a miscellany of men-第2部分

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　of　those　places　that　instantly　produce　a　frame　of　mind　which；　it　may　be；　one　afterwards　decks　out　with　unreal　details。　　I　dare　say　that　grass　did　not　really　grow　in　the　streets；　but　I　came　away　with　a　curious　impression　that　it　did。　　I　dare　say　the　marketplace　was　not　literally　lonely　and　without　sign　of　life；　but　it　left　the　vague　impression　of　being　so。　　The　place　was　large　and　even　loose　in　design；　yet　it　had　the　air　of　something　hidden　away　and　always　overlooked。　　It　seemed　shy；　like　a　big　yokel；　the　low　roofs　seemed　to　be　ducking　behind　the　hedges　and　railings；　and　the　chimneys　holding　their　breath。　　I　came　into　it　in　that　dead　hour　of　the　afternoon　which　is　neither　after　lunch　nor　before　tea；　nor　anything　else　even　on　a　half…holiday；　and　I　had　a　fantastic　feeling　that　I　had　strayed　into　a　lost　and　extra　hour　that　is　not　numbered　in　the　twenty…four。

I　entered　an　inn　which　stood　openly　in　the　market…place　yet　was　almost　as　private　as　a　private　house。　　Those　who　talk　of　〃public…houses〃　as　if　they　were　all　one　problem　would　have　been　both　puzzled　and　pleased　with　such　a　place。　　In　the　front　window　a　stout　old　lady　in　black　with　an　elaborate　cap　sat　doing　a　large　piece　of　needlework。　　She　had　a　kind　of　comfortable　Puritanism　about　her；　and　might　have　been　（perhaps　she　was）　the　original　Mrs。　Grundy。　　A　little　more　withdrawn　into　the　parlour　sat　a　tall；　strong；　and　serious　girl；　with　a　face　of　beautiful　honesty　and　a　pair　of　scissors　stuck　in　her　belt；　doing　a　small　piece　of　needlework。　　Two　feet　behind　them　sat　a　hulking　labourer　with　a　humorous　face　like　wood　painted　scarlet；　with　a　huge　mug　of　mild　beer　which　he　had　not　touched；　and　probably　would　not　touch　for　hours。　　On　the　hearthrug　there　was　an　equally　motionless　cat；　and　on　the　table　a　copy　of　'Household　Words'。

I　was　conscious　of　some　atmosphere；　still　and　yet　bracing；　that　I　had　met　somewhere　in　literature。　　There　was　poetry　in　it　as　well　as　piety；　and　yet　it　was　not　poetry　after　my　particular　taste。　It　was　somehow　at　once　solid　and　airy。　　Then　I　remembered　that　it　was　the　atmosphere　in　some　of　Wordsworth's　rural　poems；　which　are　full　of　genuine　freshness　and　wonder；　and　yet　are　in　some　incurable　way　commonplace。　　This　was　curious；　for　Wordsworth's　men　were　of　the　rocks　and　fells；　and　not　of　the　fenlands　or　flats。　　But　perhaps　it　is　the　clearness　of　still　water　and　the　mirrored　skies　of　meres　and　pools　that　produces　this　crystalline　virtue。　　Perhaps　that　is　why　Wordsworth　is　called　a　Lake　Poet　instead　of　a　mountain　poet。　Perhaps　it　is　the　water　that　does　it。　　Certainly　the　whole　of　that　town　was　like　a　cup　of　water　given　at　morning。

After　a　few　sentences　exchanged　at　long　intervals　in　the　manner　of　rustic　courtesy；　I　inquired　casually　what　was　the　name　of　the　town。　　The　old　lady　answered　that　its　name　was　Stilton；　and　composedly　continued　her　needlework。　　But　I　had　paused　with　my　mug　in　air；　and　was　gazing　at　her　with　a　suddenly　arrested　concern。　　〃I　suppose；〃　I　said；　〃that　it　has　nothing　to　do　with　the　cheese　of　that　name。〃　　〃Oh；　yes；〃　she　answered；　with　a　staggering　indifference；　〃they　used　to　make　it　here。〃

