The Quest of the Golden Girl

Part 1 out of 4

Scanned by Charles Keller with
OmniPage Professional OCR software
donated by Caere Corporation, 1-800-535-7226.
Contact Mike Lough



























































Gennem de Mange til En!




When the knell of my thirtieth birthday sounded, I suddenly
realised, with a desolate feeling at the heart, that I was alone
in the world. It was true I had many and good friends, and I was
blessed with interests and occupations which I had often declared
sufficient to satisfy any not too exacting human being.
Moreover, a small but sufficient competency was mine, allowing me
reasonable comforts, and the luxuries of a small but choice
library, and a small but choice garden. These heavenly blessings
had seemed mere than enough for nearly five years, during which
the good sister and I had kept house together, leading a life of
tranquil happy days. Friends and books and flowers! It was, we
said, a good world, and I, simpleton,--pretty and dainty as
Margaret was,--deemed it would go on forever. But, alas! one day
came a Faust into our garden,--a good Faust, with no friend
Mephistopheles,--and took Margaret from me. It is but a month
since they were married, and the rice still lingers in the
crevices of the pathway down to the quaint old iron-work gate.
Yes! they have gone off to spend their honeymoon, and Margaret
has written to me twice to say how happy they are together in the
Hesperides. Dear happiness! Selfish, indeed, were he who would
envy you one petal of that wonderful rose--Rosa Mundi--God has
given you to gather.

But, all the same, the reader will admit that it must be lonely
for me, and not another sister left to take pity on me, all
somewhere happily settled down in the Fortunate Isles.

Poor lonely old house! do you, too, miss the light step of your
mistress? No longer shall her little silken figure flit up and
down your quiet staircases, no more deck out your silent rooms
with flowers, humming the while some happy little song.

The little piano is dumb night after night, its candles
unlighted, and there is no one to play Chopin to us now as the
day dies, and the shadows stoop out of their corners to listen in
vain. Old house, old house! We are alone, quite alone,--there
is no mistake about that,--and the soul has gone out of both of
us. And as for the garden, there is no company there; that is
loneliest of all. The very sunlight looks desolation, falling
through the thick-blossoming apple-trees as through the chinks
and crevices of deserted Egyptian cities.

While as for the books--well, never talk to me again about the
companionship of books! For just when one needs them most of all
they seem suddenly to have grown dull and unsympathetic, not a
word of comfort, not a charm anywhere in them to make us forget
the slow-moving hours; whereas, when Margaret was here--but it is
of no use to say any more! Everything was quite different when
Margaret was here: that is enough. Margaret has gone away to the
Fortunate Isles. Of course she'll come to see us now and again;
but it won't be the same thing. Yes! old echoing silent House of
Joy that is Gone, we are quite alone. Now, what is to be done?



Though I have this bad habit of soliloquising, and indeed am
absurd enough to attempt conversation with a house, yet the
reader must realise from the beginning that I am still quite a
young man. I talked a little just now as though I were an
octogenarian. Actually, as I said, I am but just gone thirty, and
I may reasonably regard life, as the saying is, all before me. I
was a little down-hearted when I wrote yesterday. Besides, I
wrote at the end of the afternoon, a melancholy time. The
morning is the time to write. We are all--that is, those of us
who sleep well--optimists in the morning. And the world is sad
enough without our writing books to make it sadder. The rest of
this book, I promise you, shall be written of a morning. This
book! oh, yes, I forgot!--I am going to write
a book. A book about what? Well, that must be as God wills.
But listen! As I lay in bed this morning between sleeping and
waking, an idea came riding on a sunbeam into my room,--a mad,
whimsical idea, but one that suits my mood; and put briefly, it
is this: how is it that I, a not unpresentable young man, a man
not without accomplishments or experience, should have gone all
these years without finding that

"Not impossible she
Who shall command my heart and me,"--

without meeting at some turning of the way the mystical Golden
Girl,--without, in short, finding a wife?

"Then," suggested the idea, with a blush for its own absurdity,
"why not go on pilgrimage and seek her? I don't believe you'll
find her. She isn't usually found after thirty. But you'll no
doubt have good fun by the way, and fall in with many pleasant

"A brave idea, indeed!" I cried. "By Heaven, I will take
stick and knapsack and walk right away from my own front door,
right away where the road leads, and see what happens. "And
now, if the reader please, we will make a start.



