rivers1 ,ouse1  ,adur and    
,arun1 which breach the ,south ,downs4  
,from ,chanctonbury ,ring to  ,ditchling
 ,beacon the ,downs belong to the ,adur1
 and this is the country  of the        
,roadmender4 ,here1 from under the      

stunted hawthorn1 the eye  looks down on
 the one side to the little church on   
the ,weald1 and on  the other to the    
more distant to and fro of the sea4     
,over all this  ,wealden valley the long
 grey downs keep watch1 and on the      
inland side  a constant companion of the
 roads is the spire of the monastery    
where  the ,bedesmen of ,st ,hugh watch 
and pray4    ,michael ,fairless wrote   
,parts ,i and ,,ii of ,the ,roadmender  
in a  farmhouse at ,mock ,bridge on the 
,adur near ,henfield1 and here in her   
last days she lay writing ,the ,white   
,gate1 looking out over the  pasture    
bright with buttercups where the cattle 
feed4 ,here she  died1 and she was      
carried to the grave under the firs in  
the quiet  churchyard at ,ashhurst1 two 
miles away across the river4            
,,contents                              
,,page      ,,the ,,roadmender          
#a        ,,out ,,of ,,the ,,shadow     
#dg        ,,at ,,the ,,white ,,gate    
#ia          ,,illustrations            

,,rolling ,,stretches ,,of              
,,cloud-,,shadowed ,,down               
,frontispiece                           
,,to ,,face ,,page    ,,the ,,white     
,,winding ,,road                        
#b      ,,the ,,solitary ,,cottage      
#f      ,,the ,,little ,,church ,,at    
,,the ,,foot ,,of ,,the ,,grey-,,green  
,,down                #h      ,,my      
,,niche ,,under ,,the ,,stunted         
,,hawthorn                              
#aj      ,,olus ,,shepherding ,,his     
,,white ,,sheep                         
#ab      ,a ,,little ,,lonely ,,cottage 
,,whose ,,windows ,,peered ,,and        
,,blinked ,,under ,,overhanging ,,brows 
,,of ,,thatch                      #bf  
,,the ,,reeded ,,waters ,,of ,,the      
,,sequestered ,,pool                    
#cb      ,,the ,,monastery ,,where ,,the
 ,,bedesmen ,,of ,,st ,,hugh ,,watch    
,,and ,,pray                            
#cd      ,,the ,,sun ,,stretched ,,the  
,,long ,,shadows ,,in ,,slanting        
,,bars ,,across ,,the ,,white ,,highway 

#ch      ,,the ,,great ,,wheel ,,was    
,,at ,,rest                             
#dj      ,,the ,,crisp ,,rime ,,of      
,,winter',s ,,breath                    
#dh      ,,the ,,aloneness ,,of ,a      
,,great ,,forest                        
#ej      ,,the ,,field-,,gate ,,that    
,,leads ,,to ,,the ,,lower ,,meadows    
#gb      ,a ,,host ,,of ,,joyous        
,,yellow ,,trumpeters                   
#gd      ,,in ,,the ,,distance ,,rise   
,,the ,,great ,,lone ,,heavenward       
,,hills                                 
#hd      ,,the ,,line ,,of ,,the        
,,untroubled ,,hills ,,strong ,,and     
,,still ,,in ,,the ,,broad ,,sunshine   
#id      ,,below ,,the ,,low ,,hedge    
,,lies ,,pasture ,,bright ,,with        
,,buttercups1 ,,where ,,the ,,cattle    
,,feed                             #ajj 
,,the ,,great ,,horses ,,moving ,,in    
,,slow ,,steady ,,pace        ,,as ,,the
 ,,farmer ,,turns ,,his ,,furrow        
#ajb      ,,there ,,is ,a ,,place       
,,waiting ,,for ,,me ,,under ,,the      

,,firs ,,in ,,the ,,quiet ,,churchyard  
#ajd          ,,the ,,roadmender        
,illustration3 ,the white winding road  
,i      ,i ,,have attained my ideal3 ,i 
am a roadmender1 some say stonebreaker4 
,both titles are correct1 but the one is
 more pregnant than the other4  ,all day
 ,i sit by the roadside on a stretch of 
grass under a high hedge  of saplings   
and a tangle of traveller's joy1        
woodbine1 sweetbriar1 and  late roses4  
,opposite me is a white gate1 seldom    
used1 if one may judge  from the trail  
of honeysuckle growing tranquilly along 
it3 ,i know now  that whenever and      
wherever ,i die my soul will pass out   
through this  white gate2 and then1     
thank ,god1 ,i shall not have need to   
undo that  trail4    ,in our youth we   
discussed our ideals freely3 ,i wonder  
how many beside  myself have attained1  
or would understand my attaining4 ,after
 all1  what do we ask of life1 here or  
indeed hereafter1 but leave to serve1   
to live1 to commune with our fellow-men 

and with ourselves2 and from  the lap of
 earth to look up into the face of ,god8
 ,all these gifts are  mine as ,i sit by
 the winding white road and serve the   
footsteps of my  fellows4 ,there is no  
room in my life for avarice or anxiety2 
,i who  serve at the altar live of the  
altar3 ,i lack nothing but have nothing 
over2 and when the winter of life comes 
,i shall join the company of  weary old 
men who sit on the sunny side of the    
workhouse wall and wait  for the tender 
mercies of ,god4    ,just now it is the 
summer of things2 there is life and     
music  everywhere--in the stones        
themselves1 and ,i live to-day beating  
out  the rhythmical hammer-song of ,the 
,ring4 ,there is real physical joy in   
the rise and swing of the arm1 in the   
jar of a fair stroke1 the split  and    
scatter of the quartz3 ,i am learning to
 be ambidextrous1 for why  should ,esau 
sell his birthright when there is enough
 for both8 ,then the  rest-hour comes1  
bringing the luxurious ache of tired but

 not weary  limbs2 and ,i lie           
outstretched and renew my strength1     
sometimes with my  face deep-nestled in 
the cool green grass1 sometimes on my   
back looking  up into the blue sky which
 no wise man would wish to fathom4      
,the birds have no fear of me2 am ,i not
 also of the brown brethren in  my sober
 fustian livery8 ,they share my         
meals--at least the little  dun-coated  
,franciscans do2 the blackbirds and     
thrushes care not a whit  for such      
simple food as crumbs1 but with legs    
well apart and claws  tense with        
purchase they disinter poor brother     
worm1 having first  mocked him with     
sound of rain4 ,the robin that lives by 
the gate regards  my heap of stones as  
subject to his special inspection4 ,he  
sits atop  and practises the trill of   
his summer song until it shrills above  
and  through the metallic clang of my   
strokes2 and when ,i pause he cocks  his
 tail1 with a humorous twinkle of his   
round eye which means--,what6  shirking1

 big brother8--and ,i fall1 ashamed1 to 
my mending of roads4    ,the other day1 
as ,i lay with my face in the grass1 ,i 
heard a gentle  rustle1 and raised my   
head to find a hedge-snake watching me  
fearless1  unwinking4 ,i stretched out  
my hand1 picked it up unresisting1 and  
put  it in my coat like the husbandman  
of old4 ,was he so ill-rewarded1 ,i     
wonder1 with the kiss that reveals      
secrets8 ,my snake slept in peace  while
 ,i hammered away with an odd quickening
 of heart as ,i thought  how to me1 as  
to ,melampus1 had come the              
messenger--had come1 but to  ears       
deafened by centuries of misrule1       
blindness1 and oppression2 so  that1    
with all my longing1 ,i am shut out of  
the wondrous world where  walked        
,melampus and the ,saint4 ,to me there  
is no suggestion of evil in  the little 
silent creatures1 harmless1 or deadly   
only with the ,death  which is ,life4   
,the beasts who turn upon us1 as a rule 
maul and tear  unreflectingly2 with the 

snake there is the swift1 silent strike1
 the  tiny1 tiny wound1 then sleep and a
 forgetting4    ,illustration3 ,the     
solitary cottage    ,my brown friend1   
with its message unspoken1 slid away    
into the grass at  sundown to tell its  
tale in unstopped ears2 and ,i1 my task 
done1 went  home across the fields to   
the solitary cottage where ,i lodge4 ,it
 is  old and decrepit--two rooms1 with a
 quasi-attic over them reached by a     
ladder from the kitchen and reached only
 by me4 ,it is furnished with  the      
luxuries of life1 a truckle bed1 table1 
chair1 and huge earthenware  pan which  
,i fill from the ice-cold well at the   
back of the cottage4  ,morning and night
 ,i serve with the ,gibeonites1 their   
curse my blessing1  as no doubt it was  
theirs when their hearts were purged by 
service4  ,morning and night ,i send    
down the moss-grown bucket with its     
urgent  message from a dry and dusty    
world2 the chain tightens through my    
hand  as the liquid treasure responds to

 the messenger1 and then with creak  and
 jangle--the welcome of labouring       
earth--the bucket slowly nears the  top 
and disperses the treasure in the       
waiting vessels4 ,the ,gibeonites  were 
servants in the house of ,god1 ministers
 of the sacrament of  service even as   
the ,high ,priest himself2 and ,i1      
sharing their high  office of servitude1
 thank ,god that the ground was accursed
 for my  sake1 for surely that curse was
 the womb of all unborn blessing4       
,the old widow with whom ,i lodge has   
been deaf for the last twenty  years4   
,she speaks in the strained high voice  
which protests against  her own         
infirmity1 and her eyes have the        
pathetic look of those who  search in   
silence4 ,for many years she lived alone
 with her son1 who  laboured on the farm
 two miles away4 ,he met his death      
rescuing a  cart-horse from its burning 
stable2 and the farmer gave the cottage 
rent free and a weekly half-crown for   
life to the poor old woman whose        

dearest terror was the workhouse4 ,with 
my shilling a week rent1 and  sharing of
 supplies1 we live in the lines of      
comfort4 ,of death she has  no fears1   
for in the long chest in the kitchen lie
 a web of coarse  white linen1 two      
pennies covered with the same to keep   
down tired  eyelids1 decent white       
stockings1 and a white cotton           
sun-bonnet--a  decorous death-suit      
truly--and enough money in the little   
bag for  self-respecting burial4 ,the   
farmer buried his servant               
handsomely--good  man1 he knew the love 
of reticent grief for a 'kind'          
burial--and one  day ,harry's mother is 
to lie beside him in the little         
churchyard which  has been a cornfield1 
and may some day be one again4          
,,ii      ,illustration3 ,the little    
church at the foot of the grey-green    
down    ,,on ,sundays my feet take ever 
the same way4 ,first my temple service1 
and then five miles tramp over the      
tender1 dewy fields1 with their         

ineffable earthly smell1 until ,i reach 
the little church at the foot  of the   
grey-green down4 ,here1 every ,sunday1 a
 young priest from a  neighbouring      
village says ,mass for the tiny hamlet1 
where all are  very old or very         
young--for the heyday of life has no    
part under the  long shadow of the      
hills1 but is away at sea or in service4
 ,there is  a beautiful seemliness in   
the extreme youth of the priest who     
serves  these aged children of ,god4 ,he
 bends to communicate them with the     
reverent tenderness of a son1 and reads 
with the careful intonation  of         
far-seeing love4 ,to the old people he  
is the son of their old  age1 ,god-sent 
to guide their tottering footsteps along
 the highway  of foolish wayfarers2 and 
he1 with his youth and strength1 wishes 
no  better task4 ,service ended1 we     
greet each other friendly--for men      
should not be strange in the acre of    
,god2 and ,i pass through the little    
hamlet and out and up on the grey down  

beyond4 ,here1 at the last gate1  ,i    
pause for breakfast2 and then up and on 
with quickening pulse1  and evergreen   
memory of the weary war-worn ,greeks who
 broke rank to  greet the great blue    
,mother-way that led to home4 ,i stand  
on the summit  hatless1 the wind in my  
hair1 the smack of salt on my cheek1 all
 round  me rolling stretches of         
cloud-shadowed down1 no sound but the   
shrill  mourn of the peewit and the     
gathering of the sea4    ,the hours     
pass1 the shadows lengthen1 the         
sheep-bells clang2 and ,i lie  in my    
niche under the stunted hawthorn        
watching the to and fro of the  sea1 and
 olus shepherding his white sheep across
 the blue4 ,i love the  sea with its    
impenetrable fathoms1 its wash and      
undertow1 and rasp of  shingle sucked   
anew4 ,i love it for its secret dead in 
the ,caverns of  ,peace1 of which       
account must be given when the books are
 opened and  earth and heaven have fled 
away4 ,yet in my love there is a        

paradox1 for  as ,i watch the restless1 
ineffective waves ,i think of the       
measureless1  reflective depths of the  
still and silent ,sea of ,glass1 of the 
dead1  small and great1 rich or poor1   
with the works which follow them1 and   
of the ,voice as the voice of many      
waters1 when the multitude of one  mind 
rends heaven with alleluia3 and ,i lie  
so still that ,i almost feel  the kiss  
of ,white ,peace on my mouth4 ,later    
still1 when the flare of  the sinking   
sun has died away and the stars rise out
 of a veil of  purple cloud1 ,i take my 
way home1 down the slopes1 through the  
hamlet1  and across miles of sleeping   
fields over which night has thrown her  
shifting web of mist--home to the little
 attic1 the deep1 cool well1  the kindly
 wrinkled face with its listening       
eyes--peace in my heart and             
thankfulness for the rhythm of the road4
    ,illustration3 ,my niche under the  
stunted hawthorn    ,monday brings the  
joy of work1 second only to the ,sabbath

 of rest1  and ,i settle to my heap by  
the white gate4 ,soon ,i hear the       
distant  stamp of horsehoofs1 heralding 
the grind and roll of the wheels which  
reaches me later--a heavy flour-waggon  
with a team of four great gentle        
horses1 gay with brass trappings and    
scarlet earcaps4 ,on the top of the     
craftily piled sacks lies the white-clad
 waggoner1 a pink in his mouth  which he
 mumbles meditatively1 and the reins    
looped over the inactive  whip--why     
should he drive a willing team that     
knows the journey and  responds as      
strenuously to a cheery chirrup as to   
the well-directed  lash8 ,we greet and  
pass the time of day1 and as he mounts  
the rise he  calls back a warning of    
coming rain4 ,i am already white with   
dust as he  with flour1 sacramental     
dust1 the outward and visible sign of   
the stir  and beat of the heart of      
labouring life4    ,next to pass down   
the road is an anxious ruffled hen1 her 
speckled  breast astir with maternal    

troubles4 ,she walks delicately1 lifting
  her feet high and glancing furtively  
from side to side with comb low         
dressed4 ,the sight of man1 the         
heartless egg-collector1 from whose     
haunts she has fled1 wrings from her a  
startled cluck1 and she makes  for the  
white gate1 climbs through1 and         
disappears4 ,i know her feelings  too   
well to intrude4 ,many times already has
 she hidden herself1 amassed  four or   
five precious treasures1 brooding over  
them with anxious hope2  and then1 after
 a brief desertion to seek the necessary
 food1 she has  returned to find her    
efforts at concealment vain1 her        
treasures gone4  ,at last1 with the     
courage of despair she has resolved to  
brave the  terrors of the unknown and   
seek a haunt beyond the tyranny of man4 
,i  will watch over her from afar1 and  
when her mother-hope is fulfilled ,i    
will marshal her and her brood back to  
the farm where she belongs2 for  what   
end ,i care not to think1 it is of the  

mystery which lies at the  heart of     
things2 and we are all ,god's beasts1   
says ,st ,augustine4    ,here is my     
stone-song1 a paraphrase of the         
,treasure ,motif4    ,illustration3     
,music    ,what a wonderful work ,wagner
 has done for humanity in translating   
the  toil of life into the readable     
script of music6 ,for those who seek    
the tale of other worlds his magic is   
silent2 but earth-travail under  his    
wand becomes instinct with rhythmic song
 to an accompaniment of  the elements1  
and the blare and crash of the          
bottomless pit itself4  ,the ,pilgrims' 
,march is the sad sound of footsore men2
 the ,san ,graal  the tremulous yearning
 of servitude for richer1 deeper        
bondage4 ,the  yellow1 thirsty flames   
lick up the willing sacrifice1 the water
 wails  the secret of the river and the 
sea2 the birds and beasts1 the shepherd 
with his pipe1 the underground life in  
rocks and caverns1 all cry their        
message to this nineteenth-century      

toiling1 labouring world--and to me  as 
,i mend my road4    ,illustration3 olus 
shepherding his white sheep    ,two     
tramps come and fling themselves by me  
as ,i eat my noonday meal4  ,the one1   
red-eyed1 furtive1 lies on his side with
 restless1 clutching  hands that tear   
and twist and torture the living grass1 
while his lips  mutter incoherently4    
,the other sits stooped1 bare-footed1   
legs wide  apart1 his face grey1 almost 
as grey as his stubbly beard2 and it is 
not long since ,death looked him in the 
eyes4 ,he tells me querulously  of a two
 hundred miles tramp since early spring1
 of search for work1  casual jobs with  
more kicks than halfpence1 and a brief  
but blissful  sojourn in a hospital bed1
 from which he was dismissed with       
sentence  passed upon him4 ,for himself1
 he is determined to die on the road    
under a hedge1 where a man can see and  
breathe4 ,his anxiety is all for  his   
fellow2 he has said he will do for a    
man2 he wants to swing1  to get out of  

his dog's life4 ,i watch him as he lies1
 this ,ishmael  and would-be ,lamech4   
,ignorance1 hunger1 terror1 the         
exhaustion of past  generations1 have   
done their work4 ,the man is mad1 and   
would kill his  fellow-man4             
,presently we part1 and the two go1     
dogged and footsore1 down the road      
which is to lead them into the great    
silence4          ,,iii      ,,yesterday
 was a day of encounters4    ,first1    
early in the morning1 a young girl came 
down the road on a  bicycle4 ,her       
dressguard was loose1 and she stopped to
 ask for a piece  of string4 ,when ,i   
had tied it for her she looked at me1 at
 my worn  dusty clothes and burnt face2 
and then she took a ,niphetos rose from 
her belt and laid it shyly in my dirty  
disfigured palm4 ,i bared my  head1 and 
stood hat in hand looking after her as  
she rode away up the  hill4 ,then ,i    
took my treasure and put it in a nest of
 cool dewy grass  under the hedge4 ,ecce
 ancilla ,domini4    ,my next visitor   

