His Plan, He
Concludes, Is To Go Out In The Quiet Night-Time And Look At
The Stars.
Here let me quote two more sonnets written in contemplative
mood, just to give the reader a fuller idea not of the verse,
as verse, but of the spirit in the old squire.
There is no
title to these two: -
I like a fire of wood; there is a kind
Of artless poetry in all its ways:
When first 'tis lighted, how it roars and plays,
And sways to every breath its flames, refined
By fancy to some shape by life confined.
And then how touching are its latter days;
When, all its strength decayed, and spent the blaze
Of fiery youth, grey ash is all we find.
Perhaps we know the tree, of which the pile
Once formed a part, and oft beneath its shade
Have sported in our youth; or in quaint style
Have carved upon its rugged bark a name
Of which the memory doth alone remain
A memory doomed, alas! in turn to fade.
Bad enough as verse, the critic will say; refined, confined,
find - what poor rhymes are these! and he will think me wrong
to draw these frailties from their forgotten abode. But I
like to think of the solitary old man sitting by his wood
fire in the old house, not brooding bitterly on his frustrate
life, but putting his quiet thoughts into the form of a
sonnet. The other is equally good - or bad, if the critic
will have it so: -
The clock had just struck five, and all was still
Within my house, when straight I open threw
With eager hand the casement dim with dew.
Oh, what a glorious flush of light did fill
That old staircase! and then and there did kill
All those black doubts that ever do renew
Their civil war with all that's good and true
Within our hearts, when body and mind are ill
From this slight incident I would infer
A cheerful truth, that men without demur,
In times of stress and doubt, throw open wide
The windows of their breast; nor stung by pride
In stifling darkness gloomily abide;
But bid the light flow in on either side.
A "slight incident" and a beautiful thought. But all I have
so far said about the little book is preliminary to what I
wish to say about another sonnet which must also be quoted.
It is perhaps, as a sonnet, as ill done as the others, but the
subject of it specially attracted me, as it happened to be one
which was much in my mind during my week's stay at Norton.
That remote little village without a squire or any person of
means or education in or near it capable of feeling the
slightest interest in the people, except the parson, an old
infirm man who was never seen but once a week - how wanting in
some essential thing it appeared! It seemed to me that the
one thing which might be done in these small centres of rural
life to brighten and beautify existence is precisely the thing
which is never done, also that what really is being done is of
doubtful value and sometimes actually harmful.
Leaving Norton one day I visited other small villages in the
neighbourhood and found they were no better off. I had heard
of the rector of one of these villages as a rather original
man, and went and discussed the subject with him. "It is
quite useless thinking about it," he said. "The people here
are clods, and will not respond to any effort you can make to
introduce a little light and sweetness into their lives."
There was no more to be said to him, but I knew he was wrong.
I found the villagers in that part of the country the most
intelligent and responsive people of their class I had ever
encountered. It was a delightful experience to go into their
cottages, not to read them a homily or to present them with a
book or a shilling, nor to inquire into their welfare,
material and spiritual, but to converse intimately with a
human interest in them, as would be the case in a country
where there are no caste distinctions. It was delightful,
because they were so responsive, so sympathetic, so alive.
Now it was just at this time, when the subject was in my mind,
that the book of sonnets came into my hands - given to me by
the generous caretaker - and I read in it this one on "Innocent
Amusements":-
There lacks a something to complete the round
Of our fair England's homely happiness
A something, yet how oft do trifles bless
When greater gifts by far redound
To honours lone, but no responsive sound
Of joy or mirth awake, nay, oft oppress,
While gifts of which we scarce the moment guess
In never-failing joys abound.
No nation can be truly great
That hath not something childlike in its life
Of every day; it should its youth renew
With simple joys that sweetly recreate
The jaded mind, conjoined in friendly strife
The pleasures of its childhood days pursue.
What wise and kindly thoughts he had - the old squire of
Norton! Surely, when telling me the story of his life, they
had omitted something! I questioned them on the point. Did
he not in all the years he was at Norton House, and later when
he lived among them in a cottage in the village - did he not go
into their homes and meet them as if he knew and felt that
they were all of the same flesh, children of one universal
Father, and did he not make them feel this about him - that
the differences in fortune and position and education were
mere accidents? And the answer was: No, certainly not! as
if I had asked a preposterous question. He was the squire,
a gentleman - any one might understand that he could not come
among them like that!
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