"Marry! an odd adventure!" I said to myself, as I stepped along
in the spring morning air; for, being a pilgrim, I was
involuntarily in a mediaeval frame of mind, and "Marry! an odd
adventure!" came to my lips as though I had been one of that
famous company that once started from the Tabard on a day in

It had been the spring, it will be remembered, that had prompted
them to go on pilgrimage; and me, too, the spring was filling
with strange, undefinable longings, and though I flattered myself
that I had set out in pursuance of a definitely taken resolve, I
had really no more freedom in the matter than the children who
followed at the heels of the mad piper.

A mad piper, indeed, this spring, with his wonderful lying
music,--ever lying, yet ever convincing, for when was Spring
known to keep his word? Yet year after year we give eager belief
to his promises. He may have consistently broken them for fifty
years, yet this year he will keep them. This year the dream will
come true, the ship come home. This year the very dead we have
loved shall come back to us again: for Spring can even lie like
that. There is nothing he will not promise the poor hungry human
heart, with his innocent-looking daisies and those practised
liars the birds. Why, one branch of hawthorn against the sky
promises more than all the summers of time can pay, and a pond
ablaze with yellow lilies awakens such answering splendours and
enchantments in mortal bosoms,--blazons, it would seem, so august
a message from the hidden heart of the world,--that ever
afterwards, for one who has looked upon it, the most fortunate
human existence must seem a disappointment.

So I, too, with the rest of the world, was following in the wake
of the magical music. The lie it was drawing me by is perhaps
Spring's oldest, commonest lie,--the lying promise of the Perfect
Woman, the Quite Impossible She. Who has
not dreamed of her,--who that can dream at all? I suppose that
the dreams of our modern youth are entirely commercial. In the
morning of life they are rapt by intoxicating visions of some
great haberdashery business, beckoned to by the voluptuous
enticements of the legal profession, or maybe the Holy Grail they
forswear all else to seek is a snug editorial chair. These
quests and dreams were not for me. Since I was man I have had
but one dream,--namely, Woman. Alas! till this my thirtieth year
I have found only women. No! that is disloyal, disloyal to my
First Love; for this is sadly true,--that we always find the
Golden Girl in our first love, and lose her in our second.

I wonder if the reader would care to hear about my First Love, of
whom I am naturally thinking a good deal this morning, under the
demoralising influences of the fresh air, blue sky, and various
birds and flowers. More potent intoxicants these than any that
need licenses for their purveyance, responsible-- see the
poets--for no end of human foolishness.

I was about to tell the story of my First Love, but on second
thoughts I decide not. It will keep, and I feel hungry, and
yonder seems a dingle where I can lie and open my knapsack, eat,
drink, and doze among the sun-flecked shadows.



The girl we go to meet is the girl we have met before. I evolved
this sage reflection, as, lost deep down in the green alleys of
the dingle, having fortified the romantic side of my nature with
sandwiches and sherry, I lazily put the question to myself as to
what manner of girl I expected the Golden Girl to be. A man who
goes seeking should have some notion of what he goes out to seek.
Had I any ideal by which to test and measure the damsels of the
world who were to pass before my critical choosing eye? Had I
ever met any girl in the past who would serve approximately as a
model,--any girl, in fact, I would very much like to meet again?
I was very sleepy, and while trying to make up my mind I fell
asleep; and lo! the sandwiches and sherry brought me a dream that
I could not but consider of good omen. And this was the dream.

I thought my quest had brought me into a strange old haunted
forest, and that I had thrown myself down to rest at the gnarled
mossy root of a great oak-tree, while all about me was nought but
fantastic shapes and capricious groups of gold-green bole and
bough, wondrous alleys ending in mysterious coverts, and green
lanes of exquisite turf that seemed to have been laid down in
expectation of some milk-white queen or goddess passing that way.

And so still the forest was you could have heard an acorn drop or
a bird call from one end of it to the other. The exquisite
silence was evidently waiting for the exquisite voice, that
presently not so much broke as mingled with it, like a swan
swimming through a lake.