was a fellow-worker on his way to a job 
at the  cross-roads4 ,he stood gazing   
meditatively at my heap of stones4      
',ow long 'ave yer bin at this job that 
y'ere in such a hurry8    ,i stayed my  
hammer to answer--,four months4    ,seen
 better days8    ,never1 ,i said        
emphatically1 and punctuated the remark 
with a stone  split neatly in four4     
,the man surveyed me in silence for a   
moment2 then he said slowly1  ,mean ter 
say yer like crackin' these blamed      
stones to fill 'oles some  other fool's 
made8    ,i nodded4    ,well1 that beats
 everything4 ,now1 ,i 'ave seen better  
days2 worked in  a big brewery over near
 ,maidstone--a town that1 and something 
doing2  and now1 'ere ,i am1 'ammering  
me 'eart out on these blasted stones for
  a bit o' bread and a pipe o' baccy    
once a week--it ain't good enough4  ,he 
pulled a blackened clay from his pocket 
and began slowly filling it  with rank  
tobacco2 then he lit it carefully behind
 his battered hat1  put the spent match 

back in his pocket1 rose to his feet1   
hitched his  braces1 and1 with a silent 
nod to me1 went on to his job4    ,why  
do we give these tired children1 whose  
minds move slowly1 whose  eyes are      
holden that they cannot read the ,book1 
whose hearts are full  of sore          
resentment against they know not what1  
such work as this to  do--hammering     
their hearts out for a bit of bread8    
,all the pathos of  unreasoning labour  
rings in these few words4 ,we fit the   
collar on  unwilling necks2 and when    
their service is over we bid them go out
  free2 but we break the good ,mosaic   
law and send them away empty4 ,what     
wonder there is so little willing       
service1 so few ears ready to be  thrust
 through against the master's door4     
,the swift stride of civilisation is    
leaving behind individual effort1  and  
turning man into the ,dmon of a machine4
 ,to and fro in front of  the long loom1
 lifting a lever at either end1 paces he
 who once with  painstaking intelligence

 drove the shuttle4 ,then he tasted the 
joy  of completed work1 that which his  
eye had looked upon1 and his hands  had 
handled2 now his work is as little      
finished as the web of ,penelope4  ,once
 the reaper grasped the golden corn     
stems1 and with dexterous sweep  of     
sickle set free the treasure of the     
earth4 ,once the creatures of  the field
 were known to him1 and his eye caught  
the flare of scarlet  and blue as the   
frail poppies and sturdy corn-cockles   
laid down their  beauty at his feet2 now
 he sits serene on ,juggernaut's car1   
its guiding  ,dmon1 and the field is    
silent to him4    ,as with the web and  
the grain so with the wood and stone in 
the  treasure-house of our needs4 ,the  
ground was accursed for our sake  that  
in the sweat of our brow we might eat   
bread4 ,now the many live in  the       
brain-sweat of the few2 and it must be  
so1 for as little as great  ,king ,cnut 
could stay the sea until it had reached 
the appointed place1  so little can we  

raise a barrier to the wave of progress1
 and say1  ,thus far and no further     
shalt thou come4    ,what then8 ,tins at
 least2 if we live in an age of         
mechanism let us see  to it that we are 
a race of intelligent mechanics2 and if 
man is to be  the ,dmon of a machine let
 him know the setting of the knives1 the
 rise  of the piston1 the part that each
 wheel and rod plays in the economy of  
the whole1 the part that he himself     
plays1 co-operating with it4 ,then1     
when he has lived and served            
intelligently1 let us give him of our   
flocks and of our floor that he may     
learn to rest in the lengthening        
shadows until he is called to his work  
above4    ,so ,i sat1 hammering out my  
thoughts1 and with them the conviction  
that  stonebreaking should be allotted  
to minor poets or vagrant children of   
nature like myself1 never to such tired 
folk as my poor mate at the  cross-roads
 and his fellows4    ,at noon1 when ,i  
stopped for my meal1 the sun was baking 

the hard white  road in a pitiless      
glare4 ,several waggons and carts       
passed1 the horses  sweating and        
straining1 with drooping1 fly-tormented 
ears4 ,the men for  the most part nodded
 slumberously on the shaft1 seeking the 
little  shelter the cart afforded2 but  
one shuffled in the white dust1 with an 
occasional chirrup and friendly pressure
 on the tired horse's neck4    ,then an 
old woman and a small child appeared in 
sight1 both with  enormous sun-bonnets  
and carrying baskets4 ,as they came up  
with me  the woman stopped and swept her
 face with her hand1 while the child1   
depositing the basket in the dust with  
great care1 wiped her little  sticky    
fingers on her pinafore4 ,then the shady
 hedge beckoned them and  they came and 
sat down near me4 ,the woman looked     
about seventy1 tall1  angular1          
dauntless1 good for another ten years of
 hard work4 ,the little  maid--her only 
grandchild1 she told me--was just four1 
her father away  soldiering1 and the    

mother died in childbed1 so for four    
years the  child had known no other     
guardian or playmate than the old woman4
 ,she  was not the least shy1 but had   
the strange self-possession which comes 
from associating with one who has       
travelled far on life's journey4    ,i  
couldn't leave her alone in the house1  
said her grandmother1 and  she wouldn't 
leave the kitten for fear it should be  
lonesome--with a  humorous1 tender      
glance at the child--but it's a long    
tramp in the  heat for the little one1  
and we've another mile to go4    ,will  
you let her bide here till you come     
back8 ,i said4 ,she'll be all  right by 
me4    ,the old lady hesitated4    ,will
 'ee stay by him1 dearie8 she said4     
,the small child nodded1 drew from her  
miniature pocket a piece of  sweetstuff1
 extracted from the basket a small black
 cat1 and settled in  for the afternoon4
 ,her grandmother rose1 took her basket1
 and1 with a  nod and ,thank 'ee kindly1
 mister1 went off down the road4    ,i  

went back to my work a little           
depressed--why had ,i not white         
hair8--for a few minutes had shown me   
that ,i was not old enough for the      
child despite my forty years4 ,she was  
quite happy with the little black  cat1 
which lay in the small lap blinking its 
yellow eyes at the sun2  and presently  
an old man came by1 lame and bent1 with 
gnarled twisted  hands1 leaning heavily 
on his stick4    ,he greeted me in a    
high1 piping voice1 limped across to the
 child1 and  sat down4    ,your little  
maid1 mister8 he said4    ,i explained4 
,ah1 he said1 ,i've left a little       
darlin' like this at 'ome4 ,it's 'ard   
on us old folks when we're one too many2
 but the little mouths must be  filled1 
and my son1 'e said 'e didn't see they  
could keep me on the  arf-crown1 with   
another child on the way2 so ,i'm       
tramping to ,n----1 to  the ,house2 but 
it's a 'ard pinch1 leavin' the little   
ones4    ,i looked at him--a typical    
countryman1 with white hair1 mild blue  

eyes1  and a rosy1 childish1 unwrinkled 
face4    ,i'm eighty-four1 he went on1  
and terrible bad with the rheumatics    
and my chest4 ,maybe it'll not be long  
before the ,lord remembers me4    ,the  
child crept close and put a sticky      
little hand confidingly into  the tired 
old palm4 ,the two looked strangely     
alike1 for the world seems  much the    
same to those who leave it behind as to 
those who have but  taken the first step
 on its circular pathway4    ',ook at my
 kitty1 she said1 pointing to the small 
creature in her  lap4 ,then1 as the old 
man touched it with trembling fingers   
she went  on--',oo isn't my grandad2    
he's away in the sky1 but ,i'll kiss    
'oo4    ,i worked on1 hearing at        
intervals the old piping voice and the  
child-treble1 much of a note2 and       
thinking of the blessings vouchsafed  to
 the simple old age which crowns a      
harmless working-life spent in  the     
fields4 ,the two under the hedge had    
everything in common and were           

boundlessly content together1 the sting 
of the knowledge of good and  evil past 
for the one1 and for the other still to 
come2 while ,i stood  on the battlefield
 of the world1 the flesh1 and the devil1
 though1  thank ,god1 with my face to   
the foe4    ,the old man sat resting3 ,i
 had promised him a lift with my friend 
the driver of the flour-cart1 and he was
 almost due when the child's            
grandmother came down the road4    ,when
 she saw my other visitor she stood     
amazed4    ,what1 ,richard ,hunton1 that
 worked with my old man years ago up at 
,ditton1 whatever are you doin' all     
these miles from your own place8    ,is 
it ,eliza ,jakes8    ,he looked at her  
dazed1 doubtful4    ,an' who else should
 it be8 ,where's your memory gone1      
,richard ,hunton1  and you not such a   
great age either8 ,where are you        
stayin'8    ,shame overcame him2 his    
lips trembled1 his mild blue eyes filled
 with  tears4 ,i told the tale as ,i had
 heard it1 and ,mrs ,jakes's indignation

  was good to see4    ,not keep you on  
'alf a crown6 ,send you to the ,house6  
,may the ,lord  forgive them6 ,you      
wouldn't eat no more than a fair-sized  
cat1 and not  long for this world       
either1 that's plain to see4 ,no1       
,richard ,hunton1  you don't go to the  
,house while ,i'm above ground2 it'd    
make my good man  turn to think of it4  
,you'll come 'ome with me and the little
 'un there4  ,i've my washin'1 and a bit
 put by for a rainy day1 and a bed to   
spare1  and the ,lord and the parson    
will see ,i don't come to want4    ,she 
stopped breathless1 her defensive       
motherhood in arms4    ,the old man said
 quaveringly1 in the pathetic1 grudging 
phrase of  the poor1 which veils their  
gratitude while it testifies their      
independence1 ,maybe ,i might as well4  
,he rose with difficulty1 picked  up his
 bundle and stick1 the small child      
replaced the kitten in its  basket1 and 
thrust her hand in her new friend's4    
,then 'oo is grandad tum back1 she said4

    ,mrs ,jakes had been fumbling in her
 pocket1 and extracted a penny1 which   
she pressed on me4    ,it's little      
enough1 mister1 she said4    ,then1 as  
,i tried to return it3 ,nay1 ,i've      
enough1 and yours is poor  paid work4   
,i hope ,i shall always be able to keep 
that penny2 and as ,i watched the  three
 going down the dusty white road1 with  
the child in the middle1 ,i  thanked    
,god for the ,brotherhood of the ,poor4 
,,iv      ,,yesterday a funeral passed1 
from the workhouse at ,n----1 a quaint  
sepulture without solemnities4 ,the     
rough1 ungarnished coffin of stained    
deal lay bare and unsightly on the floor
 of an old market-cart2 a woman  sat    
beside1 steadying it with her feet4 ,the
 husband drove2 and the most  depressed 
of the three was the horse1 a           
broken-kneed1 flea-bitten grey4  ,it was
 pathetic1 this bringing home in death  
of the old father whom1  while he lived1
 they had been too poor to house2 it was
 at no small  sacrifice that they had   

spared him that terror of old age1 a    
pauper's  grave1 and brought him to lie 
by his wife in our quiet churchyard4    
,they  felt no emotion1 this husband and
 wife1 only a dull sense of filial  duty
 done1 respectability preserved2 and    
above and through all1 the  bitter but  
necessary counting the cost of this last
 bed4    ,it is strange how pagan many  
of us are in our beliefs4 ,true1 the    
funeral libations have made way for the 
comfortable bake-meats2 still1  to the  
large majority ,death is ,pluto1 king of
 the dark ,unknown whence  no traveller 
returns1 rather than ,azrael1 brother   
and friend1 lord  of this mansion of    
life4 ,strange how men shun him as he   
waits in the  shadow1 watching our puny 
straining after immortality1 sending his
  comrade sleep to prepare us for       
himself4 ,when the hour strikes he      
comes--very gently1 very tenderly1 if we
 will but have it so--folds  the tired  
hands together1 takes the wayworn feet  
in his broad strong  palm2 and lifting  

us in his wonderful arms he bears us    
swiftly down the  valley and across the 
waters of ,remembrance4    ,very        
pleasant art thou1 ,o ,brother ,death1  
thy love is wonderful1 passing  the love
 of women4           99       99        
99       99       99    ,to-day ,i have 
lived in a whirl of dust4 ,to-morrow is 
the great annual  ,cattle ,fair at      
,e----1 and through the long hot hours  
the beasts from  all the district round 
have streamed in broken procession along
 my  road1 to change hands or to die4   
,surely the lordship over creation      
implies wise and gentle rule for        
intelligent use1 not the pursuit of  a  
mere immediate end1 without any thought 
of community in the great  sacrament of 
life4    ,for the most part mystery has 
ceased for this working ,western world1 
and with it reverence4 ,coventry        
,patmore says3 ,god clothes ,himself    
actually and literally with ,his whole  
creation4 ,herbs take up and  assimilate
 minerals1 beasts assimilate herbs1 and 

,god1 in the  ,incarnation and its      
proper ,sacrament1 assimilates us1 who1 
says ,st  ,augustine1 'are ,god's       
beasts4' ,it is man in his blind        
self-seeking who  separates woof from   
weft in the living garment of ,god1 and 
loses the  more as he neglects the      
outward and visible signs of a          
world-wide grace4    ,in olden days the 
herd led his flock1 going first in the  
post of danger  to defend the creatures 
he had weaned from their natural habits 
for  his various uses4 ,now that good   
relationship has ceased for us to       
exist1 man drives the beasts before him1
 means to his end1 but with no  harmony 
between end and means4 ,all day long the
 droves of sheep pass  me on their lame 
and patient way1 no longer freely and   
instinctively  following a protector and
 forerunner1 but driven1 impelled by    
force  and resistless will--the same    
will which once went before without     
force4 ,they are all trimmed as much as 
possible to one pattern1 and all  make  

the same sad plaint4 ,it is a day on    
which to thank ,god for the  unknown    
tongue4 ,the drover and his lad in dusty
 blue coats plod along  stolidly1 deaf  
and blind to all but the way before     
them2 no longer  wielding the crook1    
instrument of deliverance1 or at most of
 gentle  compulsion1 but armed with a   
heavy stick and mechanically dealing    
blows on the short thick fleeces2       
without evil intent because without     
thought--it is the ritual of the trade4 
,illustration3 ,a little lonely cottage 
,of all the poor dumb pilgrims of the   
road the bullocks are the most  terrible
 to see4 ,they are not patient1 but go  
most unwillingly with  lowered head and 
furtive sideways motion1 in their eyes a
 horror of  great fear4 ,the sleek      
cattle1 knee deep in pasture1 massed at 
the gate1  and stared mild-eyed and with
 inquiring bellow at the retreating     
drove2  but these passed without answer 
on to the ,unknown1 and for them it     
spelt death4    ,behind a squadron of   

sleek1 well-fed cart-horses1 formed in  
fours1 with  straw braid in mane and    
tail1 came the ponies1 for the most part
 a  merry company4 ,long strings of     
rusty1 shaggy two-year-olds1 unbroken1  
unkempt1 the short ,down grass still    
sweet on their tongues2 full of  fun1   
frolic1 and wickedness1 biting and      
pulling1 casting longing eyes  at the   
hedgerows4 ,the boys appear to recognise
 them as kindred spirits1  and are      
curiously forbearing and patient4 ,soon 
both ponies and boys  vanish in a white 
whirl1 and a long line of carts1 which  
had evidently  waited for the dust to   
subside1 comes slowly up the incline4   
,for the  most part they carry the pigs 
and fowls1 carriage folk of the road4   
,the  latter are hot1 crowded1 and dusty
 under the open netting2 the former  for
 the most part cheerfully remonstrative4
    ,i drew a breath of relief as the   
noise of wheels died away and my  road  
sank into silence4 ,the hedgerows are no
 longer green but white  and choked with

 dust1 a sight to move good sister ,rain
 to welcome  tears4 ,the birds seem to  
have fled before the noisy confusion4 ,i
 wonder  whether my snake has seen and  
smiled at the clumsy ruling of the lord 
he so little heeds8 ,i turned aside     
through the gate to plunge face and     
hands into the cool of the sheltered    
grass that side the hedge1 and  then    
rested my eyes on the stretch of green  
,i had lacked all day4 ,the  rabbits had
 apparently played and browsed unmindful
 of the stir1 and  were still flirting  
their white tails along the hedgerows2 a
 lark rose1  another and another1 and ,i
 went back to my road4 ,peace still     
reigned1  for the shadows were          
lengthening1 and there would be little  
more  traffic for the fair4 ,i turned to
 my work1 grateful for the stillness1   
and saw on the white stretch of road a  
lone old man and a pig4 ,surely ,i  knew
 that tall figure in the quaint grey    
smock1 surely ,i knew the face1         
furrowed like nature's face in          

springtime1 and crowned by a round1 soft
  hat8 ,and the pig1 the black pig      
walking decorously free8 ,ay1 ,i knew   
them4    ,in the early spring ,i took a 
whole holiday and a long tramp2 and     
towards afternoon1 tired and thirsty1   
sought water at a little lonely  cottage
 whose windows peered and blinked under 
overhanging brows of  thatch4 ,i had1   
not the water ,i asked for1 but milk and
 a bowl of sweet  porridge for which ,i 
paid only thanks2 and stayed for a chat 
with my  kindly hosts4 ,they were a     
quaint old couple of the kind rarely met
 with  nowadays4 ,they enjoyed a little 
pension from the ,squire and a garden in
  which vegetables and flowers lived    
side by side in friendliest fashion4    
,bees worked and sang over the thyme and
 marjoram1 blooming early in a  sunny   
nook2 and in a homely sty lived a solemn
 black pig1 a pig with a  history4      
,it was no common utilitarian pig1 but  
the honoured guest of the  old couple1  
and it knew it4 ,a year before1 their   

youngest and only  surviving child1 then
 a man of five-and-twenty1 had brought  
his mother  the result of his savings in
 the shape of a fine young pig3 a week  
later he lay dead of the typhoid that   
scourged ,maidstone4 ,hence the pig  was
 sacred1 cared for and loved by this    
,darby and ,joan4    ,ee be mos' like a 
child to me and the mother1 an' mos' as 
sensible as  a ,christian1 ee be1 the   
old man had said2 and ,i could hardly   
credit my  eyes when ,i saw the tall    
bent figure side by side with the black 
pig1  coming along my road on such a    
day4    ,i hailed the old man1 and both 
turned aside2 but he gazed at me without
  remembrance4    ,i spoke of the pig   
and its history4 ,he nodded wearily4    
,ay1 ay1 lad1  you've got it2 'tis poor 
,dick's pig right enow4    ,but you're  
never going to take it to ,e----8       
,ay1 but ,i be1 and comin' back alone1  
if the ,lord be marciful4 ,the  missus  
has been terrible bad this two months   
and more2 ,squire's in  foreign parts2  

and food-stuffs such as the old woman   
wants is hard  buying for poor folks4   
,the stocking's empty1 now 'tis the pig 
must  go1 and ,i believe he'd be glad   
for to do the missus a turn2 she were   
terrible good to him1 were the missus1  
and fond1 too4 ,i dursn't tell  her he  
was to go2 she'd sooner starve than lose
 poor ,dick's pig4 ,well1  we'd best be 
movin'2 'tis a fairish step4    ,the pig
 followed comprehending and docile1 and 
as the quaint couple  passed from sight 
,i thought ,i heard ,brother ,death stir
 in the shadow4  ,he is a strong angel  
and of great pity4          ,v          
,,there is always a little fire of wood 
on the open hearth in the kitchen  when 
,i get home at night2 the old lady says 
it is company for her1  and sits in the 
lonely twilight1 her knotted hands lying
 quiet on her  lap1 her listening eyes  
fixed on the burning sticks4    ,i      
wonder sometimes whether she hears music
 in the leap and lick of the  fiery     
tongues1 music such as he of ,bayreuth  

draws from the violins till  the hot    
energy of the fire spirit is on us1     
embodied in sound4    ,surely she hears 
some voice1 that lonely old woman on    
whom is set the  seal of great silence8 
,it is a great truth tenderly said that 
,god builds the nest for the  blind     
bird2 and may it not be that ,he opens  
closed eyes and unstops  deaf ears to   
sights and sounds from which others by  
these very senses  are debarred8        
,here the best of us see through a mist 
of tears men as trees walking2  it is   
only in the land which is very far off  
and yet very near that  we shall have   
fulness of sight and see the ,king in   
,his beauty2 and ,i  cannot think that  
any listening ears listen in vain4      
,the coppice at our back is full of     
birds1 for it is far from the road  and 
they nest there undisturbed year after  
year4 ,through the still  night ,i heard
 the nightingales calling1 calling1     
until ,i could bear it  no longer and   
went softly out into the luminous dark4 

