With This Question, However, We Need Not Concern Ourselves.
To Me, After Stumbling By Chance On The Little Church In
That
solitary woodland place, the story of its origin was accepted
as true; no doubt it had come down unaltered
From generation
to generation through all those centuries, and it moved my
pity yet was a delight to hear, as great perhaps as it had
been to listen to the beautiful chimes many times multiplied
from the wooded hill. And if I have a purpose in this book,
which is without a purpose, a message to deliver and a lesson
to teach, it is only this - the charm of the unknown, and the
infinitely greater pleasure in discovering the interesting
things for ourselves than in informing ourselves of them by
reading. It is like the difference in flavour in wild fruits
and all wild meats found and gathered by our own hands in wild
places and that of the same prepared and put on the table for
us. The ever-varying aspects of nature, of earth and sea and
cloud, are a perpetual joy to the artist, who waits and watches
for their appearance, who knows that sun and atmosphere have
for him revelations without end. They come and go and mock
his best efforts; he knows that his striving is in vain - that
his weak hands and earthy pigments cannot reproduce these
effects or express his feeling - that, as Leighton said, "every
picture is a subject thrown away." But he has his joy none
the less; it is in the pursuit and in the dream of capturing
something illusive, mysterious, and inexpressibly beautiful.
Chapter Two: On Going Back
In looking over the preceding chapter it occurred to me that I
had omitted something, or rather that it would have been well
to drop a word of warning to those who have the desire to
revisit a place where they have experienced a delightful
surprise. Alas! they cannot have that sensation a second
time, and on this account alone the mental image must always
be better than its reality. Let the image - the first sharp
impression - content us. Many a beautiful picture is spoilt by
the artist who cannot be satisfied that he has made the best
of his subject, and retouching his canvas to bring out some
subtle charm which made the work a success loses it
altogether. So in going back, the result of the inevitable
disillusionment is that the early mental picture loses
something of its original freshness. The very fact that the
delightful place or scene was discovered by us made it the
shining place it is in memory. And again, the charm we found
in it may have been in a measure due to the mood we were in,
or to the peculiar aspect in which it came before us at the
first, due to the season, to atmospheric and sunlight effects,
to some human interest, or to a conjunction of several
favourable circumstances; we know we can never see it again
in that aspect and with that precise feeling.
On this account I am shy of revisiting the places where I have
experienced the keenest delight. For example, I have no
desire to revisit that small ancient town among the hills,
described in the last chapter; to go on a Sunday evening
through that narrow gorge, filled with the musical roar of the
church bells; to leave that great sound behind and stand again
listening to the marvellous echo from the wooded hill on the
other side of the valley. Nor would I care to go again in
search of that small ancient lost church in the forest. It
would not be early April with the clear sunbeams shining
through the old leafless oaks on the floor of fallen yellow
leaves with the cuckoo fluting before his time; nor would that
straggling procession of villagers appear, headed by an old
man in a smock frock with a big book in his hand; nor would I
hear for the first time the strange history of the church
which so enchanted me.
I will here give an account of yet another of the many
well-remembered delightful spots which I would not revisit,
nor even look upon again if I could avoid doing so by going
several miles out of my way.
It was green open country in the west of England - very far
west, although on the east side of the Tamar - in a beautiful
spot remote from railroads and large towns, and the road by
which I was travelling (on this occasion on a bicycle) ran or
serpentined along the foot of a range of low round hills on my
right hand, while on my left I had a green valley with other
low round green hills beyond it. The valley had a marshy
stream with sedgy margins and occasional clumps of alder and
willow trees. It was the end of a hot midsummer day; the sun
went down a vast globe of crimson fire in a crystal clear sky;
and as I was going east I was obliged to dismount and stand
still to watch its setting. When the great red disc had gone
down behind the green world I resumed my way but went slowly,
then slower still, the better to enjoy the delicious coolness
which came from the moist valley and the beauty of the evening
in that solitary place which I had never looked on before.
Nor was there any need to hurry; I had but three or four miles
to go to the small old town where I intended passing the
night. By and by the winding road led me down close to the
stream at a point where it broadened to a large still pool.
This was the ford, and on the other side was a small rustic
village, consisting of a church, two or three farm-houses with
their barns and outbuildings, and a few ancient-looking stone
cottages with thatched roofs.
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