"Whom seek you?" said, or rather sung, a planetary voice right
at my shoulder. But three short unmusical Saxon words, yet it
was as though a mystical strain of music had passed through the

"Whom seek you?" and again the lovely speech flowered upon the
silence, as white water-lilies on the surface of some shaded

"The Golden Girl," I answered simply, turning my head, and
looking half sideways and half upwards; and behold! the tree at
whose foot I lay had opened its rocky side, and in the cleft,
like a long lily-bud sliding from its green sheath, stood a
dryad, and my speech failed and my breath went as I looked upon
her beauty, for which mortality has no simile. Yet was there
something about her of the earth-sweetness that clings even to
the loveliest, star-ambitious, earth- born thing. She was not
all immortal, as man is not all mortal. She was the sweetness of
the strength of the oak, the soul born of the sun kissing its
green leaves in the still Memnonian mornings, of moon and stars
kissing its green leaves in the still Trophonian nights.

"The maid you seek," said she, and again she broke the silence
like the moon breaking through the clouds, "what manner of maid
is she? For a maid abides in this wood, maybe it is she whom you
seek. Is she but a lovely face you seek? Is she but a lofty
mind? Is she but a beautiful soul?"

"Maybe she is all these, though no one only, and more besides,"
I answered.

"It is well," she replied, "but have you in your heart no
image of her you seek? Else how should you know her should you
some day come to meet her?"

"I have no image of her," I said. "I cannot picture her; but
I shall know her, know her inerrably as these your wood children
find out each other untaught, as the butterfly that has never
seen his kindred knows his painted mate, passing on the wing all
others by. Only when the lark shall mate with the nightingale,
and the honey-bee and the clock-beetle keep house together, shall
I wed another maid. Fair maybe she will not be, though fair to
me. Wise maybe she will not be, though wise to me. For riches I
care not, and of her kindred I have no care. All I know is that
just to sit by her will be bliss, just to touch her bliss, just
to hear her speak bliss beyond all mortal telling."

Thereat the Sweetness of the Strength of the Oak smiled upon me
and said,--

"Follow yonder green path till it leads you into a little grassy
glade, where is a crystal well and a hut of woven boughs hard by,
and you shall see her whom you seek."

And as she spoke she faded suddenly, and the side of the oak was
once more as the solid rock. With hot heart I took the green
winding path, and presently came the little grassy glade, and the
bubbling crystal well, and the hut of wattled boughs, and,
looking through the open door of the hut, I saw a lovely girl
lying asleep in her golden hair. She smiled sweetly in her sleep,
and stretched out her arms softly, as though to enfold the dear
head of her lover. And, ere I knew, I was bending over her, and
as her sweet breath came and went I whispered: "Grace o' God, I
am here. I have sought you through the world, and found you at
last. Grace o' God, I have come."

And then I thought her great eyes opened, as when the sun sweeps
clear blue spaces in the morning sky. "Flower o' Men," then
said she, low and sweet,--"Flower o' Men, is it you indeed? As
you have sought, so have I waited, waited . . ." And thereat
her arms stole round my neck, and I awoke, and Grace o' God was
suddenly no more than a pretty name that my dream had given me.

"A pretty dream," said my soul, "though a little boyish for
thirty." "And a most excellent sherry," added my body.



As I once more got under way, my thoughts slowly loitered back to
the theme which had been occupying them before I dropped asleep.
What was my working hypothesis of the Perfect Woman, towards whom
I was thus leisurely strolling? She might be defined, I
reflected, as The Woman Who Is Worthy Of Us; but the
improbability which every healthily conceited young man must feel
of ever finding such a one made the definition seem a little
unserviceable. Or, if you prefer, since we seem to be dealing
with impossibles, we might turn about and more truly define her
as The Woman of Whom We are Worthy, for who dare say that she
exists? If, again, she were defined as the Woman our More
Fortunate Friend Marries, her unapproachableness would rob the
definition of any practical value. Other generalisations proving
equally unprofitable, I began scientifically to consider in
detail the attributes of the supposititious paragon,--attributes
of body and mind and heart. This was soon done; but again, as I
thus conned all those virtues which I was to expect united in one
unhappy woman, the result was still unsatisfying, for I began to
perceive that it was really not perfection that I was in search
of. As I added virtue after virtue to the female monster in my
mind, and the result remained still inanimate and unalluring, I
realised that the lack I was conscious of was not any new
perfection, but just one or two honest human imperfections. And
this, try as I would, was just what I could not imagine.

For, if you reflect a moment, you will see that, while it is easy
to choose what virtues we would have our wife possess, it is all
but impossible to imagine those faults we would desire in her,
which I think most lovers would admit add piquancy to the loved
one, that fascinating wayward imperfection which paradoxically
makes her perfect.