,the little wood was manifold with      
sound1 ,i heard my little brothers who  
move by night rustling in grass and     
tree4 ,a hedgehog crossed my path  with 
a dull squeak1 the bats shrilled high to
 the stars1 a white owl  swept past me  
crying his hunting note1 a beetle boomed
 suddenly in my  face2 and above and    
through it all the nightingales         
sang--and sang6    ,the night wind bent 
the listening trees1 and the stars      
yearned  earthward to hear the song of  
deathless love4 ,louder and louder the  
wonderful notes rose and fell in a      
passion of melody2 and then sank to     
rest on that low thrilling call which it
 is said ,death once heard1 and  stayed 
his hand4    ,they will scarcely sing   
again this year1 these nightingales1 for
 they  are late on the wing as it is4   
,it seems as if on such nights they sang
  as the swan sings1 knowing it to be   
the last time--with the lavish note  of 
one who bids an eternal farewell4    ,at
 last there was silence4 ,sitting under 

the big beech tree1 the giant  of the   
coppice1 ,i rested my tired self in the 
lap of mother earth1  breathed of her   
breath and listened to her voice in the 
quickening  silence until my flesh came 
again as the flesh of a little child1   
for  it is true recreation to sit at the
 foot-stool of ,god wrapped in a fold   
of ,his living robe1 the while night    
smoothes our tired face with her        
healing hands4    ,illustration3 ,the   
reeded waters of the sequestered pool   
,the grey dawn awoke and stole with     
trailing robes across earth's floor4    
,at her footsteps the birds roused from 
sleep and cried a greeting2 the  sky    
flushed and paled conscious of coming   
splendour2 and overhead a  file of swans
 passed with broad strong flight to the 
reeded waters of  the sequestered pool4 
,another hour of silence while the light
 throbbed and flamed in the  east2 then 
the larks rose harmonious from a        
neighbouring field1 the  rabbits        
scurried with ears alert to their       

morning meal1 the day had  begun4    ,i 
passed through the coppice and out into 
the fields beyond4 ,the dew  lay heavy  
on leaf and blade and gossamer1 a cool  
fresh wind swept clear  over dale and   
down from the sea1 and the clover field 
rippled like a  silvery lake in the     
breeze4    ,there is something          
inexpressibly beautiful in the unused   
day1 something  beautiful in the fact   
that it is still untouched1 unsoiled2   
and town  and country share alike in    
this loveliness4 ,at half-past three on 
a ,june morning even ,london has not    
assumed her responsibilities1 but       
smiles and glows lighthearted and       
smokeless under the caresses of the     
morning sun4    ,five o'clock4 ,the bell
 rings out crisp and clear from the     
monastery  where the ,bedesmen of ,st   
,hugh watch and pray for the souls on   
this  labouring forgetful earth4 ,every 
hour the note of comfort and warning    
cries across the land1 tells the        
,sanctus1 the ,angelus1 and the ,hours  

of  the ,passion1 and calls to          
remembrance and prayer4    ,when the    
wind is north1 the sound carries as far 
as my road1 and  companies me through   
the day2 and if to ,his dumb children   
,god in ,his  mercy reckons work as     
prayer1 most certainly those who have   
forged  through the ages an unbroken    
chain of supplication and thanksgiving  
will be counted among the stalwart      
labourers of the house of the ,lord4    
,sun and bell together are my only      
clock3 it is time for my water  drawing2
 and gathering a pile of mushrooms1     
children of the night1 ,i  hasten home4 
,the cottage is dear to me in its quaint
 untidiness and want of  rectitude1 dear
 because we are to be its last denizens1
 last of the  long line of toilers who  
have sweated and sown that others might 
reap1  and have passed away leaving no  
trace4    ,i once saw a tall cross in a 
seaboard churchyard1 inscribed1 ,to the 
memory of the unknown dead who have     
perished in these waters4 ,there  might 

be one in every village sleeping-place  
to the unhonoured many who  made        
fruitful the land with sweat and tears4 
,it is a consolation to  think that when
 we look back on this stretch of life's 
road from beyond  the first milestone1  
which1 it is instructive to remember1 is
 always a  grave1 we may hope to see the
 work of this world with open eyes1 and 
to  judge of it with a due sense of     
proportion4    ,illustration3 ,the      
monastery where the ,bedesmen of ,st4   
,hugh watch and  pray    ,a bee with    
laden honey-bag hummed and buzzed in the
 hedge as ,i got  ready for work1       
importuning the flowers for that which  
he could not  carry1 and finally giving 
up the attempt in despair fell asleep on
 a  buttercup1 the best place for his   
weary little velvet body4 ,in five      
minutes--they may have been five hours  
to him--he awoke a new bee1  sensible   
and clear-sighted1 and flew blithely    
away to the hive with his               
sufficiency--an example this weary world

 would be wise to follow4    ,my road   
has been lonely to-day4 ,a parson came  
by in the afternoon1 a  stranger in the 
neighbourhood1 for he asked his way4 ,he
 talked awhile1  and with kindly rebuke 
said it was sad to see a man of my      
education  brought so low1 which shows  
how the outside appearance may mislead  
the  prejudiced observer4 ,was it       
misfortune8 ,nay1 the best of good      
luck1 ,i answered1 gaily4    ,the good  
man with beautiful readiness sat down on
 a heap of stones and  bade me say on4  
,read me a sermon in stone1 he said1    
simply2 and ,i  stayed my hand to read4 
,he listened with courteous             
intelligence4    ,you hold a roadmender 
has a vocation8 he asked4    ,as the    
monk or the artist1 for1 like both1 he  
is universal4 ,the world  is his home2  
he serves all men alike1 ay1 and for him
 the beasts have  equal honour with the 
men4 ,his soul is 'bound up in the      
bundle of life'  with all other souls1  
he sees his father1 his mother1 his     

brethren in  the children of the road4  
,for him there is nothing unclean1      
nothing  common2 the very stones cry out
 that they serve4    ,parson nodded his 
head4    ,it is all true1 he said2      
beautifully true4 ,but need such a view 
of  life necessitate the work of        
roadmending8 ,surely all men should be  
roadmenders4    ,o wise parson1 so to   
read the lesson of the road6    ,it is  
true1 ,i answered2 but some of us find  
our salvation in the  actual work1 and  
earn our bread better in this than in   
any other way4  ,no man is dependent on 
our earning1 all men on our work4 ,we   
are 'rich  beyond the dreams of avarice'
 because we have all that we need1 and  
yet we taste the life and poverty of the
 very poor4 ,we are1 if you  will1      
uncloistered monks1 preaching friars who
 speak not with the  tongue1 disciples  
who hear the wise words of a silent     
master4    ,robert ,louis ,stevenson was
 a roadmender1 said the wise parson4    
,ay1 and with more than his pen1 ,i     

answered4 ,i wonder was he ever so      
truly great1 so entirely the man we know
 and love1 as when he inspired  the     
chiefs to make a highway in the         
wilderness4 ,surely no more fitting     
monument could exist to his memory than 
the ,road of ,gratitude1 cut1  laid1 and
 kept by the pure-blooded tribe kings of
 ,samoa4    ,parson nodded4    ,he knew 
that the people who make no roads are   
ruled out from  intelligent             
participation in the world's            
brotherhood4 ,he filled his  pipe1      
thinking the while1 then he held out his
 pouch to me4    ,try some of this      
baccy1 he said2 ,sherwood of ,magdalen  
sent it me  from some outlandish place4 
,i accepted gratefully4 ,it was such    
tobacco as falls to the lot of few      
roadmenders4    ,he rose to go4    ,i   
wish ,i could come and break stones1 he 
said1 a little wistfully4    ,nay1 said 
,i1 few men have such weary roadmending 
as yours1 and  perhaps you need my road 
less than most men1 and less than most  

parsons4    ,we shook hands1 and he went
 down the road and out of my life4      
,he little guessed that ,i knew         
,sherwood1 ay1 and knew him too1 for had
  not ,sherwood told me of the man he   
delighted to honour4    ,ah1 well6 ,i am
 no ,browning ,junior1 and ,sherwood's  
name is not ,sherwood4          ,,vi    
,,awhile ago ,i took a holiday2 mouched1
 played truant from my road4 ,jem  the  
waggoner hailed me as he passed--he was 
going to the mill--would ,i  ride with  
him and come back atop of the full      
sacks8    ,illustration3 ,the sun       
stretched the long shadows in slanting  
bars  across the white highway    ,i hid
 my hammer in the hedge1 climbed into   
the great waggon white and  fragrant    
with the clean sweet meal1 and flung    
myself down on the empty  flour bags4   
,the looped-back tarpaulin framed the   
long vista of my road  with the downs   
beyond2 and ,i lay in the cool dark1    
caressed by the  fresh breeze in its    
thoroughfare1 soothed by the strong     

monotonous  tramp of the great grey team
 and the music of the jangling harness4 
,jem walked at the leaders' heads2 it is
 his rule when the waggon is  empty1 a  
rule no company will make him break4 ,at
 first ,i regretted  it1 but soon       
discovered ,i learnt to know him better 
so1 as he plodded  along1 his thickset  
figure slightly bent1 his hands in his  
pockets1  his whip under one arm1       
whistling hymn tunes in a low minor1    
while the  great horses answered to his 
voice without touch of lash or guiding  
rein4    ,i lay as in a blissful dream  
and watched my road unfold4 ,the sun set
  the pine-boles aflare where the hedge 
is sparse1 and stretched the long       
shadows of the besom poplars in slanting
 bars across the white highway2  the    
roadside gardens smiled friendly with   
their trim-cut laurels and  rows of     
stately sunflowers--a seemly proximity  
this1 ,daphne and ,clytie1  sisters in  
experience1 wrapped in the warm caress  
of the god whose  wooing they need no   

longer fear4 ,here and there we passed  
little groups  of women and children off
 to work in the early cornfields1 and   
,jem  paused in his fond repetition of  
,the ,lord my pasture shall prepare to  
give them good-day4    ,it is like      
,life1 this travelling backwards--that  
which has been1 alone  visible--like    
,life1 which is after all1 retrospective
 with a steady  moving on into the      
,unknown1 ,unseen1 until ,faith is lost 
in ,sight and  experience is no longer  
the touchstone of humanity4 ,the face of
 the son  of ,adam is set on the road   
his brothers have travelled1 marking    
their  landmarks1 tracing their         
journeyings2 but with the eyes of a     
child of  ,god he looks forward1        
straining to catch a glimpse of the     
jewelled  walls of his future home1 the 
city ,eternal in the ,heavens4          
,presently we left my road for the deep 
shade of a narrow country way  where the
 great oaks and beeches meet overhead   
and no hedge-clipper  sets his hand to  

stay nature's profusion2 and so by      
pleasant lanes  scarce the waggon's     
width across1 now shady1 now sunny1 here
 bordered  by thickset coverts1 there   
giving on fruitful fields1 we came at   
length  to the mill4    ,illustration3  
,the great wheel was at rest    ,i left 
,jem to his business with the miller and
 wandered down the  flowery meadow to   
listen to the merry clack of the stream 
and the voice  of the waters on the     
weir4 ,the great wheel was at rest1 as  
,i love best  to see it in the later    
afternoon2 the splash and churn of the  
water  belong rather to the morning     
hours4 ,it is the chief mistake we make 
in  portioning out our day that we      
banish rest to the night-time1 which is 
for sleep and recreating1 instead of    
setting apart the later afternoon  and  
quiet twilight hours for the stretching 
of weary limbs and repose  of tired mind
 after a day's toil that should begin   
and end at five4    ,the little stone   
bridge over the mill-stream is almost on

 a level  with the clear running water1 
and ,i lay there and gazed at the huge  
wheel which1 under multitudinous forms  
and uses1 is one of the world's         
wonders1 because one of the few things  
we imitative children have not  learnt  
from nature4 ,is it perchance a memory  
out of that past when ,adam  walked     
clear-eyed in ,paradise and talked with 
the ,lord in the cool of  the day8 ,did 
he see then the flaming wheels instinct 
with service1  wondrous messengers of   
the ,most ,high vouchsafed in vision to 
the later  prophets8    ,maybe he did1  
and going forth from before the avenging
 sword of his  own forging to the       
bitterness of an accursed earth1 took   
with him this  bright memory of perfect1
 ceaseless service1 and so fashioned our
  labouring wheel--pathetic link with   
the time of his innocency4 ,it is  one  
of many unanswered questions1 good to   
ask because it has no answer1  only the 
suggestion of a train of thought3       
perhaps we are never so  receptive as   

when with folded hands we say simply1   
,this is a great  mystery4 ,i watched   
and wondered until ,jem called1 and ,i  
had to leave  the rippling weir and the 
water's side1 and the wheel with its    
untold  secret4    ,the miller's wife   
gave me tea and a crust of homemade     
bread1 and the  miller's little maid sat
 on my knee while ,i told the sad tale  
of a  little pink cloud separated from  
its parents and teazed and hunted  by   
mischievous little airs4 ,to-morrow1 if 
,i mistake not1 her garden  will be wet 
with its tears1 and1 let us hope1 point 
a moral2 for the  tale had its origin in
 a frenzied chicken driven from the side
 of an  anxious mother1 and pursued by a
 sturdy1 relentless figure in a white   
sun-bonnet4    ,the little maid trotted 
off1 greatly sobered1 to look somewhat  
prematurely for the cloud's tears2 and  
,i climbed to my place at the top  of   
the piled-up sacks1 and thence watched  
twilight pass to starlight  through my  
narrow peep1 and1 so watching1 slept    

until ,jem's voice  hailed me from      
,dreamland1 and ,i went1 only half      
awake1 across the dark  fields home4    
99       99       99       99       99  
,autumn is here and it is already late4 
,he has painted the hedges russet  and  
gold1 scarlet and black1 and a tangle of
 grey2 now he has damp  brown leaves in 
his hair and frost in his finger-tips4  
,it is a season of contrasts2 at first  
all is stir and bustle1 the  ingathering
 of man and beast2 barn and rickyard    
stand filled with  golden treasure2 at  
the farm the sound of threshing2 in wood
 and copse  the squirrels busied 'twixt 
tree and storehouse1 while the ripe nuts
  fall with thud of thunder rain4 ,when 
the harvesting is over1 the fruit       
gathered1 the last rick thatched1 there 
comes a pause4 ,earth strips  off her   
bright colours and shows a bare and     
furrowed face2 the dead  leaves fall    
gently and sadly through the calm1 sweet
 air2 grey mists  drape the fields and  
hedges4 ,the migratory birds have left1 

save a few  late swallows2 and as ,i sit
 at work in the soft1 still rain1 ,i can
 hear  the blackbird's melancholy trill 
and the thin pipe of the redbreast's    
winter song--the air is full of the     
sound of farewell4    ,forethought and  
preparation for the ,future which shall 
be2 farewell1  because of the ,future   
which may never be--for us2 ,man1 thou  
hast  goods laid up for many years1 and 
it is well2 but1 remember1 this  night  
thy soul may be required2 is the        
unvoiced lesson of autumn4  ,there is   
growing up among us a great fear2 it    
stares at us white1  wide-eyed1 from the
 faces of men and women alike--the fear 
of pain1  mental and bodily pain4 ,for  
the last twenty years we have waged war 
with suffering--a noble war when fought 
in the interest of the many1  but       
fraught with great danger to each       
individual man4 ,it is the fear  which  
should not be1 rather than the 'hope    
which is in us1' that leads  men in     
these days to drape ,death in a flowery 

mantle1 to lay stress  on the shortness 
of parting1 the speedy reunion1 to      
postpone their  good-byes until the last
 moment1 or avoid saying them           
altogether2 and  this fear is a poor1   
ignoble thing1 unworthy of those who are
 as gods1  knowing good and evil4 ,we   
are still paying the price of that      
knowledge2  suffering in both kinds is a
 substantial part of it1 and brings its 
own healing4 ,let us pay like men1 our  
face to the open heaven1 neither        
whimpering like children in the dark1   
nor lulled to unnecessary  oblivion by  
some lethal drug2 for it is manly1 not  
morbid1 to dare to  taste the pungent   
savour of pain1 the lingering sadness of
 farewell  which emphasises the         
aftermath of life2 it should have its   
place in  all our preparation as a part 
of our inheritance we dare not be       
without4    ,there is an old couple in  
our village who are past work4 ,the     
married  daughter has made shift to take
 her mother and the parish half-crown1  

