Chapter 2

mounds destroyed.

Was every one, then, so pleasant to me in those days? were the people all so beneficent and kindly that I must needs look back; all welcoming with open hand and open door? No, the reverse; there was not a single one friendly to me. Still that has nothing to do with it; I never thought about them, and I am quite certain they never thought about me. They are all gone, and there is an end. Incompatibility would describe our connection best. Nothing to do with them at all; it was me. I planted myself every where--in all the fields and under all the trees. The curious part of it is that though they are all dead, and 'worms have eaten them, but not for love,' we continually meet them in other shapes. We say, 'Holloa, here is old So-and-so coming; that is exactly his jaw, that's his Flemish face;' or, 'By Jove, yonder is So-and-so; that's his very walk:' one almost expects them to speak as one meets them in the street. There seem to be certain set types which continually crop up again whithersoever you go, and even certain tricks of speech and curves of the head---a set of family portraits walking about the world. It was not the people, neither for good, for evil, nor indifference.

I planted myself every here under the trees in the fields and footpaths, by day and by night, and that is why I have never put myself into the charge of the many wheeled creatures that move on the rails and gone back thither, lest I might find the trees look small, and the elms mere switches, and the fields shrunken, and the brooks dry, and no voice anywhere. Nothing but my own ghost to meet me by every hedge. I fear lest I should find myself more dead than all the rest And verily I wish, could it be without injury to others, that the sand of the desert would rise and roll over and obliterate the place for ever and ever.

I need not wish, for I have been conversing again with learned folk about this place, and they begin to draw my view to certain considerations. These very learned men point out to me a number of objections, for the question they sceptically put is this: are you quite certain that such a village ever existed? In the first place, they say, you have only got one other witness beside yourself, and she is aged, and has defective sight; and really we don't know what to say to accepting such evidence unsupported. Secondly, John Brown cannot be found to bear testimony. Thirdly, there are no ghosts there; that can be demonstrated. It renders a case unsubstantial to introduce these flimsy spirits. Fourthly, the map is lost, and it might be asked was there ever such a map? Fifthly, the people are all gone. Sixthly, no one ever saw any particular sparkle on the brook there, and the clouds appear to be of the same commonplace order that go about everywhere. Seventhly, no one can find these footpaths, which probably led nowhere; and as for the little old man with silver buckles on his shoes, it is a story only fit for some one in his dotage. You can't expect grave and considerate men to take your story as it stands; they must consult the Ordnance Survey and Domesday Book; and the fact is, you have not got the shadow of a foundation on which to carry your case into court. I may resent this, but I cannot deny that the argument is very black against me, and I begin to think that my senses have deceived me. It is as they say. No one else seems to have seen the sparkle on the brook, or heard the music at the hatch, or to have felt back through the centuries; and when I try to describe these things to them they look at me with stolid incredulity. No one seems to understand how I got food from the clouds, nor what there was in the night, nor why it is not so good to look at it out of window. They turn their faces away from me, so that perhaps after all I was mistaken, and there never was any such place or any such meadows, and I was never there. And perhaps in course of time I shall find out also, when I pass away physically, that as a matter of fact there never was any earth.

MY CHAFFINCH

His hours he spends upon a fragrant fir; His merry 'chink,' his happy 'Kiss me, dear,' Each moment sounded, keeps the copse astir. Loudly he challenges his rivals near, Anon aslant down to the ground he springs, Like to a sunbeam made of coloured wings.

The firm and solid azure of the ceil That struck by hand would give a hollow sound, A dome turned perfect by the sun's great wheel, Whose edges rest upon the hills around, Rings many a mile with blue enamelled wall; His fir-tree is the centre of it all.

A lichened cup he set against the side High up this mast, earth-stepped, that could not fail, But swung a little as a ship might ride, Keeping an easy balance in the gale; Slow-heaving like a gladiator's breast, Whose strength in combat feels an idle rest.

Whether the cuckoo or the chaffinch most Do triumph in the issuing of their song? I say not this, but many a swelling boast They throw each at the other all day long. Soon as the nest had cradled eggs a-twin The jolly squirrel climbed to look therein.

Adown the lane athwart this pleasant wood The broad-winged butterflies their solace sought; A green-necked pheasant in the sunlight stood, Nor could the rushes hide him as he thought. A humble-bee through fern and thistle made A search for lowly flowers in the shade.

A thing of many wanderings, and loss, Like to Ulysses on his poplar raft, His treasure hid beneath the tunnelled moss Lest that a thief his labour steal with craft, Up the round hill, sheep-dotted, was his way, Zigzagging where some new adventure lay.

'My life and soul,' as if he were a Greek, His heart was Grecian in his greenwood fane; 'My life and soul,' through all the sunny week The chaffinch sang with beating heart amain, 'The humble-bee the wide wood-world may roam; One feather's breadth I shall not stir from home.'

No note he took of what the swallows said About the firing of some evil gun, Nor if the butterflies were blue or red, For all his feelings were intent in one. The loving soul, a-thrill in all his nerves, A life immortal as a man's deserves.