Faults in the abstract are each and all so uninviting, not to say
alarming, but, associated with certain eyes and hair and tender
little gowns, it is curious how they lose their terrors; and, as
with vice in the poet's image, we end by embracing what we began
by dreading. You see the fault becomes a virtue when it is hers,
the treason prospers; wherefore, no doubt, the impossibility of
imagining it. What particular fault will suit a particular
unknown girl is obviously as difficult to determine as in what
colours she will look her best.

So, I say, I plied my brains in vain for that becoming fault. It
was the same whether I considered her beauty, her heart, or her
mind. A charming old Italian writer has laid down the canons of
perfect feminine beauty with much nicety in a delicious
discourse, which, as he delivered it in a sixteenth- century
Florentine garden to an audience of beautiful and noble ladies,
an audience not too large to be intimate and not too small to be
embarrassing, it was his delightful good fortune and privilege to
illustrate by pretty and sly references to the characteristic
beauties of the several ladies seated like a ring of roses around
him. Thus he would refer to the shape of Madonna Lampiada's
sumptuous eyelids, and to her shell-like ears, to the correct
length and shape of Madonna Amororrisca's nose, to the lily tower
of Madonna Verdespina's throat; nor would the unabashed old
Florentine shrink from calling attention to the unfairness of
Madonna Selvaggia's covering up her dainty bosom, just as he was
about to discourse upon "those two hills of snow and of roses
with two little crowns of fine rubies on their peaks. "How
could a man lecture if his diagrams were going to behave like
that! Then, feigning a tiff, he would close his manuscript, and
all the ladies with their birdlike voices would beseech him with
"Oh, no, Messer Firenzuola, please go on again; it's SO
charming!" while, as if by accident, Madonna Selvaggia's
moonlike bosom would once more slip out its heavenly silver,
perceiving which, Messer Firenzuola would open his manuscript
again and proceed with his sweet learning.

Happy Firenzuola! Oh, days that are no more!

By selecting for his illustrations one feature from one lady and
another from another, Messer Firenzuola builds up an ideal of the
Beautiful Woman, which, were she to be possible, would probably
be as faultily faultless as the Perfect Woman, were she possible.

Moreover, much about the same time as Firenzuola was writing,
Botticelli's blonde, angular, retrousse women were breaking every
one of that beauty- master's canons, perfect in beauty none the
less; and lovers then, and perhaps particularly now, have found
the perfect beauty in faces to which Messer Firenzuola would have
denied the name of face at all, by virtue of a quality which
indeed he has tabulated, but which is far too elusive and
undefinable, too spiritual for him truly to have understood,--a
quality which nowadays we are tardily recognising as the first
and last of all beauty, either of nature or art,--the supreme,
truly divine, because materialistically unaccountable, quality of

"Beauty that makes holy earth and heaven May have faults from
head to feet."

O loveliest and best-loved face that ever hallowed the eyes that
now seek for you in vain! Such was your strange lunar magic,
such the light not even death could dim. And such may be the
loveliest and best- loved face for you who are reading these
pages,--faces little understood on earth because they belong to

There is indeed only one law of beauty on which we may
rely,--that it invariably breaks all the laws laid down for it by
the professors of aesthetics. All the beauty that has ever been
in the world has broken the laws of all previous beauty, and
unwillingly dictated laws to the beauty that succeeded it,--laws
which that beauty has no less spiritedly broken, to prove in turn
dictator to its successor.

The immortal sculptors, painters, and poets have always done
exactly what their critics forbade them to do. The obedient in
art are always the forgotten.

Likewise beautiful women have always been a law unto themselves.
Who could have prophesied in what way any of these inspired
law-breakers would break the law, what new type of perfect
imperfection they would create?

So we return to the Perfect Woman, having gained this much
knowledge of her,--that her perfection is nothing more or less
than her unique, individual, charming imperfection, and that she
is simply the woman we love and who is fool enough to love us.