but there is neither room nor food for  
the father1 and he must go to  ,n----4  
,if husband and wife went together1 they
 would be separated at  the workhouse   
door4 ,the parting had to come2 it came 
yesterday4 ,i saw  them stumbling lamely
 down the road on their last journey    
together1  walking side by side without 
touch or speech1 seeing and heeding     
nothing but a blank future4 ,as they    
passed me the old man said gruffly1     
',tis far eno'2 better be gettin' back2 
but the woman shook her head1  and they 
breasted the hill together4 ,at the top 
they paused1 shook  hands1 and          
separated2 one went on1 the other turned
 back2 and as the  old woman limped     
blindly by ,i turned away1 for there are
 sights a man  dare not look upon4 ,she 
passed2 and ,i heard a child's shrill   
voice say1  ,i come to look for you1    
gran2 and ,i thanked ,god that there    
need be no  utter loneliness in the     
world while it holds a little child4    
,now it is my turn1 and ,i must leave   

the wayside to serve in the  sheepfolds 
during the winter months4 ,it is        
scarcely a farewell1 for  my road is    
ubiquitous1 eternal2 there are green    
ways in ,paradise and  golden streets in
 the beautiful ,city of ,god4           
,nevertheless1 my heart  is heavy2 for1 
viewed by the light of the waning year1 
roadmending  seems a great and wonderful
 work which ,i have poorly conceived of 
and  meanly performed3 yet ,i have      
learnt to understand dimly the truths of
  three great paradoxes--the blessing of
 a curse1 the voice of silence1  the    
companionship of solitude--and so take  
my leave of this stretch of  road1 and  
of you who have fared along the white   
highway through the  medium of a printed
 page4    ,farewell6 ,it is a           
roadmender's word2 ,i cry you ,godspeed 
to the next  milestone--and beyond4     
,,out ,,of ,,the ,,shadow               
,illustration3 ,the crisp rime of       
winter's breath          ,i      ,i ,,am
 no longer a roadmender2 the stretch of 

white highway which leads  to the end of
 the world will know me no more2 the    
fields and hedgerows1  grass and leaf   
stiff with the crisp rime of winter's   
breath1 lie  beyond my horizon2 the ewes
 in the folding1 their mysterious eyes  
quick with the consciousness of coming  
motherhood1 answer another's  voice and 
hand2 while ,i lie here1 not in the     
lonely companionship of  my             
expectations1 but where the shadow is   
bright with kindly faces and  gentle    
hands1 until one kinder and gentler     
still carries me down the  stairway into
 the larger room4    ,but now the veil  
was held aside and one went by crowned  
with the  majesty of years1 wearing the 
ermine of an unstained rule1 the  purple
 of her people's loyalty4 ,nations stood
 with bated breath  to see her pass in  
the starlit mist of her children's      
tears2 a  monarch--greatest of her time2
 an empress--conquered men called       
mother2  a woman--,englishmen cried     
queen2 still the crowned captive of her 

people's heart--the prisoner of love4   
,the night-goers passed under my window 
in silence1 neither song nor  shout     
broke the welcome dark2 next morning the
 workmen who went by were  strangely    
quiet4        ',,victoria ,,dei ,,gratia
 ,,britanniarum ,,regina4'    ,did they 
think of how that legend would          
disappear1 and of all it meant1  as they
 paid their pennies at the coffee-stall8
 ,the feet rarely know  the true value  
and work of the head2 but all           
,englishmen have been and  will be quick
 to acknowledge and revere ,victoria by 
the grace of ,god a  wise woman1 a great
 and loving mother4    ,illustration3   
,the aloneness of a great forest        
,years ago1 ,i1 standing at a level     
crossing1 saw her pass4 ,the train      
slowed down1 and she caught sight of the
 gatekeeper's little girl  who had      
climbed the barrier4 ,such a smile as   
she gave her6 ,and then  ,i caught a    
quick startled gesture as she slipped   
from my vision2 ,i  thought afterwards  

it was that she feared the child might  
fall4 ,mother  first1 then ,queen2 even 
so rest came to her--not in one of the  
royal  palaces1 but in her own home1    
surrounded by the immediate circle of   
her  nearest and dearest1 while the     
world kept watch and ward4    ,i1 a shy 
lover of the fields and woods1 longed   
always1 should a  painless passing be   
vouchsafed me1 to make my bed on the    
fragrant pine  needles in the aloneness 
of a great forest2 to lie once again as 
,i had  lain many a time1 bathed in the 
bitter sweetness of the sun-blessed     
pines1 lapped in the manifold silence2  
my ear attuned to the wind of  ,heaven  
with its call from the ,cities of       
,peace4 ,in sterner mood1 when  ,love's 
hand held a scourge1 ,i craved rather   
the stress of the moorland  with its    
bleaker mind imperative of sacrifice4   
,to rest again under the  lee of ,rippon
 ,tor swept by the strong peat-smelling 
breeze2 to stare  untired at the long   
cloud-shadowed reaches1 and watch the   

mist-wraiths  huddle and shrink round   
the stones of blood2 until my sacrifice 
too  was accomplished1 and my soul had  
fled4 ,a wild waste moor2 a vast void   
sky2 and naught between heaven and earth
 but man1 his sin-glazed eyes  seeking  
afar the distant light of his own heart4
    ,with years came counsels more      
profound1 and the knowledge that man was
  no mere dweller in the woods to follow
 the footsteps of the piping  god1 but  
an integral part of an organised whole1 
in which ,pan too  has his fulfilment4  
,the wise ,venetians knew2 and read     
pantheism into  ,christianity when they 
set these words round ,ezekiel's living 
creatures  in the altar vault of ,st    
,mark's3--        ,,quaeque ,,sub       
,,obscuris ,,de ,,cristo ,,dicta        
,,figuris      ,,his ,,aperire ,,datur  
,,et ,,in ,,his1 ,,deus ,,ipse          
,,notatur4    ,thou shalt have none     
other gods but me4 ,if man had been able
 to keep  this one commandment perfectly
 the other nine would never have been   

written2 instead he has comprehensively 
disregarded it1 and perhaps  never more 
than now in the twentieth century4 ,ah1 
well6 this world1  in spite of all its  
sinning1 is still the ,garden of ,eden  
where the  ,lord walked with man1 not in
 the cool of evening1 but in the heat   
and  stress of the immediate working    
day4 ,there is no angel now with naming 
sword to keep the way of the ,tree of   
,life1 but tapers alight morning  by    
morning in the ,hostel of ,god to point 
us to it2 and we1 who are as  gods      
knowing good and evil1 partake of that  
fruit whereof whoso eateth  shall never 
die2 the greatest gift or the most awful
 penalty--,eternal  ,life4    ,i then1  
with my craving for tree and sky1 held  
that a great capital  with its stir of  
life and death1 of toil and strife and  
pleasure1 was  an ill place for a sick  
man to wait in2 a place to shrink from  
as a  child shrinks from the rude blow  
of one out of authority4 ,yet here1 far 
from moor and forest1 hillside and      

hedgerow1 in the family sitting-room  of
 the ,english-speaking peoples1 the     
,london much misunderstood1 ,i  find the
 fulfilment by antithesis of all desire4
 ,for the loneliness  of the moorland1  
there is the warmth and companionship of
 ,london's  swift beating heart4 ,for   
silence there is sound--the sound and   
stir  of service--for the most part far 
in excess of its earthly equivalent4    
,against the fragrant incense of the    
pines ,i set the honest sweat of the    
man whose lifetime is the measure of his
 working day4 ,he that loveth  not his  
brother whom he hath seen1 how shall he 
love ,god whom he hath  not seen8 wrote 
,blessed ,john1 who himself loved so    
much that he beheld  the ,lamb as it had
 been slain from the beginning when     
,adam fell1 and  the ,city of ,god with 
light most precious4 ,the burden of     
corporate sin1  the sword of corporate  
sorrow1 the joy of corporate            
righteousness2 thus  we become citizens 
in the ,kingdom of ,god1 and companions 

of all his  creatures4 ,it is not good  
that the man should be alone1 said the  
,lord  ,god4    ,i live now as it were  
in two worlds1 the world of sight1 and  
the world  of sound2 and they scarcely  
ever touch each other4 ,i hear the grind
 of  heavy traffic1 the struggle of     
horses on the frost-breathed ground1 the
  decorous jolt of omnibuses1 the jangle
 of cab bells1 the sharp warning  of    
bicycles at the corner1 the swift rattle
 of costers' carts as they  go south at 
night with their shouting1 goading crew4
 ,all these things  ,i hear1 and more2  
but ,i see no road1 only the silent     
river of my heart  with its tale of     
wonder and years1 and the white beat of 
seagulls'  wings in strong inquiring    
flight4    ,sometimes there is naught to
 see on the waterway but a solitary     
black  hull1 a very ,stygian ferry-boat1
 manned by a solitary figure1 and       
moving slowly up under the impulse of   
the far-reaching sweeps4 ,then  the     
great barges pass with their coffined   

treasure1 drawn by a small              
self-righteous steam-tug4 ,later1       
lightened of their load1 and waiting  on
 wind and tide1 ,i see them swooping by 
like birds set free2 tawny  sails that  
mind me of red-roofed ,whitby with its  
northern fleet2 black  sails as of some 
heedless ,theseus2 white sails that     
sweep out of the  morning mist like     
restless gossameres4 ,they make the     
bridge1 which is  just within my vision1
 and then away past ,westminster and    
,blackfriars  where ,st ,paul's great   
dome lifts the cross high over a        
self-seeking  city2 past ,southwark     
where ,england's poet illuminates in the
 scroll of  divine wisdom the sign of   
the ,tabard2 past the ,tower with its   
haunting  ghosts of history2 past       
,greenwich1 fairy city1 caught in the   
meshes of  riverside mist2 and then the 
salt and speer of the sea1 the          
companying  with great ships1 the fresh 
burden4    ,at night ,i see them again1 
silent1 mysterious2 searching the       

darkness  with unwinking yellow stare1  
led by a great green light4 ,they creep 
up under the bridge which spans the     
river with its watching eyes1 and       
vanish1 crying back a warning note as   
they make the upper reach1 or  strident 
hail1 as a chain of kindred phantoms    
passes1 ploughing a  contrary tide4     
,throughout the long watches of the     
night ,i follow them2 and in the  early 
morning they slide by1 their eyes pale  
in the twilight2 while the  stars       
flicker and fade1 and the gas lamps die 
down into a dull yellow  blotch against 
the glory and glow of a new day4        
,,ii      ,,february is here1 ,february 
fill-dyke2 the month of purification1 of
  cleansing rains and pulsing bounding  
streams1 and white mist clinging        
insistent to field and hedgerow so that 
when her veil is withdrawn  greenness   
may make us glad4    ,the river has been
 uniformly grey of late1 with no wind to
 ruffle  its surface or to speed the    
barges dropping slowly and sullenly down

  with the tide through a blurring haze4
 ,i watched one yesterday1 its  useless 
sails half-furled and no sign of life   
save the man at the helm4  ,it drifted  
stealthily past1 and a little behind1   
flying low1 came a  solitary seagull1   
grey as the river's haze--a following   
bird4    ,once again ,i lay on my back  
in the bottom of the tarry old fishing  
smack1 blue sky above and no sound but  
the knock1 knock of the waves1  and the 
thud and curl of falling foam as the old
 boat's blunt nose  breasted the coming 
sea4 ,then ,daddy ,whiddon spoke4    ,a 
follerin' brrd1 he said4    ,i got up1  
and looked across the blue field we were
 ploughing into white  furrows4 ,far    
away a tiny sail scarred the great      
solitude1 and astern  came a gull flying
 slowly close to the water's breast4    
,daddy ,whiddon waved his pipe towards  
it4    ,a follerin' brrd1 he said1      
again2 and again ,i waited2 questions   
were  not grateful to him4    ,there be 
a carpse there1 sure enough1 a carpse   

driftin' and shiftin'  on the floor of  
the sea4 ,there be those as can't rest1 
poor sawls1 and  her'll be mun1 her'll  
be mun1 and the sperrit of her is with  
the brrd4    ,the clumsy boom swung     
across as we changed our course1 and the
 water  ran from us in smooth reaches on
 either side3 the bird flew steadily on4
    ,what will the spirit do8 ,i said4  
,the old man looked at me gravely4      
,her'll rest in the ,lard's time1 in the
 ,lard's gude time--but now  her'll just
 be follerin' on with the brrd4    ,the 
gull was flying close to us now1 and a  
cold wind swept the sunny  sea4 ,i      
shivered3 ,daddy looked at me curiously4
    ,there be reason enough to be cawld 
if us did but knaw it1 but ,i be  mos'  
used to 'em1 poor sawls4 ,he shaded his 
keen old blue eyes1 and  looked away    
across the water4 ,his face kindled4    
,there be a skule  comin'1 and by my    
sawl 'tis mackerel they be drivin'4     
,i watched eagerly1 and saw the dark    
line rise and fall in the trough  of the

 sea1 and1 away behind1 the stir and    
rush of tumbling porpoises  as they     
chased their prey4    ,again we changed 
our tack1 and each taking an oar1 pulled
 lustily for  the beach4    ,please ,god
 her'll break inshore1 said ,daddy      
,whiddon2 and he shouted  the news at   
the idle men waiting who hailed us4     
,in a moment all was stir1 for the      
fishing had been slack4 ,two boats  put 
out with the lithe brown seine4 ,the    
dark line had turned1 but the  school   
was still behind1 churning the water in 
clumsy haste2 they were  coming in4     
,then the brit broke in silvery leaping 
waves on the shelving beach4 ,the       
three-fold hunt was over2 the porpoises 
turned out to sea in search  of fresh   
quarry2 and the seine1 dragged by ready 
hands1 came slowly1  stubbornly in with 
its quivering treasure of fish4 ,they   
had sought a  haven and found none2 the 
brit lay dying in the flickering        
iridescent  heaps as the bare-legged    
babies of the village gathered them up2 

and  far away over the water ,i saw a   
single grey speck2 it was the following 
bird4           99       99       99    
99       99    ,the curtain of river    
haze falls back2 barge and bird are     
alike gone1  and the lamplighter has lit
 the first gas-lamp on the far side of  
the  bridge4 ,every night ,i watch him  
come1 his progress marked by the great  
yellow eyes that wake the dark4         
,sometimes he walks quickly2 sometimes  
he loiters on the bridge to chat1 or    
stare at the dark water2 but he  always 
comes1 leaving his watchful deterrent   
train behind him to police  the night4  
,once ,demeter in the black anguish of  
her desolation searched for lost        
,persephone by the light of ,hecate's   
torch2 and searching all in vain1       
spurned beneath her empty feet an earth 
barren of her smile2 froze  with set    
brows the merry brooks and streams2 and 
smote forest1 and  plain1 and fruitful  
field1 with the breath of her last      
despair1 until  even ,iambe's laughing  

jest was still4 ,and then when the      
desolation was  complete1 across the    
wasted valley where the starveling      
cattle scarcely  longed to browse1 came 
the dreadful chariot--and ,persephone4  
,the day of  the prisoner of ,hades had 
dawned2 and as the sun flamed slowly up 
to  light her thwarted eyes the world   
sprang into blossom at her feet4    ,we 
can never be too ,pagan when we are     
truly ,christian1 and the old  myths are
 eternal truths held fast in the        
,church's net4 ,prometheus  fetched fire
 from ,heaven1 to be slain forever in   
the fetching2 and  lo1 a ,greater than  
,prometheus came to fire the cresset of 
the ,cross4  ,demeter waits now         
patiently enough4 ,persephone waits1    
too1 in the faith  of the sun she cannot
 see3 and every lamp lit carries on the 
crusade  which has for its goal a       
sunless1 moonless1 city whose light is  
the  ,light of the world4        ,lume  
lass1 che visibile face       lo        
creatore a quella creatura1       che   

solo in lui vedere ha la sua pace4      
,immediately outside my window is a lime
 tree--a little black skeleton  of      
abundant branches--in which sparrows    
congregate to chirp and bicker4         
,farther away ,i have a glimpse of      
graceful planes1 children of moonlight  
and mist2 their dainty robes1 still more
 or less unsullied1 gleam  ghostly in   
the gaslight athwart the dark4 ,they    
make a brave show even  in winter with  
their feathery branches and swinging    
tassels1 whereas my  little tree stands 
stark and uncompromising1 with its horde
 of sooty  sparrows cockney to the last 
tail feather1 and a pathetic inability  
to look anything but black4 ,rain comes 
with strong caressing fingers1  and the 
branches seem no whit the cleaner for   
her care2 but then their  glistening    
blackness mirrors back the succeeding   
sunlight1 as a muddy  pavement will     
sometimes lap our feet in a sea of gold4
 ,the little wet  sparrows are for the  
moment equally transformed1 for the sun 

turns  their dun-coloured coats to a    
ruddy bronze1 and cries ,chrysostom as  
it  kisses each shiny beak4 ,they are   
dumb ,chrysostoms2 but they preach a    
golden gospel1 for the sparrows are to  
,london what the rainbow was to  eight  
saved souls out of a waste of waters--a 
perpetual sign of the  remembering      
mercies of ,god4    ,last night there   
was a sudden clatter of hoofs1 a shout1 
and then  silence4 ,a runaway cab-horse1
 a dark night1 a wide crossing1 and a   
heavy burden3 so death came to a poor   
woman4 ,people from the house went  out 
to help2 and ,i heard of her1 the centre
 of an unknowing curious  crowd1 as she 
lay bonnetless in the mud of the road1  
her head on the  kerb4 ,a rude but      
painless death3 the misery lay in her   
life2 for this  woman--worn1            
white-haired1 and wrinkled--had but     
fifty years to set  against such a      
condition4 ,the policeman reported her  
respectable1  hard-working1 living apart
 from her husband with a sister2 but    

although  they shared rooms1 they did   
not speak1 and the sister refused all   
responsibility2 so the parish buried the
 dead woman1 and thus ended an          
uneventful tragedy4    ,was it her own  
fault8 ,if so1 the greater pathos4 ,the 
lonely souls that  hold out timid hands 
to an unheeding world have their meed of
 interior  comfort even here1 while the 
sons of consolation wait on the         
threshold  for their footfall3 but ,god 
help the soul that bars its own door6   
,it  is kicking against the pricks of   
,divine ordinance1 the ordinance of a   
triune ,god2 whether it be the dweller  
in crowded street or tenement  who is   
proud to say1 ,i keep myself to myself1 
or ,seneca writing in  pitiful          
complacency1 ,whenever ,i have gone     
among men1 ,i have returned  home less  
of a man4 ,whatever the next world holds
 in store1 we are  bidden in this to    
seek and serve ,god in our fellow-men1  
and in the  creatures of ,his making    
whom ,he calls by name4    ,it was once 