I　put　down　my　mug　with　a　gravity　far　greater　than　her　own。　　〃But　this　place　is　a　Shrine！〃　　I　said。　〃Pilgrims　should　be　pouring　into　it　from　wherever　the　English　legend　has　endured　alive。　　There　ought　to　be　a　colossal　statue　in　the　market…place　of　the　man　who　invented　Stilton　cheese。　　There　ought　to　be　another　colossal　statue　of　the　first　cow　who　provided　the　foundations　of　it。　　There　should　be　a　burnished　tablet　let　into　the　ground　on　the　spot　where　some　courageous　man　first　ate　Stilton　cheese；　and　survived。　　On　the　top　of　a　neighbouring　hill　（if　there　are　any　neighbouring　hills）　there　should　be　a　huge　model　of　a　Stilton　cheese；　made　of　some　rich　green　marble　and　engraven　with　some　haughty　motto：　I　suggest　something　like　'Ver　non　semper　viret；　sed　Stiltonia　semper　virescit。'〃　The　old　lady　said；　〃Yes；　sir；〃　and　continued　her　domestic　occupations。

After　a　strained　and　emotional　silence；　I　said；　〃If　I　take　a　meal　here　to…　night　can　you　give　me　any　Stilton？〃

〃No；　sir；　I'm　afraid　we　haven't　got　any　Stilton；〃　said　the　immovable　one；　speaking　as　if　it　were　something　thousands　of　miles　away。

〃This　is　awful；〃　I　said：　for　it　seemed　to　me　a　strange　allegory　of　England　as　she　is　now；　this　little　town　that　had　lost　its　glory；　and　forgotten；　so　to　speak；　the　meaning　of　its　own　name。　　And　I　thought　it　yet　more　symbolic　because　from　all　that　old　and　full　and　virile　life；　the　great　cheese　was　gone；　and　only　the　beer　remained。　　And　even　that　will　be　stolen　by　the　Liberals　or　adulterated　by　the　Conservatives。　　Politely　disengaging　myself；　I　made　my　way　as　quickly　as　possible　to　the　nearest　large；　noisy；　and　nasty　town　in　that　neighbourhood；　where　I　sought　out　the　nearest　vulgar；　tawdry；　and　avaricious　restaurant。

There　（after　trifling　with　beef；　mutton；　puddings；　pies；　and　so　on）　I　got　a　Stilton　cheese。　　I　was　so　much　moved　by　my　memories　that　I　wrote　a　sonnet　to　the　cheese。　　Some　critical　friends　have　hinted　to　me　that　my　sonnet　is　not　strictly　new；　that　it　contains　〃echoes〃　（as　they　express　it）　of　some　other　poem　that　they　have　read　somewhere。　　Here；　at　least；　are　the　lines　I　wrote　：…　

　　SONNET　TO　A　STILTON　CHEESE

　　Stilton；　thou　shouldst　be　living　at　this　hour　　　And　so　thou　art。　　Nor　losest　grace　thereby；　　　England　has　need　of　thee；　and　so　have　I　　　She　is　a　Fen。　　Far　as　the　eye　can　scour；　　　League　after　grassy　league　from　Lincoln　tower　　　To　Stilton　in　the　fields；　she　is　a　Fen。　　　Yet　this　high　cheese；　by　choice　of　fenland　men；　　　Like　a　tall　green　volcano　rose　in　power。

　　Plain　living　and　long　drinking　are　no　more；　　　And　pure　religion　reading　'Household　Words'；　　　And　sturdy　manhood　sitting　still　all　day　　　Shrink；　like　this　cheese　that　crumbles　to　its　core；　　　While　my　digestion；　like　the　House　of　Lords；　　　The　heaviest　burdens　on　herself　doth　lay。

I　confess　I　feel　myself　as　if　some　literary　influence；　something　that　has　haunted　me；　were　present　in　this　otherwise　original　poem；　but　it　is　hopeless　to　disentangle　it　now。



THE　THING


The　wind　awoke　last　night　with　so　noble　a　violence　that　it　was　like　the　war　in　heaven；　and　I　thought　for　a　moment　that　the　Thing　had　broken　free。　For　wind　never　seems　like　empty　air。　　Wind　always　sounds　full　and　physical；　like　the　big　body　of　something；　and　I　fancied　that　the　Thing　itself　was　walking　gigantic　along　the　great　roads　between　the　forests　of　beech。