"But come," I imagine some reader complaining, "isn't it high
time for something to happen?" No doubt it is, but what am I to
do? I am no less discontented. Is it not even more to my
interest than to the reader's for something to happen? Here have
I been tramping along since breakfast-time, and now it is late in
the afternoon, but never a feather of her dove's wings, never a
flutter of her angel's robes have I seen. It is disheartening,
for one naturally expects to find anything we seek a few minutes
after starting out to seek it, and I confess that I expected to
find my golden mistress within a very few hours of leaving home.
However, had that been the case, there would have been no story,
as the novelists say, and I trust, as he goes on, the reader may
feel with me that that would have been a pity. Besides, with that
prevision given to an author, I am strongly of opinion that
something will happen before long. And if the worst comes to the
worst, there is always that story of my First Love wherewith to
fill the time. Meanwhile I am approaching a decorative old
Surrey town, little more than a cluster of ripe old inns, to one
of which I have much pleasure in inviting the reader to dinner.




Is there a more beautiful word in the language?


Let the beautiful word come as a refrain to and fro this chapter.


Just eating and drinking, nothing more, but so much!

Drinking, indeed, has had its laureates. Yet would I offer my
mite of prose in its honour. And when I say "drinking," I
speak not of smuggled gin or of brandy bottles held fiercely by
the neck till they are empty.

Nay, but of that lonely glass in the social solitude of the
tavern,--alone, but not alone, for the glass is sure to bring a
dream to bear it company, and it is a poor dream that cannot
raise a song. And what greater felicity than to be alone in a
tavern with your last new song, just born and yet still a
tingling part of you.

Drinking has indeed been sung, but why, I have heard it asked,
have we no "Eating Songs?"--for eating is, surely, a fine
pleasure. Many practise it already, and it is becoming more
general every day.

I speak not of the finicking joy of the gourmet, but the joy of
an honest appetite in ecstasy, the elemental joy of absorbing
quantities of fresh simple food,--mere roast lamb, new potatoes,
and peas of living green.

It is, indeed, an absorbing pleasure. It needs all our
attention. You must eat as you kiss, so exacting are the joys of
the mouth,--talking, for example. The quiet eye may be allowed
to participate, and sometimes the ear, where the music is played
upon a violin, and that a Stradivarius. A well-kept lawn, with
six-hundred-years-old cedars and a twenty-feet yew hedge, will
add distinction to the meal. Nor should one ever eat without a
seventeenth-century poet in an old yellow-leaved edition upon the
table, not to be read, of course, any more than the flowers are
to be eaten, but just to make music of association very softly to
our thoughts.

Some diners have wine too upon the table, and in the pauses of
thinking what a divine mystery dinner is, they eat.

For dinner IS a mystery,--a mystery of which even the greatest
chef knows but little, as a poet knows not,

"with all his lore,
Wherefore he sang,
or whence the mandate sped."

"Even our digestion is governed by angels," said Blake; and if
you will resist the trivial inclination to substitute "bad
angels," is there really any greater mystery than the process by
which beef is turned into brains, and beer into beauty? Every
beautiful woman we see has been made out of beefsteaks. It is a
solemn thought,--and the finest poem that was ever written came
out of a grey pulpy mass such as we make brain sauce of.

And with these grave thoughts for grace let us sit down to




What wine shall we have? I confess I am no judge of wines,
except when they are bad. To-night I feel inclined to allow my
choice to be directed by sentiment; and as we are on so pretty a
pilgrimage, would it not be appropriate to drink Liebfraumilch?

Hock is full of fancy, and all wines are by their very nature
full of reminiscence, the golden tears and red blood of summers
that are gone.

Forgive me, therefore, if I grow reminiscent. Indeed, I fear that
the hour for the story of my First Love has come. But first,
notice the waitress. I confess, whether beautiful or plain,--not
too plain,--women who earn their own living have a peculiar
attraction for me.

I hope the Golden Girl will not turn out to be a duchess. As old
Campion sings,--

"I care not for those ladies
Who must be wooed and prayed;
Give me kind Amaryllis,
The wanton country-maid."

Town-maids too of the same pattern. Whether in town or country,
give me the girls that work. The Girls That Work! But evidently
it is high time woe began a new chapter.



Yes, I blush to admit it, my First Love was a housemaid. So was
she known on this dull earth of ours, but in heaven--in the
heaven of my imagination, at all events--she was, of course, a
goddess. How she managed to keep her disguise I never could
understand. To me she was so obviously dea certe. The nimbus was
so apparent. Yet no one seemed to see it but me. I have heard
her scolded as though she were any ordinary earthly housemaid,
and I have seen the butcher's boy trying to flirt with her
without a touch of reverence.

