That Is What A Parson Can Do Because He
Is, So To Speak, Paid To Keep An Eye On Them, And Besides It's
Religion There And A Different Thing.
But the squire!
- Their
squire, that dignified old gentleman, so upright in his
saddle, so considerate and courteous to every one - but he
never forgot his position - never in that way! I also asked if
he had never tried to establish, or advocated, or suggested to
them any kind of reunions to take place from time to time, or
an entertainment or festival to get them to come pleasantly
together, making a brightness in their lives - something which
would not be cricket or football, nor any form of sport for a
few of the men, all the others being mere lookers-on and the
women and children left out altogether; something which would
be for and include everyone, from the oldest grey labourer no
longer able to work to the toddling little ones; something of
their own invention, peculiar to Norton, which would be their
pride and make their village dearer to them? And the answer
was still no, and no, and no. He had never attempted, never
suggested, anything of the sort. How could he - the squire!
Yet he wrote those wise words: -
No nation can be truly great
That hath not something childlike in its life
Of every day.
Why are we lacking in that which others undoubtedly have, a
something to complete the round of homely happiness in our
little rural centres; how is it that we do not properly
encourage the things which, albeit childlike, are essential,
which sweetly recreate? It is not merely the selfishness of
those who are well placed and prefer to live for themselves,
or who have light but care not to shed it on those who are not
of their class. Selfishness is common enough everywhere, in
men of all races. It is not selfishness, nor the growth of
towns or decay of agriculture, which as a fact does not decay,
nor education, nor any of the other causes usually given for
the dullness, the greyness of village life. The chief cause,
I take it, is that gulf, or barrier, which exists between men
and men in different classes in our country, or a considerable
portion of it - the caste feeling which is becoming increasingly
rigid in the rural world, if my own observation, extending over
a period of twenty-five years, is not all wrong.
Chapter Eleven: Salisbury and Its Doves
Never in my experience has there been a worse spring season
than that of 1903 for the birds, more especially for the
short-winged migrants. In April I looked for the woodland
warblers and found them not, or saw but a few of the commonest
kinds. It was only too easy to account for this rarity. The
bitter north-east wind had blown every day and all day long
during those weeks when birds are coming, and when nearing the
end of their journey, at its most perilous stage, the wind had
been dead against them; its coldness and force was too much
for these delicate travellers, and doubtless they were beaten
down in thousands into the grey waters of a bitter sea. The
stronger-winged wheatear was more fortunate, since he comes in
March, and before that spell of deadly weather he was already
back in his breeding haunts on Salisbury Plain, and, in fact,
everywhere on that open down country. I was there to hear him
sing his wild notes to the listening waste - singing them, as
his pretty fashion is, up in the air, suspended on quickly
vibrating wings like a great black and white moth. But he was
in no singing mood, and at last, in desperation, I fled to
Salisbury to wait for loitering spring in that unattractive
town.
The streets were cold as the open plain, and there was no
comfort indoors; to haunt the cathedral during those vacant
days was the only occupation left to me. There was some
shelter to be had under the walls, and the empty, vast
interior would seem almost cosy on coming in from the wind.
At service my due feet never failed, while morning, noon, and
evening I paced the smooth level green by the hour, standing
at intervals to gaze up at the immense pile with its central
soaring spire, asking myself why I had never greatly liked it
in the past and did not like it much better now when grown
familiar with it. Undoubtedly it is one of the noblest
structures of its kind in England - even my eyes that look
coldly on most buildings could see it; and I could admire,
even reverence, but could not love. It suffers by comparison
with other temples into which my soul has wandered. It has
not the majesty and appearance of immemorial age, the dim
religious richness of the interior, with much else that goes
to make up, without and within, the expression which is so
marked in other mediaeval fanes - Winchester, Ely, York,
Canterbury, Exeter, and Wells. To the dry, mechanical mind of
the architect these great cathedrals are in the highest degree
imperfect, according to the rules of his art: to all others
this imperfectness is their chief excellence and glory; for
they are in a sense a growth, a flower of many minds and many
periods, and are imperfect even as Nature is, in her rocks and
trees; and, being in harmony with Nature and like Nature, they
are inexpressibly beautiful and satisfying beyond all
buildings to the aesthetic as well as to the religious sense.
Occasionally I met and talked with an old man employed at the
cathedral. One day, closing one eye and shading the other
with his hand, he gazed up at the building for some time, and
then remarked: "I'll tell you what's wrong with Salisbury - it
looks too noo." He was near the mark; the fault is that to
the professional eye it is faultless; the lack of expression
is due to the fact that it came complete from its maker's
brain, like a coin from the mint, and being all on one
symmetrical plan it has the trim, neat appearance of a toy
cathedral carved out of wood and set on a green-painted
square.
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