my privilege to know an old             
organ-grinder named ,gawdine4  ,he was a
 hard swearer1 a hard drinker1 a hard   
liver1 and he fortified  himself body   
and soul against the world3 he even     
drank alone1 which is  an evil sign4    
,one day to ,gawdine sober came a little
 dirty child1 who clung to his  empty   
trouser leg--he had lost a limb years   
before--with a persistent               
unintelligible request4 ,he shook the   
little chap off with a blow and  a      
curse2 and the child was trotting       
dismally away1 when it suddenly  turned1
 ran back1 and held up a dirty face for 
a kiss4    ,two days later ,gawdine fell
 under a passing dray which inflicted   
terrible internal injuries on him4 ,they
 patched him up in hospital1 and  he    
went back to his organ-grinding1 taking 
with him two friends--a  pain which fell
 suddenly upon him to rack and rend with
 an anguish  of crucifixion1 and the    
memory of a child's upturned face4      
,outwardly  he was the same save that he

 changed the tunes of his organ1 out of 
long-hoarded savings1 for the jigs and  
reels which children hold dear1  and    
stood patiently playing them in         
child-crowded alleys1 where pennies  are
 not as plentiful as elsewhere4    ,he  
continued to drink2 it did not come     
within his new code to stop1  since he  
could carry his liquor well2 but he     
rarely1 if ever1 swore4  ,he told me    
this tale through the throes of his     
anguish as he lay  crouched on a        
mattress on the floor2 and as the grip  
of the pain took  him he tore and bit at
 his hands until they were maimed and   
bleeding1  to keep the ready curses off 
his lips4    ,he told the story1 but he 
gave no reason1 offered no explanation3 
he  has been dead now many a year1 and  
thus would ,i write his epitaph3--      
,he saw the face of a little child and  
looked on ,god4          ,,iii          
,,two began1 in a low voice1 ',why1 the 
fact is1 you see1 ,miss1 this here      
ought to have been a red rose-tree1 and 

we put a white one in by  mistake4'     
,as ,i look round this room ,i feel sure
 ,two1 and ,five1 and ,seven1 have  all 
been at work on it1 and made no         
mistakes1 for round the walls runs  a   
frieze of squat standard rose-trees1 red
 as red can be1 and just  like those    
that ,alice saw in the ,queen's garden4 
,in between them are  ,chaucer's        
name-children1 prim little daisies1     
peering wideawake from  green grass4    
,this same grass has a history which ,i 
have heard4 ,in the  original stencil   
for the frieze it was purely            
conventional like the  rest1 and met in 
spikey curves round each tree2 the      
painter1 however1  who was doing the    
work1 was a lover of the fields2 and    
feeling that  such grass was a travesty1
 he added on his own account dainty     
little  tussocks1 and softened the hard 
line into a tufted carpet1 the grass    
growing irregularly1 bent at will by the
 wind4    ,the result from the          
standpoint of conventional art is indeed

  disastrous2 but my sympathy and       
gratitude are with the painter4 ,i see1 
as he saw1 the far-reaching robe of     
living ineffable green1 of whose        
brilliance the eye never has too much1  
and in whose weft no two threads  are   
alike2 and shrink as he did from the    
conventionalising of that  wind-swept   
glory4    ,the sea has its crested waves
 of recognisable form2 the river its    
eddy  and swirl and separate vortices2  
but the grass6 ,the wind bloweth where  
it listeth and the grass bows as the    
wind blows--thou canst not tell  whither
 it goeth4 ,it takes no pattern1 it     
obeys no recognised law2 it  is like a  
beautiful creature of a thousand wayward
 moods1 and its voice  is like nothing  
else in the wide world4 ,it bids you    
rest and bury your  tired face in the   
green coolness1 and breathe of its      
breath and of the  breath of the good   
earth from which man was taken and to   
which he will  one day return4 ,then1 if
 you lend your ear and are silent       

minded1 you  may hear wondrous things of
 the deep places of the earth2 of life  
in  mineral and stone as well as in     
pulsing sap2 of a green world as the    
stars saw it before man trod it under   
foot--of the emerald which has  its     
place with the rest in the ,city of     
,god4                                   
,what if earth      ,be but the shadow  
of heaven1 and things therein1          
,each to each other like1 more than on  
earth is thought8    ,it is a natural   
part of civilisation's lust of          
re-arrangement that we  should be so    
ready to conventionalise the beauty of  
this world into  decorative patterns for
 our pilgrim tents4 ,it is a phase1 and 
will melt  into other phases2 but it    
tends to the increase of artificiality1 
and  exists not only in art but in      
everything4 ,it is no new thing for     
jaded  sentiment to crave the spur of   
the unnatural1 to prefer the clever     
imitation1 to live in a ,devachan where 
the surroundings appear that  which we  

would have them to be2 but it is an     
interesting record of the  pulse of the 
present day that ',an ,englishwoman's   
,love ,letters' should  have taken      
society by storm in the way it certainly
 has4    ,it is a delightful book to    
leave about1 with its vellum binding1   
dainty  ribbons1 and the hallmark of a  
great publisher's name4 ,but when we    
seek  within we find love with its      
thousand voices and wayward moods1 its  
shy  graces and seemly reticences1 love 
which has its throne and robe of  state 
as well as the garment of the beggar    
maid1 love which is before  time was1   
which knew the world when the stars took
 up their courses1  presented to us in  
gushing outpourings1 the appropriate    
language of a  woman's heart to the boor
 she delights to honour4    ,it is woman
 who is the glory of man1 says the      
author of ',the ,house  of ,wisdom and  
,love1' ,regina mundi1 greater1 because 
so far the less2  and man is her head1  
but only as he serves his queen4 ,set   

this sober  aphorism against the school 
girl love-making which kisses a man's   
feet  and gaily refuses him the barren  
honour of having loved her first4       
,there is scant need for the apologia   
which precedes the letters2 a  few pages
 dispels the fear that we are prying    
into another's soul4  ,as for the       
authorship1 there is a woman's          
influence1 an artist's  poorly concealed
 bias in the foreign letters2 and for   
the rest a man's  blunders--so much     
easier to see in another than to avoid  
oneself--writ  large from cover to      
cover4 ,king ,cophetua1 who sends his   
profoundly  grateful remembrances1 has  
most surely written the letters he would
  wish to receive4    ,mrs ,meynell6    
cries one reviewer1 triumphantly4 ,nay1 
the saints be  good to us1 what has ,mrs
 ,meynell in common with the            
,englishwoman's  language1 style1 or    
most unconvincing passion8 ,men can     
write as  from a woman's heart when they
 are minded to do so in desperate       

earnestness--there is ,clarissa ,harlowe
 and ,stevenson's ,kirstie1 and  many   
more to prove it2 but when a man writes 
as the author of the  ,love ,letters    
writes1 ,i feel1 as did the painter of  
the frieze1 that  pattern-making has    
gone too far and included that which1   
like the  grass1 should be spared such a
 convention4    ,i quite agree with you1
 said the ,duchess1 and the moral of    
that  is--',be what you would seem to   
be'--or1 if you'd like to put it more   
simply--'never imagine yourself not to  
be otherwise than what it  might appear 
to others that what you were or might   
have been was not  otherwise than what  
you had been would have appeared to them
 to be  otherwise4' ,and so by way of   
the ,queen's garden ,i come back to my  
room  again4    ,my heart's affections  
are still centred on my old attic1 with 
boarded  floor and whitewashed walls1   
where the sun blazoned a frieze of red  
and  gold until he travelled too far    
towards the north1 the moon streamed  in

 to paint the trees in inky wavering    
shadows1 and the stars flashed  their   
glory to me across the years4 ,but now  
sun and moon greet me only  indirectly3 
and under the red roses hang pictures1  
some of them the  dear companions of my 
days4 ,opposite me is the ,arundel print
 of the  ,presentation1 painted by the  
gentle ,brother of the ,angels4 ,priest 
,simeon1 a stately figure in green and  
gold1 great with prophecy1 gazes        
adoringly at the ,bambino he holds with 
fatherly care4 ,our ,lady1 in robe  of  
red and veil of shadowed purple1 is     
instinct with light despite the  sombre 
colouring1 as she stretches out         
hungering1 awe-struck hands for  her    
soul's delight4 ,st ,joseph1 dignified  
guardian and servitor1 stands  behind1  
holding the ,sacrifice of the ,poor to  
redeem the ,first-begotten4    ,st      
,peter ,martyr and the ,dominican nun1  
gazing in rapt contemplation  at the    
scene1 are not one whit surprised to    
find themselves in the  presence of     

eternal mysteries4 ,in the ,entombment1 
which hangs on the  opposite wall1 ,st  
,dominic comes round the corner full of 
grievous  amaze and tenderest sympathy1 
but with no sense of shock or intrusion1
  for was he not famigliar di ,cristo8  
,and so he takes it all in2 the  stone  
bed empty and waiting2 the ,beloved     
cradled for the last time on  ,his      
mother's knees to be washed1 lapped     
round1 and laid to rest as if  ,he were 
again the ,babe of ,bethlehem4 ,he sees 
the ,magdalen anointing  the ,sacred    
,feet2 ,blessed ,john caring for the    
living and the ,dead2 and  he1          
,dominic--hound of the ,lord--having his
 real1 living share in the  anguish and 
hope1 the bedding of the dearest ,dead1 
who did but leave  this earth that ,he  
might manifest ,himself more completely4
    ,underneath1 with a leap across the 
centuries1 is ,rossetti's picture2      
,dante this time the onlooker1          
,beatrice1 in her pale beauty1 the      
death-kissed one4 ,the same idea under  

different representations2 the  one     
conceived in childlike simplicity1 the  
other recalling1 even in the            
photograph1 its wealth of colour and    
imagining2 the one a world-wide  ideal1 
the other an individual expression of   
it4    ,beatrice was to ,dante the      
inclusion of belief4 ,she was more to   
him  than he himself knew1 far more to  
him after her death than before4  ,and1 
therefore1 the analogy between the      
pictures has at core a common  reality4 
,it is expedient for you that ,i go     
away1 is constantly being  said to us as
 we cling earthlike to the outward      
expression1 rather  than to the inward  
manifestation--and blessed are those who
 hear and  understand1 for it is spoken 
only to such as have been with ,him from
  the beginning4 ,the eternal mysteries 
come into time for us individually      
under widely differing forms4 ,the tiny 
child mothers its doll1 croons  to it1  
spends herself upon it1 why she cannot  
tell you2 and we who are  here in our   

extreme youth1 never to be men and women
 grown in this  world1 nurse our ideal1 
exchange it1 refashion it1 call it by   
many  names2 and at last in here or     
hereafter we find in its naked truth the
  ,child in the manger1 even as the     
,wise ,men found ,him when they came    
from  the ,east to seek a great ,king4  
,there is but one necessary condition   
of this finding2 we must follow the     
particular manifestation of light  given
 us1 never resting until it rests--over 
the place of the ,child4  ,and there is 
but one insurmountable hindrance1 the   
extinction of or  drawing back from the 
light truly apprehended by us4 ,we      
forget this1  and judge other men by the
 light of our own soul4    ,i think the 
old bishop must have understood it4 ,he 
is my friend of  friends as he lies     
opposite my window in his alabaster     
sleep1 clad in  pontifical robes1 with  
unshod feet1 a little island of white   
peace in  a many-coloured marble sea4   
,the faithful sculptor has given every  

line  and wrinkle1 the heavy eyelids and
 sunken face of tired old age1 but      
withal the smile of a contented child4  
,i do not even know my bishop's name1   
only that the work is of the  thirteenth
 century2 but he is good to company with
 through the day1 for  he has known     
darkness and light and the minds of many
 men2 most surely1  too1 he has known   
that ,god fulfils ,himself in strange   
ways1 so with the  shadow of his feet   
upon the polished floor he rests in     
peace4          ,,iv      ,,on ,sunday  
my little tree was limned in white and  
the sparrows were  craving shelter at my
 window from the blizzard4 ,now the mild
 thin air  brings a breath of spring in 
its wake and the daffodils in the garden
  wait the kisses of the sun4           
,hand-in-hand with memory ,i slip away  
down  the years1 and remember a day when
 ,i awoke at earliest dawn1 for across  
my sleep ,i had heard the lusty         
golden-throated trumpeters heralding the
  spring4    ,illustration3 ,the        

field-gate that leads to the lower      
meadows    ,the air was sharp-set2 a    
delicate rime frosted roof and road2 the
 sea  lay hazy and still like a great   
pearl4 ,then as the sky stirred with    
flush upon flush of warm rosy light1 it 
passed from misty pearl to  opal with   
heart of flame1 from opal to gleaming   
sapphire4 ,the earth  called1 the fields
 called1 the river called--that pied    
piper to whose  music a man cannot stop 
his ears4 ,it was with me as with the   
,canterbury  pilgrims3--        ,so     
priketh hem nature in hir corages2      
,than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages4
    ,half an hour later ,i was away by  
the early train that carries  the branch
 mails and a few workmen1 and was       
delivered at the little  wayside station
 with the letters4 ,the kind air went   
singing past as ,i  swung along the     
reverberating road between the high     
tree-crowned banks  which we call hedges
 in merry ,devon1 with all the world to 
myself and  the ,brethren4 ,a great     

blackbird flew out with a loud chook1   
chook1  and the red of the haw on his   
yellow bill4 ,a robin trilled from a    
low rose-bush2 two wrens searched       
diligently on a fallen tree for         
breakfast1 quite unconcerned when ,i    
rested a moment beside them2 and a      
shrewmouse slipped across the road      
followed directly by its mate4 ,march   
violets bloomed under the sheltered     
hedge with here and there a pale        
primrose2 a frosted bramble spray still 
held its autumn tints clinging  to the  
semblance of the past2 and great        
branches of snowy blackthorn  broke the 
barren hedgeway as if spring made a mock
 of winter's snows4    ,light of heart  
and foot with the new wine of the year  
,i sped on again1  stray daffodils      
lighting the wayside1 until ,i heard the
 voice of the  stream and reached the   
field gate which leads to the lower     
meadows4  ,there before me lay spring's 
pageant2 green pennons waving1 dainty   
maids curtseying1 and a host of joyous  

yellow trumpeters proclaiming           
',victory' to an awakened earth4 ,they  
range in serried ranks right down  to   
the river1 so that a man must walk      
warily to reach the water's edge  where 
they stand gazing down at themselves in 
fairest semblance like  their most      
tragic progenitor1 and1 rising from the 
bright grass in  their thousands1       
stretch away until they melt in a golden
 cloud at the  far end of the misty     
mead4 ,through the field gate and across
 the road ,i  see them1 starring the    
steep earth bank that leads to the upper
 copse1  gleaming like pale flames      
against the dark tree-boles4 ,there they
 have  but frail tenure2 here1 in the   
meadows1 they reign supreme4            
,illustration3 ,a host of joyous yellow 
trumpeters    ,at the upper end of the  
field the river provides yet closer     
sanctuary  for these children of the    
spring4 ,held in its embracing arms lies
 an  island long and narrow1 some thirty
 feet by twelve1 a veritable untrod     

,eldorado1 glorious in gold from end to 
end1 a fringe of reeds by the  water's  
edge1 and save for that--daffodils4 ,a  
great oak stands at the  meadow's neck1 
an oak with gnarled and wandering roots 
where a man  may rest1 for it is bare of
 daffodils save for a group of three1   
and  a solitary one apart growing close 
to the old tree's side4 ,i sat down  by 
my lonely little sister1 blue sky       
overhead1 green grass at my feet        
decked1 like the pastures of the        
,blessd1 in glorious sheen2 a sea of    
triumphant1 golden heads tossing        
blithely back as the wind swept  down to
 play with them at his pleasure4    ,it 
was all mine to have and to hold without
 severing a single slender  stem or     
harbouring a thought of covetousness2   
mine1 as the whole earth  was mine1 to  
appropriate to myself without the burden
 and bane of  worldly possession4 ,thou 
sayest that ,i am--a ,king1 said the    
,lord  before ,pilate1 and ,my kingdom  
is not of this world4 ,we who are made  

kings after ,his likeness possess all   
things1 not after this world's  fashion 
but in proportion to our poverty2 and   
when we cease to toil and  spin1 are    
arrayed as the lilies1 in a glory       
transcending ,solomon's4  ,bride        
,poverty--she who climbed the ,cross    
with ,christ--stretches out  eager hands
 to free us from our chains1 but we flee
 from her1 and lay  up treasure against 
her importunity1 while ,amytas on his   
seaweed bed  weeps tears of pure pity   
for crave-mouth ,csar of great          
possessions4    ,presently another of   
spring's lovers cried across the water  
,cuckoo1  cuckoo1 and the voice of the  
stream sang joyously in unison4 ,it is  
free from burden1 this merry little     
river1 and neither weir nor mill  bars  
its quick way to the sea as it completes
 the eternal circle1  lavishing gifts of
 coolness and refreshment on the        
children of the  meadows4    ,it has its
 birth on the great lone moor1 cradled  
in a wonderful  peat-smelling bog1 with 

a many-hued coverlet of soft            
mosses--pale  gold1 orange1 emerald1    
tawny1 olive and white1 with the red    
stain of  sun-dew and tufted            
cotton-grass4 ,under the old grey rocks 
which watch  it rise1 yellow-eyed       
tormantil stars the turf1 and bids      
,godspeed to  the little child of earth 
and sky4 ,thus the journey begins2 and  
with  ever-increasing strength the      
stream carves a way through the dear    
brown  peat1 wears a fresh wrinkle on   
the patient stones1 and patters merrily 
under a clapper bridge which spanned its
 breadth when the mistletoe  reigned and
 ,bottor1 the grim rock idol1 exacted   
the toll of human life  that made him   
great4 ,on and on goes the stream1 for  
it may not stay2  leaving of its        
freshness with the great osmunda that   
stretches eager  roots towards the      
running water2 flowing awhile with a    
brother stream1  to part again east and 
west as each takes up his separate      
burden of  service--my friend to cherish