Let　me　explain。　　The　vitality　and　recurrent　victory　of　Christendom　have　been　due　to　the　power　of　the　Thing　to　break　out　from　time　to　time　from　its　enveloping　words　and　symbols。　　Without　this　power　all　civilisations　tend　to　perish　under　a　load　of　language　and　ritual。　　One　instance　of　this　we　hear　much　in　modern　discussion：　the　separation　of　the　form　from　the　spirit　of　religion。　　But　we　hear　too　little　of　numberless　other　cases　of　the　same　stiffening　and　falsification；　we　are　far　too　seldom　reminded　that　just　as　church…going　is　not　religion；　so　reading　and　writing　are　not　knowledge；　and　voting　is　not　self…government。　　It　would　be　easy　to　find　people　in　the　big　cities　who　can　read　and　write　quickly　enough　to　be　clerks；　but　who　are　actually　ignorant　of　the　daily　movements　of　the　sun　and　moon。

The　case　of　self…government　is　even　more　curious；　especially　as　one　watches　it　for　the　first　time　in　a　country　district。　　Self…government　arose　among　men　（probably　among　the　primitive　men；　certainly　among　the　ancients）　out　of　an　idea　which　seems　now　too　simple　to　be　understood。　The　notion　of　self…government　was　not　（as　many　modern　friends　and　foes　of　it　seem　to　think）　the　notion　that　the　ordinary　citizen　is　to　be　consulted　as　one　consults　an　Encyclopaedia。　　He　is　not　there　to　be　asked　a　lot　of　fancy　questions；　to　see　how　he　answers　them。　　He　and　his　fellows　are　to　be；　within　reasonable　human　limits；　masters　of　their　own　lives。　　They　shall　decide　whether　they　shall　be　men　of　the　oar　or　the　wheel；　of　the　spade　or　the　spear。　The　men　of　the　valley　shall　settle　whether　the　valley　shall　be　devastated　for　coal　or　covered　with　corn　and　vines；　the　men　of　the　town　shall　decide　whether　it　shall　be　hoary　with　thatches　or　splendid　with　spires。　　Of　their　own　nature　and　instinct　they　shall　gather　under　a　patriarchal　chief　or　debate　in　a　political　market…place。　　And　in　case　the　word　〃man〃　be　misunderstood；　I　may　remark　that　in　this　moral　atmosphere；　this　original　soul　of　self…government；　the　women　always　have　quite　as　much　influence　as　the　men。　　But　in　modern　England　neither　the　men　nor　the　women　have　any　influence　at　all。　　In　this　primary　matter；　the　moulding　of　the　landscape；　the　creation　of　a　mode　of　life；　the　people　are　utterly　impotent。　　They　stand　and　stare　at　imperial　and　economic　processes　going　on；　as　they　might　stare　at　the　Lord　Mayor's　Show。

Round　about　where　I　live；　for　instance；　two　changes　are　taking　place　which　really　affect　the　land　and　all　things　that　live　on　it；　whether　for　good　or　evil。　　The　first　is　that　the　urban　civilisation　（or　whatever　it　is）　is　advancing；　that　the　clerks　come　out　in　black　swarms　and　the　villas　advance　in　red　battalions。　　The　other　is　that　the　vast　estates　into　which　England　has　long　been　divided　are　passing　out　of　the　hands　of　the　English　gentry　into　the　hands　of　men　who　are　always　upstarts　and　often　actually　foreigners。

Now；　these　are　just　the　sort　of　things　with　which　self…government　was　really　supposed　to　grapple。　　People　were　supposed　to　be　able　to　indicate　whether　they　wished　to　live　in　town　or　country；　to　be　represented　by　a　gentleman　or　a　cad。　　I　do　not　presume　to　prejudge　their　decision；　perhaps　they　would　prefer　the　cad；　perhaps　he　is　really　preferable。　　I　say　that　the　filling　of　a　man's　native　sky　with　smoke　or　the　selling　of　his　roof　over　his　head　illustrate　the　sort　of　things　he　ought　to　have　some　say　in；　if　he　is　supposed　to　be　governing　himself。　　But　owing　to　the　strange　trend　of　recent　society；　these　enormous　earthquakes　he　has　to　pass　over　and　treat　as　private　trivialities。　　In　theory　the　building　of　a　villa　is　as　incidental　as　the　buying　of　a　hat。　　In　reality　it　is　as　if　all　Lancashire　were　laid　waste　for　deer　forests；　or　as　if　all　Belgium　were　flooded　by　the　sea。　　In　theory　the　sale　of　a　squire's　land　to　a　money…　lender　is　a　minor