 the lower meadows in their flowery     
joyance--and so by the great sea-gate   
back to sky and earth again4    ,the    
river of ,god is full of water4 ,the    
streets of the ,city are pure  gold4    
,verily1 here also having nothing we    
possess all things4           99        
99       99       99       99    ,the   
air was keen and still as ,i walked back
 in the early evening1 and  a daffodil  
light was in the sky as if ,heaven      
mirrored back earth's  radiance4 ,near  
the station some children flitted past1 
like little  white miller moths homing  
through the dusk4 ,as ,i climbed the    
hill the  moon rode high in a golden    
field--it was daffodils to the last4    
,v      ,,the seagulls from the upper   
reaches pass down the river in sober    
steady  flight seeking the open sea4 ,i 
shall miss the swoop and circle of      
silver wings in the sunlight and the    
plaintive call which sounds so          
strangely away from rock and shore1 but 
it is good to know that they  have gone 

from mudbank and murky town back to the 
free airs of their  inheritance1 to the 
shadow of sun-swept cliffs and the      
curling crest of  the wind-beaten waves1
 to brood again over the great ocean of 
a world's  tears4    ,my little tree is 
gemmed with buds1 shy1 immature1 but    
full of promise4  ,the sparrows busied  
with nest-building in the neighbouring  
pipes and  gutters use it for a vantage 
ground1 and crowd there in numbers1 each
  little beak sealed with long golden   
straw or downy feather4    ,the river is
 heavy with hay barges1 the last fruits 
of winter's  storehouse2 the lengthening
 days slowly and steadily oust the dark2
  the air is loud with a growing clamour
 of life3 spring is not only            
proclaimed1 but on this ,feast she is   
crowned1 and despite the warring  wind  
the days bring their meed of sunshine4  
,we stand for a moment at  the meeting  
of the ways1 the handclasp of ,winter   
and ,spring1 of ,sleep  and ,wakening1  
of ,life and ,death2 and there is       

between them not even  the thin line    
which ,rabbi ,jochanan on his death-bed 
beheld as all that  divided hell from   
heaven4    ,sphra cujus centrum ubique1 
circumferentia nullibi1 was said of     
,mercury1 that messenger of the gods who
 marshalled reluctant spirits  to the   
,underworld2 and for ,mercury we may    
write ,life with ,death as  its great   
sacrament of brotherhood and release1 to
 be dreaded only as  we dread to partake
 unworthily of great benefits4 ,like all
 sacraments  it has its rightful time   
and due solemnities2 the horror and sin 
of  suicide lie in the presumption of   
free will1 the forestalling of a        
gift1--the sin of ,eve in ,paradise1 who
 took that which might only be  given at
 the hand of the ,lord4 ,it has too its 
physical pains1 but they  are those of a
 woman in travail1 and we remember them 
no more for  joy that a child-man is    
born into the world naked and not       
ashamed3  beholding ourselves as we are 
we shall see also the leaves of the     

,tree  of ,life set for the healing of  
the nations4    ,we are slowly1 very    
slowly1 abandoning our belief in sudden 
and  violent transitions for a surer and
 fuller acceptance of the doctrine  of  
evolution2 but most of us still draw a  
sharp line of demarcation  between this 
world and the next1 and expect a radical
 change in  ourselves and our           
surroundings1 a break in the chain of   
continuity  entirely contrary to the    
teaching of nature and experience4 ,in  
the same  way we cling to the specious  
untruth that we can begin over and over 
again in this world1 forgetting that    
while our sorrow and repentance  bring  
sacramental gifts of grace and strength1
 ,god ,himself cannot1 by  ,his own     
limitation1 rewrite the ,past4 ,we are  
in our sorrow that which  we have made  
ourselves in our sin2 our temptations   
are there as well  as the way of escape4
 ,we are in the image of ,god4 ,we      
create our world1  our undying selves1  
our heaven1 or our hell4 ,qui creavit te

 sine te  non salvabit te sine te4 ,it  
is stupendous1 magnificent1 and most    
appalling4 ,a man does not change as he 
crosses the threshold of the  larger    
room4 ,his personality remains the same1
 although the expression  of it may be  
altered4 ,here we have material bodies  
in a material  world--there1 perhaps1   
ether bodies in an ether world4 ,there  
is no  indecency in reasonable          
speculation and curiosity about the life
 to  come4 ,one end of the thread is    
between our fingers1 but we are haunted 
for the most part by the snap of        
,atropos' shears4    ,socrates faced    
death with the magnificent calm bred of 
dignified  familiarity4 ,he had built   
for himself a desired heaven of colour1 
light1 and precious stones--the         
philosophic formula of those who set    
the spiritual above the material1 and   
worship truth in the beauty of          
holiness4 ,he is not troubled by doubts 
or regrets1 for the path of the  just   
lies plain before his face4 ,he forbids 

mourning and lamentations  as out of    
place1 obeys minutely and cheerily the  
directions of his  executioner1 and     
passes with unaffected dignity to the   
apprehension of  that larger truth for  
which he had constantly prepared        
himself4 ,his  friends may bury him     
provided they will remember they are not
 burying  ,socrates2 and that all things
 may be done decently and in order1 a   
cock  must go to sculapius4    ,long    
before1 in the days of the ,captivity1  
there lived in godless1  blood-shedding 
,nineveh an exiled ,jew whose father had
 fallen from  the faith4 ,he was a      
simple man1 child-like and direct2      
living the  careful1 kindly life of an  
orthodox ,jew1 suffering many           
persecutions  for conscience' sake1 and 
in constant danger of death4 ,he        
narrates the  story of his life and of  
the blindness which fell on him1 with   
gentle  placidity1 and checks the       
exuberance of his more emotional wife   
with  the assurance of untroubled faith4

 ,finally1 when his pious expectations  
are fulfilled1 his sight restored1 and  
his son prosperously  established beside
 him1 he breaks into a prayer of        
rejoicing which  reveals the secret of  
his confident content4 ,he made use of  
two great  faculties3 the sense of      
proportion1 which enabled him to apprise
 life  and its accidents justly1 and the
 gift of inseeing1 which led ,socrates  
after him1 and ,blessed ,john in lonely 
exile on ,patmos1 to look through  the  
things temporal to the hidden meanings  
of eternity4    ,let my soul bless ,god 
the great ,king1 he cries2 and looks    
away past  the present distress2 past   
the ,restoration which was to end in    
fresh  scattering and confusion2 past   
the dream of gold1 and porphyry1 and    
marble defaced by the eagles and emblems
 of the conqueror2 until his  eyes are  
held by the ,jerusalem of ,god1 built up
 with sapphires1 and  emeralds1 and     
precious stones1 with battlements of    
pure gold1 and the  cry of ',alleluia'  

in her streets4    ,many years later1   
when he was very aged1 he called his son
 to him  and gave him as heritage his   
own simple rule of life1 adding but one 
request3 ,keep thou the law and the     
commandments1 and shew thyself  merciful
 and just1 that it may go well with     
thee4 4 4 44 ,consider  what alms doeth1
 and how righteousness doth deliver4 4 4
 4 ,and bury  me decently1 and thy      
mother with me4 ,having so said1 he went
 his way  quietly and contentedly to the
 ,jerusalem of his heart4    ,it is the 
simple note of familiarity that is      
wanting in us2 that by  which we link   
world with world4 ,once1 years ago1 ,i  
sat by the bedside  of a dying man in a 
wretched garret in the ,east ,end4 ,he  
was entirely  ignorant1 entirely        
quiescent1 and entirely uninterested4   
,the minister  of a neighbouring chapel 
came to see him and spoke to him at some
  length of the need for repentance and 
the joys of heaven4 ,after he had  gone 
my friend lay staring restlessly at the 

mass of decrepit broken  chimney pots   
which made his horizon4 ,at last he     
spoke1 and there was a  new note in his 
voice3--    ,ee said as 'ow there were  
golding streets in them parts4 ,i ain't 
no  ways particler wot they're made of1 
but it'll feel natral like if  there's  
chimleys too4    ,the sun stretched a   
sudden finger and painted the chimney   
pots red  and gold against the          
smoke-dimmed sky1 and with his face     
alight with  surprised relief my friend 
died4    ,we are one with the earth1 one
 in sin1 one in redemption4 ,it is the  
fringe of the garment of ,god4 ,if ,i   
may but touch the hem1 said a  certain  
woman4    ,on the great ,death-day which
 shadows the early spring with a shadow 
of  which it may be said ,umbra ,dei est
 ,lux1 the earth brought gifts of       
grief1 the fruit of the curse1 barren   
thorns1 hollow reed1 and the wood  of   
the cross2 the sea made offering of     
,tyrian purple2 the sky veiled  her face
 in great darkness1 while the nation of 

priests crucified for  the last time    
their ,paschal lamb4 ,i will hear1 saith
 the ,lord2 ,i will  hear the heavens1  
and they shall hear the earth1 and the  
earth shall  hear the corn and wine and 
oil1 and they shall hear ,jezreel1 and  
,i will  sow her unto me in the earth2  
and ,i will have mercy upon her that had
  not obtained mercy1 and ,i will say   
unto them which were not my people1     
',thou art my people1' and they shall   
say ',thou art my ,god4'                
,illustration3 ,in the distance rise the
 great lone heavenward hills    ,the    
second ,adam stood in the garden with   
quickening feet1 and all  the earth     
pulsed and sang for joy of the new hope 
and the new life  quickening within her1
 to be hers through the pains of        
travail1 the  pangs of dissolution4 ,the
 ,tree of ,life bears ,bread and        
,wine--food of  the wayfaring man4 ,the 
day of divisions is past1 the day of    
unity has  dawned4 ,one has risen from  
the dead1 and in the ,valley of ,achor  

stands  wide the ,door of ,hope--the    
,sacrament of ,death4        ,scio      
,domine1 et vere scio 4 4 4 quia non sum
 dignus      accedere ad tantum         
mysterium propter nimia peccata mea     
et infinitas negligentias meas4 ,sed    
scio 4 4 4 quia tu      potes me facere 
dignum4          ,,vi      ,,anytus and 
,meletus can kill me1 but they cannot   
hurt me1 said  ,socrates2 and ,governor 
,sancho1 with all the itch of           
newly-acquired  authority1 could not    
make the young weaver of steel-heads for
 lances  sleep in prison4 ,in the       
,vision of ,er the souls passed straight
  forward under the throne of necessity1
 and out into the plains of             
forgetfulness1 where they must severally
 drink of the river of  unmindfulness   
whose waters cannot be held in any      
vessel4 ,the throne1  the plain1 and the
 river are still here1 but in the       
distance rise the  great lone heavenward
 hills1 and the wise among us no longer 
ask of the  gods ,lethe1 but rather     

remembrance4 ,necessity can set me      
helpless on my  back1 but she cannot    
keep me there2 nor can four walls limit 
my vision4  ,i pass out from under her  
throne into the garden of ,god a free   
man1 to  my ultimate beatitude or my    
exceeding shame4 ,all day long this     
world  lies open to me2 ay1 and other   
worlds also1 if ,i will but have it so2 
and when night comes ,i pass into the   
kingdom and power of the dark4    ,i lie
 through the long hours and watch my    
bridge1 which is set with  lights across
 the gloom2 watch the traffic which is  
for me but so many  passing lamps       
telling their tale by varying height and
 brightness4  ,i hear under my window   
the sprint of over-tired horses2 the    
rattle  of uncertain wheels as the      
street-sellers hasten south2 the jangle 
of cab bells as the theatre-goers take  
their homeward way2 the gruff           
altercation of weary men1 the           
unmelodious song and clamorous laugh of 
women whose merriment is wearier still4 

,then comes a time of stillness  when   
the light in the sky waxes and wanes1   
when the cloud-drifts  obscure the      
stars1 and ,i gaze out into blackness   
set with watching  eyes4 ,no sound comes
 from without but the voice of the      
night-wind and  the cry of the hour4    
,the clock on the mantelpiece ticks     
imperatively1  for a check has fallen on
 the familiarity which breeds a         
disregard  of common things1 and a      
reason has to be sought for each sound  
which  claims a hearing4 ,the pause is  
wonderful while it lasts1 but it is not 
for long4 ,the working world awakes1 the
 poorer brethren take up the  burden of 
service2 the dawn lights the sky2       
remembrance cries an end to  forgetting4
    ,sometimes in the country on a night
 in early summer you may shut the       
cottage door to step out into an immense
 darkness which palls heaven  and earth4
 ,going forward into the embrace of the 
great gloom1 you are  as a babe swaddled
 by the hands of night into helpless    

quiescence4 ,your  feet tread an unseen 
path1 your hands grasp at a void1 or    
shrink from  the contact they cannot    
realise2 your eyes are holden2 your     
voice would  die in your throat did you 
seek to rend the veil of that           
impenetrable  silence4    ,shut in by   
the intangible dark1 we are brought up  
against those worlds  within worlds     
blotted out by our concrete daily life4 
,the working of  the great microcosm at 
which we peer dimly through the little  
window of  science2 the wonderful1      
breathing earth2 the pulsing1 throbbing 
sap2  the growing fragrance shut in the 
calyx of to-morrow's flower2 the        
heartbeat of a sleeping world that we   
dream that we know2 and around1  above1 
and interpenetrating all1 the world of  
dreams1 of angels and of  spirits4      
,it was this world which ,jacob saw on  
the first night of his exile1  and again
 when he wrestled in ,peniel until the  
break of day4 ,it was  this world which 
,elisha saw with open eyes2 which ,job  

knew when  darkness fell on him2 which  
,ezekiel gazed into from his place among
 the  captives2 which ,daniel beheld as 
he stood alone by the great river1 the  
river ,hiddekel4    ,for the moment we  
have left behind the realm of question  
and  explanation1 of power over matter  
and the exercise of bodily faculties2   
and passed into darkness alight with    
visions we cannot see1 into  silence    
alive with voices we cannot hear4 ,like 
helpless men we set our  all on the one 
thing left us1 and lift up our hearts1  
knowing that we  are but a mere speck   
among a myriad worlds1 yet greater than 
the sum  of them2 having our roots in   
the dark places of the earth1 but our   
branches in the sweet airs of heaven4   
,it is the material counterpart of the  
',night of the ,soul4' ,we have left    
our house and set forth in the darkness 
which paralyses those faculties  that   
make us men in the world of men4 ,but   
surely the great mystics1  with all     
their insight and heavenly love1 fell   

short when they sought  freedom in      
complete separateness from creation     
instead of in perfect  unity with it4   
,the ,greeks knew better when they flung
 ,ariadne's crown  among the stars1 and 
wrote ,demeter's grief on a barren      
earth1 and  ,persephone's joy in the    
fruitful field4 ,for the earth is       
gathered up  in man2 he is the whole    
which is greater than the sum of its    
parts4  ,standing in the image of ,god1 
and clothed in the garment of ,god1 he  
lifts up priestly hands and presents the
 sacrifice of redeemed earth  before the
 throne of the ,all-,father4 ,dust and  
ashes and a house of  devils1 he cries2 
and there comes back for answer1 ,rex   
concupiscet  decorem tuam4    ,the      
,angel of ,death has broad wings of     
silence and mystery with which  he      
shadows the valley where we need fear no
 evil1 and where the voice  which speaks
 to us is as the voice of doves1        
tabering upon their  breasts4 ,it is a  
place of healing and preparation1 of    

peace and  refreshing after the         
sharply-defined outlines of a garish    
day4 ,walking  there we learn to use    
those natural faculties of the soul     
which are  hampered by the familiarity  
of bodily progress1 to apprehend the    
truths  which we have intellectually    
accepted4 ,it is the place of secrets   
where the humility which embraces all   
attainable knowledge cries ,i  know not2
 and while we proclaim from the         
housetops that which we have  learnt1   
the manner of our learning lies hid for 
each one of us in the  sanctuary of our 
souls4    ,the ,egyptians1 in their     
ancient wisdom1 set in the desert a     
great  androsphinx1 image of mystery and
 silence1 staring from under level      
brows across the arid sands of the      
sea-way4 ,the ,greeks borrowed and      
debased the image1 turning the          
inscrutable into a semi-woman who  asked
 a foolish riddle1 and hurled herself   
down in petulant pride  when ,oedipus   
answered aright4 ,so we1 marring the    

office of silence1  question its        
mystery2 thwart ourselves with riddles  
of our own  suggesting2 and turn away1  
leaving our offering but half consumed  
on the altar of the unknown god4 ,it was
 not the theft of fire that  brought the
 vengeance of heaven upon ,prometheus1  
but the mocking  sacrifice4 ,orpheus    
lost ,eurydice because he must see her  
face before  the appointed time4        
,persephone ate of the pomegranate and  
hungered in  gloom for the day of light 
which should have been endless4    ,the 
universe is full of miracle and mystery2
 the darkness and silence  are set for a
 sign we dare not despise4 ,the pall of 
night lifts1  leaving us engulphed in   
the light of immensity under a tossing  
heaven  of stars4 ,the dawn breaks1 but 
it does not surprise us1 for we have    
watched from the valley and seen the    
pale twilight4 ,through the  wondrous   
,sabbath of faithful souls1 the long day
 of rosemary and rue1  the light        
brightens in the ,east2 and we pass on  

towards it with quiet  feet and opening 
eyes1 bearing with us all of the        
redeemed earth that  we have made our   
own1 until we are fulfilled in the      
sunrise of the  great ,easter ,day1 and 
the peoples come from north and south   
and east  and west to the ,city which   
lieth foursquare--the ,beatific ,vision 
of ,god4        ,vere ,ierusalem est    
illa civitas      ,cuius pax iugis et   
summa iucunditas2      ,ubi non prvenit 
rem desiderium1      ,nec desiderio     
minus est prmium4          ,,at ,,the   
,,white ,,gate          ,i      ,a      
,,great joy has come to me2 one of those
 unexpected gifts which life  loves to  
bestow after we have learnt to loose our
 grip of her4 ,i am  back in my own     
place very near my road--the white gate 
lies within my  distant vision2 near the
 lean grey ,downs which keep watch and  
ward  between the country and the sea2  
very near1 nay1 in the lap of ,mother   
,earth1 for as ,i write ,i am lying on a
 green carpet1 powdered yellow and      

white with the sun's own flowers2       
overhead a great sycamore where the     
bees toil and sing2 and sighing         
shimmering poplars golden grey against  
the blue4 ,the day of ,persephone has   
dawned for me1 and ,i1 set free  like   
,demeter's child1 gladden my eyes with  
this foretaste of coming  radiance1 and 
rest my tired sense with the scent and  
sound of home4  ,away down the meadow ,i
 hear the early scythe song1 and the    
warm air is  fragrant with the fallen   
grass4 ,it has its own message for me as
 ,i lie  here1 ,i who have obtained yet 
one more mercy1 and the burden of it is 
life1 not death4    ,i remember when1   
taking a grace from my road1 ,i helped  
to mow ,farmer  ,marler's ten-acre      
field1 rich in ripe upstanding grass4   
,the mechanism  of the ancient reaper   
had given way under the strain of the   
home  meadows1 and if this crop was to  
be saved it must be by hand4 ,i have    
kept the record of those days of joyous 
labour under a ,june sky4 ,men  were    

hard to get in our village2 old ,dodden1
 who was over seventy1  volunteered his 
services--he had done yeoman work with  
the scythe in  his youth--and two of the
 farm hands with their master completed 
our  strength4    ,illustration3 ,the   
line of the untroubled hills strong and 
still in the  broad sunshine    ,we took
 our places under a five o'clock morning
 sky1 and the larks  cried down to us as
 we stood knee-deep in the fragrant     
dew-steeped  grass1 each man with his   
gleaming scythe poised ready for its    
sweeping  swing4 ,old ,dodden led by    
right of age and ripe experience2 bent  
like  a sickle1 brown and dry as a nut1 
his face a tracery of innumerable       
wrinkles1 he has never ailed a day1 and 
the cunning of his craft was  still with
 him4 ,at first we worked stiffly1      
unreadily1 but soon the  monotonous     
motion possessed us with its insistent  
rhythm1 and the grass  bowed to each    
sibilant swish and fell in              
sweet-smelling swathes at our  feet4    

,now and then a startled rabbit scurried
 through the miniature  forest to vanish
 with white flick of tail in the tangled
 hedge2 here  and there a mother lark   
was discovered sitting motionless1      
immovable  upon her little brood2 but   
save for these infrequent incidents we  
paced steadily on with no speech save   
the cry of the hone on the steel  and   
the swish of the falling swathes4 ,the  
sun rose high in the heaven  and burnt  
on bent neck and bare and aching arms1  
the blood beat and  drummed in my veins 
with the unwonted posture and exercise2 
,i worked  as a man who sees and hears  
in a mist4 ,once1 as ,i paused to whet  
my  scythe1 my eye caught the line of   
the untroubled hills strong and still   
in the broad sunshine2 then to work     
again in the labouring1 fertile  valley4
    ,rest time came1 and wiping the     
sweat from brow and blade we sought  the
 welcome shadow of the hedge and the    
cool sweet oatmeal water with  which the
 wise reaper quenches his thirst4       

,farmer ,marler hastened off  to see    
with master-eye that all went well      
elsewhere2 the farm men slept           
tranquilly1 stretched at full length1   
clasped hands for pillow2 and  old      
,dodden1 sitting with crooked fingers   
interlaced to check their  trembling    
betrayal of old age1 told how in his    
youth he had swep  a four-acre field    
single-handed in three days--an almost  
impossible  feat--and of the first      
reaping machine in these parts1 and how 
it  brought1 to his thinking1 the ruin  
of agricultural morals with it4  ',tis  
again nature1 he said1 the ,lard gave us
 the land an' the seed1  but ,ee said   
that a man should sweat4 ,where's the   
sweat drivin' round  wi' two horses     
cuttin' the straw down an' gatherin' it 
again1 wi'  scarce a hand's turn i' the 
day's work8    ,old ,dodden's           
high-pitched quavering voice rose and   
fell1 mournful as  he surveyed the      
present1 vehement as he recorded the    
heroic past4 ,he  spoke of the rural    

exodus and shook his head mournfully4   
,we old 'uns  were content wi' earth and
 the open sky like our feythers before  
us1  but wi' the children 'tis first    
machines to save doin' a hand's turn  o'
 honest work1 an' then land an' sky     
ain't big enough seemin'ly1 nor  grand  
enough2 it must be town an' a paved     
street1 an' they sweat their  lives out 
atwixt four walls an' call it seein'    
life--'tis death an'  worse comes to the
 most of 'em4 ,ay1 'tis better to stay  
by the land1 as  the ,lard said1 till   
time comes to lie under it4 ,i looked   
away across  the field where the hot air
 throbbed and quivered1 and the fallen  
grass1 robbed already of its freshness1 
lay prone at the feet of its  upstanding
 fellows4 ,it is quite useless to argue 
with old ,dodden2 he  only shakes his   
head and says firmly1 ,an old man1      
seventy-five come  ,martinmass knows    
more o' life than a young chap1 stands  
ter reason2  besides1 his epitome of the
 town life he knows nothing of was a    

just  one as far as it went2 and his own
 son is the sweeper of a ,holborn       
crossing1 and many other things that he 
should not be2 but that is the  parson's
 secret and mine4    ,we took rank again
 and swept steadily on through the hot  
still hours  into the evening shadows1  
until the sinking sun set a ,gloria to  
the  psalm of another working day4 ,only
 a third of the field lay mown1 for  we 
were not skilled labourers to cut our   
acre a day2 ,i saw it again  that night 
under the moonlight and the starlight1  
wrapped in a shroud  of summer's mist4  
,the women joined us on the third day to
 begin haymaking1 and the air  was      
fragrant of tossed and sun-dried grass4 
,one of them walked apart  from the     
rest1 without interest or freedom of    
movement2 her face1  sealed and         
impassive1 was aged beyond the vigour of
 her years4 ,i  knew the woman by sight1
 and her history by hearsay4 ,we have a 
code  of morals here--not indeed        
peculiar to this place or people--that a

  wedding is 'respectable' if it        
precedes childbirth by a bare month1    
tolerable1 and to be recognised1 should 
it succeed the same by less  than a year
 7provided the pair are not living in   
the same village72  but the child that  
has never been 'fathered' and the wife  
without a  ring are 'anathema1' and such
 an one was ,elizabeth ,banks4 ,she went
 away  a maid and came back a year ago  
with a child and without a name4 ,her   
mother was dead1 her father and the     
village would have none of her3 the     
homing instinct is very strong1 or she  
would scarcely have returned1  knowing  
the traditions of the place4 ,old       
,dodden1 seeing her1 grumbled  to me in 
the rest-time4--,can't think what the   
farmer wants wi' ,lizzie  ,banks in 'is 
field4 ,she must live1 ,i said1 and by  
all showing her  life is a hard one4    
,she 'ad the makin' of 'er bed1 he went 
on1  obstinately4 ,what for do she bring
 her disgrace home1 wi' a fatherless    
brat for all folks to see8 ,we don't    

want them sort in our village4 ,the     
,lord's hand is heavy1 an' a brat's a   
curse that cannot be hid4    ,when      
tea-time came ,i crossed the field to   
look for a missing hone1 and  saw       
,elizabeth ,banks far from the other    
women1 busied with a bundle  under the  
hedge4 ,i passed close on my search1 and
 lo6 the bundle was  a little boy4 ,he  
lay smiling and stretching1 fighting the
 air with  his small pink fists1 while  
the wind played with his curls4 ,a curse
  that cannot be hid1 old ,dodden had   
said4 ,the mother knelt a moment1       
devouring him with her eyes1 then       
snatched him to her with aching greed   
and covered him with kisses4 ,i saw the 
poor1 plain face illumined1             
transfigured1 alive with a mother's     
love1 and remembered how the word  came 
once to a ,hebrew prophet3--        ,say
 unto your brethren ,ammi1 and to your  
sisters ,ruhamah4    ,the evening sky   
was clouding fast1 the sound of rain was
 in the air2  ,farmer ,marler shook his 

head as he looked at the grass lying in 
ordered rows4 ,i was the last to leave1 
and as ,i lingered at the gate  drinking
 in the scent of the field and the cool 
of the coming rain1 the  first drops    
fell on my upturned face and kissed the 
poor dry swathes at  my feet1 and ,i was
 glad4    ,david1 child of the fields   
and the sheepfolds1 his kingship laid   
aside1 sees through the parted curtain  
of the years the advent of his  greater 
,son1 and cries in his psalm of the     
hilltops1 his last prophetic  prayer3-- 
,he shall come down like rain upon the  
mown grass4    ,even so ,he came1 and   
shall still come4 ,three days ago the   
field1  in its pageant of fresh beauty1 
with shimmering blades and tossing      
banners1 greeted sun and shower alike   
with joy for the furtherance of  its    
life and purpose2 now1 laid low1 it     
hears the young grass whisper  the      
splendour of its coming green2 and the  
poor swathes are glad at  the telling1  
but full of grief for their own apparent

 failure4 ,then  in great pity comes the
 rain1 the rain of summer1 gentle1      
refreshing1  penetrating1 and the       
swathes are comforted1 for they know    
that standing  to greet or prostrate to 
suffer1 the consolations of the former  
and the  latter rain are still their    
own1 with tender touch and cool caress4 
,then1 once more parched by the sun1    
they are borne away to the new  service 
their apparent failure has fitted them  
for2 and perhaps as  they wait in the   
dark for the unknown that is still to   
come they hear  sometimes the call of   
the distant rain1 and at the sound the  
dry sap  stirs afresh--they are not     
forgotten and can wait4                 
,illustration3 ,below the low hedge lies
 pasture bright with buttercups1  where 
the cattle feed    ,say unto your       
sisters ,ruhamah1 cries the prophet4    
,he shall come down like rain upon the  
mown grass1 sang the poet of  the       
sheepfolds4    ,my ways are not your    
ways1 saith the ,lord4           99     

99       99       99       99    ,i     
remember how ,i went home along the damp
 sweet-scented lanes through  the grey  
mist of the rain1 thinking of the mown  
field and ,elizabeth  ,banks and many1  
many more2 and that night1 when the sky 
had cleared  and the nightingale sang1  
,i looked out at the moon riding at     
anchor1  a silver boat in a still blue  
sea ablaze with the head-lights of the  
stars1 and the saying of the herdsman of
 ,tekoa came to me--as it has  come     
oftentimes since3--        ,seek ,him   
that maketh the seven stars and ,orion1 
and      turneth the shadow of death    
into the morning1 and      maketh the   
day dark with night2 that calleth for   
the      waters of the sea and poureth  
them out upon the face of      earth2   
the ,lord is ,his name4          ,,ii   
,,this garden is an epitome of peace2   
sun and wind1 rain1 flowers1 and  birds 
gather me into the blessedness of their 
active harmony4 ,the world  holds no    
wish for me1 now that ,i have come home 

to die with my own  people1 for verily  
,i think that the sap of grass and trees
 must run in  my veins1 so steady is    
their pull upon my heart-strings4       
,london claimed  all my philosophy1 but 
the country gives all1 and asks of me   
only the  warm receptivity of a child in
 its mother's arms4    ,when ,i lie in  
my cool light room on the garden level1 
,i look across the  bright grass--il    
verde smalto--to a great red rose bush  
in lavish  disarray against the dark    
cypress4 ,near by1 amid a tangle of     
many-hued  corn-flowers ,i see the      
promise of coming lilies1 the sudden    
crimson of  a solitary pony2 and in     
lowlier state against the poor parched  
earth  glow the golden cups of the      
eschscholtzias4 ,beyond the low hedge   
lies  pasture bright with buttercups1   
where the cattle feed4 ,farther off1    
where the scythe has been busy1 are     
sheep1 clean and shorn1 with merry1     
well-grown lambs2 and in the farthest   
field ,i can see the great horses       

moving in slow steady pace as the farmer
 turns his furrow4    ,illustration3    
,the great horses moving in slow steady 
pace as the  farmer turns his furrow    
,the birds are noisy comrades and old   
friends1 from the lark which  chants the
 dew-steeped morning1 to the nightingale
 that breaks the  silence of the most   
wonderful nights4 ,i hear the wisdom of 
the rooks in  the great elms2 the       
lifting lilt of the linnet1 and the     
robin's quaint  little summer song4 ,the
 starlings chatter ceaselessly1 their   
queer  strident voices harsh against the
 melodious gossip of the other birds2   
the martins shrill softly as they swoop 
to and fro busied with their  nesting   
under the eaves2 thrush and blackbird   
vie in friendly rivalry  like the       
,meister-singer of old2 sometimes ,i    
hear the drawling cry of a  peacock     
strayed from the great house1 or the    
laugh of the woodpecker2  and at night  
the hunting note of the owl reaches me  
as he sweeps by in  search of prey4     

,to-day ,i am out again2 and the great  
sycamore showers honey and flowers  on  
me as ,i lie beneath it4 ,sometimes a   
bee falls like an over-ripe  fruit1 and 
waits awhile to clean his pollen-coated 
legs ere he flies  home to discharge his
 burden4 ,he is too busy to be friendly1
 but his  great velvety cousin is much  
more sociable1 and stays for a gentle   
rub between his noisy shimmering wings1 
and a nap in the hollow of my  hand1 for
 he is an idle friendly soul with plenty
 of time at his own  disposal and no    
responsibilities4 ,looking across ,i can
 watch the  martins at work2 they have a
 starling and a sparrow for near        
neighbours  in the wooden gutter4 ,one  
nest is already complete all but the    
coping1  the other two are a-building3  
,i wonder whether ,i or they will be    
first  to go south through the mist4    
,this great tree is a world in itself1  
and the denizens appear full of         
curiosity as to the ,gulliver who has   
taken up his abode beneath it4  ,pale   

green caterpillars and spiders of all   
sizes come spinning down to  visit me1  
and have to be persuaded with infinite  
difficulty to ascend  their threads     
again4 ,there are flies with beautiful  
iridescent wings1  beetles of all       
shapes1 some of them like tiny jewels in
 the sunlight4  ,their nomenclature is a
 sealed book to me2 of their life and   
habits  ,i know nothing2 yet this is but
 a little corner of the cosmos ,i am    
leaving1 and ,i feel not so much desire 
for the beauty to come1 as a  great     
longing to open my eyes a little wider  
during the time which  remains to me in 
this beautiful world of ,god's making1  
where each  moment tells its own tale of
 active1 progressive life in which there
 is  no undoing4 ,nature knows naught of
 the web of ,penelope1 that acme of     
anxious pathetic waiting1 but goes      
steadily on in ever widening circle     
towards the fulfilment of the mystery of
 ,god4    ,there are1 ,i take it1 two   
master-keys to the secrets of the       

universe1  viewed sub specie ternitatis1
 the ,incarnation of ,god1 and the      
,personality of ,man2 with these it is  
true for us as for the pantheistic      
little man of contemptible speech1 that 
all things are ours1 yea1  even unto the
 third heaven4    ,illustration3 ,there 
is a place waiting for me under the firs
 in the  quiet churchyard    ,i have    
lost my voracious appetite for books2   
their language is less  plain than scent
 and song and the wind in the trees2 and
 for me the  clue to the next world lies
 in the wisdom of earth rather than in  
the  learning of men4 ,libera me ab     
fuscina ,hophni1 prayed the good        
,bishop fearful of religious greed4 ,i  
know too much1 not too little2  it is   
realisation that ,i lack1 wherefore ,i  
desire these last days to  confirm in   
myself the sustaining goodness of ,god1 
the love which is our  continuing city1 
the ,new ,jerusalem whose length1       
breadth1 and height  are all one4 ,it is
 a time of exceeding peace4 ,there is a 

place waiting  for me under the firs in 
the quiet churchyard2 thanks to my      
poverty ,i  have no worldly anxieties or
 personal dispositions2 and ,i am rich  
in  friends1 many of them unknown to me1
 who lavishly supply my needs and  make 
it ideal to live on the charity of one's
 fellow-men4 ,i am most  gladly in debt 
to all the world2 and to ,earth1 my     
mother1 for her great  beauty4    ,i can
 never remember the time when ,i did not
 love her1 this mother of  mine with her
 wonderful garments and ordered         
loveliness1 her tender  care and patient
 bearing of man's burden4 ,in the       
earliest days of my  lonely childhood ,i
 used to lie chin on hand amid the      
milkmaids1 red  sorrel1 and heavy       
spear-grass listening to her many       
voices1 and above  all to the voice of  
the little brook which ran through the  
meadows  where ,i used to play3 ,i think
 it has run through my whole life also1 
to  lose itself at last1 not in the     
great sea but in the river that maketh  

glad the ,city of ,god4 ,valley and     
plain1 mountain and fruitful field2  the
 lark's song and the speedwell in the   
grass2 surely a man need not  sigh for  
greater loveliness until he has read    
something more of this  living letter1  
and knelt before that earth of which he 
is the only  confusion4    ,it is a     
grave matter that the word religion     
holds such sway among us1  making the   
very gap seem to yawn again which the   
,incarnation once and  for ever filled  
full4 ,we have banished the protecting  
gods that ruled  in river and mountain1 
tree and grove2 we have gainsayed for   
the most  part folk-lore and myth1      
superstition and fairy-tale1 evil only  
in  their abuse4 ,we have done away with
 mystery1 or named it deceit4 ,all  this
 we have done in an enlightened age1 but
 despite this policy of  destruction we 
have left ourselves a belief1 the       
grandest and most  simple the world has 
ever known1 which sanctifies the water  
that is  shed by every passing cloud2   

and gathers up in its great central act 
vineyard and cornfield1 proclaiming them
 to be that ,life of the world  without 
which a man is dead while he liveth4    
,further1 it is a belief  whose         
foundations are the most heavenly       
mystery of the ,trinity1 but  whose     
centre is a little ,child3 it sets a    
price upon the head of the  sparrow1 and
 reckons the riches of this world at    
their true value2  it points to a way of
 holiness where the fool shall not err1 
and the  sage may find the realisation  
of his far-seeking2 and yet1 despite    
its inclusiveness1 it is a belief which 
cannot save the birds from  destruction1
 the silent mountains from              
advertisement1 or the stream  from      
pollution1 in an avowedly ,christian    
land4 ,john ,ruskin scolded  and fought 
and did yeoman service1 somewhat        
hindered by his over-good  conceit of   
himself2 but it is not the worship of   
beauty we need so  much as the beauty of
 holiness4 ,little by little the barrier

 grows and  'religion' becomes a rule of
 life1 not life itself1 although the    
,bride stands ready to interpret1       
likened in her loveliness to the chief  
treasures of her handmaid--,earth4      
,there is more truth in the believing   
cry1 ,come from thy white cliffs1 ,o    
,pan6 than in the religion that         
measures a man's life by the letter of  
the ,ten ,commandments1 and erects      
itself as judge and ruler over him1     
instead of throwing open the gate  of   
the garden where ,god walks with man    
from morning until morning4    ,as ,i   
write the sun is setting2 in the pale   
radiance of the sky above  his glory    
there dawns the evening star2 and earth 
like a tired child  turns her face to   
the bosom of the night4          ,,iii  
,,once again ,i have paid a rare visit  
to my tree to find many things  changed 
since my last sojourn there4 ,the bees  
are silent1 for the  honey-laden flowers
 of the sycamore are gone and in their  
place hang  dainty two-fold keys4 ,the  

poplar has lost its metallic shimmer1   
the  chestnut its tall white candles2   
and the sound of the wind in the        
fully-leaved branches is like the       
sighing of the sea4 ,the martins'  nests
 are finished1 and one is occupied by a 
shrill-voiced brood2 but  for the most  
part the birds' parental cares are over1
 and the nestlings  in bold flight no   
longer flutter on inefficient wings     
across the lawn  with clamorous1 open   
bill4 ,the robins show promise of their 
ruddy  vests1 the slim young thrush is  
diligently practising maturer notes1    
and soon ,maid ,june will have fled4    
,it is such a wonderful world that ,i   
cannot find it in my heart to sigh  for 
fresh beauty amid these glories of the  
,lord on which ,i look1 seeing  men as  
trees walking1 in my material impotence 
which awaits the final  anointing4 ,the 
marigolds with their orange suns1 the   
lilies' white  flame1 the corncockle's  
blue crown of many flowers1 the         
honeysuckle's  horn of fragrance--,i can

 paraphrase them1 name1 class1 dissect  
them2  and then1 save for the purposes  
of human intercourse1 ,i stand where ,i 
stood before1 my world bounded by my    
capacity1 the secret of colour and      
fragrance still kept4 ,it is difficult  
to believe that the second lesson  will 
not be the sequence of the first1 and   
death prove a feast of  opening eyes to 
all these wonders1 instead of the       
heavy-lidded slumber  to which we so    
often liken it4 ,earth to earth8 ,yes1  
dust thou art1  and unto dust thou shalt
 return1 but what of the rest8 ,what of 
the  folded grave clothes1 and the      
,forty ,days8 ,if the next state be1 as 
it  well might1 space of four           
dimensions1 and the first veil which    
will  lift for me be the material one1  
then the other world which is hidden    
from our grosser material organism will 
lie open1 and declare still  further to 
my widening eyes and unstopped ears the 
glory and purpose of  the manifold      
garment of ,god4 ,knowledge will give   

place to understanding  in that second  
chamber of the ,house of ,wisdom and    
,love4 ,revelation is  always measured  
by capacity3 ,open thy mouth wide1 and  
it shall be  filled with a satisfaction 
that in itself is desire4    ,there is a
 child here1 a happy quiet little       
creature holding gently  to its two     
months of life4 ,sometimes they lay it  
beside me1 ,i the  more helpless of the 
two--perhaps the more ignorant--and     
equally  dependent for the supply of my 
smallest need4 ,i feel indecently large 
as ,i survey its minute perfections and 
the tiny balled fist lying in  my great 
palm4 ,the little creature fixes me with
 the wise wide stare  of a soul in      
advance of its medium of expression2 and
 ,i1 gazing back  at the mystery in     
those eyes1 feel the thrill of contact  
between my  worn and sin-stained self   
and the innocence of a little white     
child4  ,it is wonderful to watch a     
woman's rapturous familiarity with these
  newcomers4 ,a man's love has far more 

awe in it1 and the passionate  animal   
instinct of defence is wanting in him4  
,a woman shall be saved  through the    
child-bearing1 said ,st ,paul2 not      
necessarily her own1 but  by            
participation in the great act of       
motherhood which is the crown and  glory
 of her sex4 ,she is the prisoner of    
love1 caught in a net of her  own       
weaving2 held fast by little hands which
 rule by impotence1 pursued  by feet the
 swifter for their faltering4    ,it    
seems incredible that this is what a    
woman will barter for the right  to live
 her own life--surely the most empty of 
desires4 ,man--vir1  woman--femina1 go  
to make up the man--homo4 ,there can be 
no  comparison1 no rivalry between them2
 they are the complement of each  other1
 and a little child shall lead them4 ,it
 is easy to understand  that desire to  
shelter under the dear mantle of        
motherhood which has  led to one of the 
abuses of modern ,romanism4 ,i met an   
old peasant  couple at ,bornhofen who   

had tramped many weary miles to the     
famous  shrine of ,our ,lady to plead   
for their only son4 ,they had a few     
pence  saved for a candle1 and          
afterwards when they told me their tale 
the  old woman heaved a sigh of relief1 
,es wird bald gut gehen3 ,die  da1 ,sie 
versteht1 and ,i saw her later paying a 
farewell visit to  the great            
understanding ,mother whom she could    
trust4 ,superstitious  misapprehension  
if you will1 but also the recognition of
 a divine  principle4    ,it was        
,behmen1 ,i believe1 who cried with the 
breath of inspiration1  ,only when ,i   
know ,god shall ,i know myself2 and so  
man remains the last  of all the        
riddles1 to be solved it may be only in 
,heaven's perfection  and the light of  
the ,beatific ,vision4 ,know thyself is 
a vain legend1  the more so when        
emphasised by a skull2 and so ,i company
 with a  friend and a stranger1 and     
looking across at the white gate ,i     
wonder  concerning the quiet pastures   

and still waters that lie beyond1 even  
as  ,brother ,ambrose wondered long     
years ago in the monastery by the       
forest4        ,the ,brother ,ambrose   
was ever a saintly man approved      of 
,god and beloved by the ,brethren4 ,to  
him one night1      as he lay abed in   
the dormitory1 came the word of the     
,lord1 saying1 ,come1 and ,i will show  
thee the ,bride1      the ,lamb's wife4 
,and ,brother ,ambrose arose and was    
carried to a great and high mountain1   
even as in the      ,vision of ,blessed 
,john4 ',twas a still night of many     
stars1 and ,brother ,ambrose1 looking   
up1 saw a radiant      path in the      
heavens2 and lo6 the stars gathered     
themselves together on either side until
 they stood as      walls of light1 and 
the four winds lapped him about as      
in a mantle and bore him towards the    
wondrous gleaming      roadway4 ,then   
between the stars came the ,holy ,city  
with      roof and pinnacle aflame1 and 
walls aglow with such      colours as no

 earthly limner dreams of1 and much     
gold4      ,brother ,ambrose beheld the 
,gates of ,pearl1 and by every      gate
 an angel with wings of snow and fire1  
and a face      no man dare look on     
because of its exceeding radiance4      
,then as ,brother ,ambrose stretched out
 his arms because      of his great     
longing1 a little grey cloud came out   
of the north and hung between the walls 
of light1 so      that he no longer     
beheld the ,vision1 but only heard a    
sound as of a great multitude crying    
',alleluia'2 and      suddenly the winds
 came about him again1 and lo6 he       
found himself in his bed in the         
dormitory1 and it was      midnight1 for
 the bell was ringing to ,matins2 and he
      rose and went down with the rest4 
,but when the ,brethren      left the   
choir ,brother ,ambrose stayed fast in  
his      place1 hearing and seeing      
nothing because of the ,vision      of  
,god2 and at ,lauds they found him and  
told the ,prior4        ,he questioned  

,brother ,ambrose of the matter1 and    
when      he heard the ,vision bade him 
limn the ,holy ,city even      as he had
 seen it2 and the ,precentor gave him   
uterine      vellum and much fine gold  
and what colours he asked for      the  
work4 ,then ,brother ,ambrose limned a  
wondrous fair      city of gold with    
turrets and spires2 and he inlaid       
blue for the sapphire1 and green for the
 emerald1 and      vermilion where the  
city seemed aflame with the glory       
of ,god2 but the angels he could not    
limn1 nor could he      set the rest of 
the colours as he saw them1 nor the     
wall of stars on either hand2 and       
,brother ,ambrose      fell sick because
 of the exceeding great longing he      
had to limn the ,holy ,city1 and was    
very sad2 but the      ,prior bade him  
thank ,god1 and remember the infirmity  
of      the flesh1 which1 like the      
little grey cloud1 veiled               
,jerusalem to his sight4    ,as ,i write
 the monastery bell hard by rings out   

across the lark's song4  ,they still    
have time for visions behind those      
guarding walls1 but for  most of us it  
is not so4 ,we let slip the ideal for   
what we call the  real1 and the golden  
dreams vanish while we clutch at        
phantoms3 we  speed along life's        
pathway1 counting to the full the sixty 
minutes of  every hour1 yet the race is 
not to the swift nor the battle to the  
strong4 ,lying here in this quiet       
backwater it is hard to believe that    
the world without is turbulent with     
storm and stress and the ebb and  flow  
of uncertain tides4 ,the little yellow  
cat rolling on its back  among the      
daisies1 the staid tortoise making a    
stately meal off the  buttercups near   
me1 these are great events in this haven
 of peace4 ,and  yet1 looking back to   
the working days1 ,i know how much      
goodness and  loving kindness there is  
under the froth and foam4 ,if we do not 
know  ourselves we most certainly do not
 know our brethren3 that revelation     

awaits us1 it may be1 first in ,heaven4 
,to have faith is to create2 to  have   
hope is to call down blessing2 to have  
love is to work miracles4  ,above all   
let us see visions1 visions of colour   
and light1 of green  fields and broad   
rivers1 of palaces laid with fair       
colours1 and gardens  where a place is  
found for rosemary and rue4    ,it is   
our prerogative to be dreamers1 but     
there will always be men  ready to offer
 us death for our dreams4 ,and if it    
must be so let us  choose death2 it is  
gain1 not loss1 and the gloomy portal   
when we reach  it is but a white gate1  
the white gate maybe we have known all  
our  lives barred by the tendrils of the
 woodbine4          ,,iv      ,,rain1   
rain1 rain3 the little flagged path     
outside my window is a  streaming way1  
where the coming raindrops meet again   
the grey clouds  whose storehouse they  
have but just now left4 ,the grass grows
 greener  as ,i watch it1 the burnt     
patches fade1 a thousand thirsty heads  

are  uplifted for the cooling draught4  
,the great thrush that robs the         
raspberry canes is busy2 yesterday he   
had little but dust for his guerdon1 but
 now fresh1 juicy fruit repays  him as  
he swings to and fro on the pliant      
branches4 ,the blackbirds  and starlings
 find the worms an easy prey--poor      
brother worm ever  ready for sacrifice4 
,i can hear the soft expectant chatter  
of the  family of martins under the     
roof2 there will be good hunting1 and   
they  know it1 for the flies are out    
when the rain is over1 and there are    
clamorous mouths awaiting4 ,my little   
brown brothers1 the sparrows1  remain my
 chief delight4 ,of all the birds these 
nestle closest to my  heart1 be they    
grimy little cockneys or their trim and 
dainty country  cousins4 ,they come day 
by day for their meed of crumbs spread  
for them  outside my window1 and at this
 season they eat leisurely and with     
good appetite1 for there are no hungry  
babies pestering to be fed4  ,very early

 in the morning ,i hear the whirr and   
rustle of eager wings1  and the tap1    
tap1 of little beaks upon the stone4    
,the sound carries  me back1 for it was 
the first to greet me when ,i rose to   
draw water  and gather kindling in my   
roadmender days2 and if ,i slip back    
another  decade they survey me1         
reproving my laziness1 from the foot of 
the  narrow bed in my little attic      
overseas4    ,looking along the roadway 
that we have travelled we see the       
landmarks1  great and small1 which have 
determined the direction of our feet4   
,for  some those of childhood stand out 
above all the rest2 but ,i remember  few
 notable ones1 and those few the        
emphatic chord of the universe1  rather 
than any commerce with my fellows4      
,there was the night of my  great       
disappointment1 when ,i was borne from  
my comfortable bed to see  the wonders  
of the moon's eclipse4 ,disappointment  
was so great that  it sealed my lips2   
but1 once back on my pillow1 ,i sobbed  

for grief  that ,i had seen a wonder so 
far below my expectation4 ,then there   
was  a night at ,whitby1 when the wind  
made speech impossible1 and the seas    
rushed up and over the great lighthouse 
like the hungry spirits of the  deep4 ,i
 like better to remember the scent of   
the first cowslip field  under the warm 
side of the hedge1 when ,i sang to      
myself for pure joy  of their colour and
 fragrance4 ,again1 there were the      
bluebells in the  deserted quarry like  
the backwash of a southern sea1 and     
below them the  miniature forest of     
sheltering bracken with its quaint      
conceits2 and1  crowned above all1 the  
day ,i stood on ,watcombe ,down1 and    
looked across  a stretch of golden gorse
 and new-turned blood-red field1 the    
green of  the headland1 and beyond1 the 
sapphire sea4    ,time sped1 and there  
came a day when ,i first set foot on    
,german soil  and felt the throb of its 
paternity1 the beat of our common life4 
,england is my mother1 and most dearly  

do ,i love her swelling breasts  and    
wind-swept1 salt-strewn hair4 ,scotland 
gave me my name1 with  its haunting     
derivation handed down by brave men2 but
 ,germany has  always been to me the    
,fatherland par excellence4 ,true1 my   
love is  limited to the southern        
provinces1 with their medival memories2 
for  the progressive guttural north ,i  
have little sympathy1 but the ,rhine    
claimed me from the first1 calling1     
calling1 with that wonderful voice      
which speaks of death and life1 of      
chivalry and greed of gold4 ,if you     
would have the river's company you      
should wander1 a happy solitary1  along 
its banks1 watching its gleaming current
 in the early morning1  its golden glory
 as it answers the farewell of parting  
day4 ,then1 in  the silence of the      
night1 you can hear the wash and eddy   
calling one  to another1 count the      
heart-beats of the great bearer of      
burdens1 and  watch in the moonlight the
 sisters of the mist as they lament with

  wringing hands the days that are gone4
    ,the forests1 too1 are ready with   
story hid in the fastness of their      
solitude1 and it is a joy to think that 
those great pines1 pointing  ever       
upwards1 go for the most part to carry  
the sails of great ships  seeking afar  
under open sky4 ,the forest holds other 
wonders still4  ,it seems but last night
 that ,i wandered down the road which   
led to  the little unheeded village     
where ,i had made my temporary home4    
,the  warm-scented breath of the pines  
and the stillness of the night wrapped  
me in great content2 the summer         
lightning leapt in a lambent arch       
across the east1 and the stars1 seen    
dimly through the sombre tree  crests1  
were outrivalled by the glow-worms which
 shone in countless  points of light    
from bank and hedge2 even two           
charcoal-burners1 who  passed with      
friendly greeting1 had wreathed their   
hats with the living  flame4 ,the tiny  
shifting lamps were everywhere2 pale    

yellow1 purely  white1 or green as the  
underside of a northern wave4 ,by day   
but an  ugly1 repellent worm2 but       
darkness comes1 and lo1 a star alight4  
,nature  is full for us of seeming      
inconsistencies and glad surprises4 ,the
  world's asleep1 say you2 on your ear  
falls the nightingale's song and  the   
stir of living creatures in bush and    
brake4 ,the mantle of night  falls1 and 
all unattended the wind leaps up and    
scatters the clouds  which veil the     
constant stars2 or in the hour of the   
great dark1 dawn  parts the curtain with
 the long foregleam of the coming day4  
,it is hard  to turn one's back on night
 with her kiss of peace for tired       
eye-lids1  the kiss which is not sleep  
but its neglected forerunner4 ,i made my
  way at last down to the vine-girt     
bridge asleep under the stars and up    
the winding stairs of the old grey      
tower2 and a stone's-throw away the     
,rhine slipped quietly past in the      
midsummer moonlight4    ,switzerland    

came in its turn1 unearthly in its white
 loveliness and  glory of lake and sky4 
,but perhaps the landmark which stands  
out  most clearly is the solitary blue  
gentian which ,i found in the short     
slippery grass of the ,rigi1 gazing up  
at the sky whose blue could  not hope to
 excel it4 ,it was my first2 and what   
need of another1 for  finding one ,i had
 gazed into the mystery of all4 ,this   
side the ,pass1  snow and the blue of   
heaven2 later ,i entered ,italy through 
fields of  many-hued lilies1 her past   
glories blazoned in the flowers of the  
field4    ,now it is a strangely        
uneventful road that leads to my ,white 
,gate4 ,each  day questions me as it    
passes2 each day makes answer for me not
 yet4  ,there is no material preparation
 to be made for this journey of mine    
into a far country--a simple fact which 
adds to the 'unknowableness'  of the    
other side4 ,do ,i travel alone1 or am  
,i one of a great company1  swift yet   
unhurried in their passage8 ,the voices 

of ,penelope's  suitors shrilled on the 
ears of ,ulysses1 as they journeyed to  
the  nether-world1 like nocturnal birds 
and bats in the inarticulateness of     
their speech4 ,they had abused the gift1
 and fled self-condemned4 ,maybe        
silence commends itself as most suitable
 for the wayfarers towards the          
sunrise--silence because they seek the  
,word--but for those hastening  towards 
the confusion they have wrought there   
falls already the sharp  oncoming of the
 curse4    ,while we are still here the 
language of worship seems far1 and yet  
lies very nigh2 for what better note can
 our frail tongues lisp than  the voice 
of wind and sea1 river and stream1 those
 grateful servants  giving all and      
asking nothing1 the soft whisper of snow
 and rain eager  to replenish1 or the   
thunder proclaiming a majesty too great 
for  utterance8 ,here1 too1 stands the  
angel with the censer gathering up  the 
fragrance of teeming earth and          
forest-tree1 of flower and fruit1  and  

sweetly pungent herb distilled by sun   
and rain for joyful use4  ,here1 too1   
come acolytes lighting the dark with    
tapers--sun1 moon1 and  stars--gifts of 
the ,lord that ,his sanctuary may stand 
ever served4    ,it lies here ready to  
our hand1 this life of adoration which  
we needs  must live hand in hand with   
earth1 for has she not borne the curse  
with us8 ,but beyond the white gate and 
the trail of woodbine falls the  silence
 greater than speech1 darkness greater  
than light1 a pause of a  little while2 
and then the touch of that healing      
garment as we pass to  the ,king in ,his
 beauty1 in a land from which there is  
no return4    ,at the gateway then ,i   
cry you farewell4           99       99 
99       99       99    ,transcriber's  
,notes3    ,page #gi1 ,sphoephera       
changed to ,sphra 7,sphra cujus centrum7