Maybe I understood because I saw her in that early hour of the
morning when even the stony Memnon sings, in that mystical light
of the young day when divine exiled things, condemned to rough
bondage through the noon, are for a short magical hour their own
celestial selves, their unearthly glory as yet unhidden by any
earthly disguise.

Neither fairies nor fauns, dryads nor nymphs of the forest pools,
have really passed away from the world. You have only to get up
early enough to meet them in the meadows. They rarely venture
abroad after six. All day long they hide in uncouth enchanted
forms. They change maybe to a field of turnips, and I have seen
a farmer priding himself on a flock of sheep that I knew were
really a most merry company of dryads and fauns in disguise. I
had but to make the sign of the cross, sprinkle some holy water
upon them, and call them by their sweet secret names, and the
whole rout had been off to the woods, with mad gambol and song,
before the eyes of the astonished farmer.

It was so with Hebe. She was really a little gold-haired
blue-eyed dryad, whose true home was a wild white cherry-tree
that grew in some scattered woodland behind the old country-house
of my boyhood. In spring- time how that naughty tree used to
flash its silver nakedness of blossom for miles across the furze
and scattered birches!

I might have known it was Hebe.

Alas! it no longer bares its bosom with so dazzling a
prodigality, for it is many a day since it was uprooted. The
little dryad long since fled away weeping,--fled away, said evil
tongues, fled away to the town.

Well do I remember our last meeting. Returning home one evening,
I met her at the lodge-gate hurrying away. Our loves had been
discovered, and my mother had shuddered to think that so pagan a
thing had lived so long in a Christian house. I vowed--ah! what
did I not vow?--and then we stole sadly together to comfort our
aching hearts under cover of the woodland. For the last time the
wild cherry-tree bloomed,--wonderful blossom, glittering with
tears, and gloriously radiant with stormy lights of wild passion
and wilder hopes.

My faith lived valiantly till the next spring. It was Hebe who
was faithless. The cherry-tree was dead, for its dryad had
gone,--fled, said evil tongues, fled away to the town!

But as yet, in the time to which my thoughts return, our sweet
secret mornings were known only to ourselves. It was my custom
then to rise early, to read Latin authors,--thanks to Hebe, still
unread. I used to light my fire and make tea for myself, till
one rapturous morning I discovered that Hebe was fond of rising
early too, and that she would like to light my fire and make my
tea. After a time she began to sweeten it for me. And then she
would sit on my knee, and we would translate Catullus
together,--into English kisses; for she was curiously interested
in the learned tongue.

How lovely she used to look with the morning sun turning her hair
to golden mist, and dancing in the blue deeps of her eyes; and
once when by chance she had forgotten to fasten her gown, I
caught glimpses of a bosom that was like two happy handfuls of
wonderful white cherries . . .

She wore a marvellous little printed gown. And here I may say
that I have never to this day understood objections which were
afterwards raised against my early attachment to print. The only
legitimate attachment to print stuff, I was told, was to print
stuff in the form of blouse, tennis, or boating costume. Yet,
thought I, I would rather smuggle one of those little print gowns
into my berth than all the silks a sea-faring friend of mine
takes the trouble to smuggle from far Cathay. However, every one
to his taste; for me,

No silken madam, by your leave,
Though wondrous, wondrous she be,
Can lure this heart--upon my sleeve--
From little pink-print Hebe.

For I found beneath that pretty print such a heart as seldom
beats beneath your satin, warm and wild as a bird's. I used to
put my ear to it sometimes to listen if it beat right. Ah,
reader, it was like putting your ear to the gate of heaven.

And once I made a song for her, which ran like this:--

There grew twin apples high on a bough
Within an orchard fair;
The tree was all of gold, I vow,
And the apples of silver were.

And whoso kisseth those apples high,
Who kisseth once is a king,
Who kisseth twice shall never die,
Who kisseth thrice--oh, were it I!--
May ask for anything.

Hebe blushed, and for answer whispered something too sweet
to tell.

"Dear little head sunning over with curls," were I to meet you
now, what would happen? Ah! to meet you now were too painfully
to measure the remnant of my youth.



Next morning I was afoot early, bent on my quest in right good
earnest; for I had a remorseful feeling that I had not been
sufficiently diligent the day before, had spent too much time in
dreaming and moralising, in which opinion I am afraid the reader
will agree.

So I was up and out of the town while as yet most of the
inhabitants were in the throes of getting up. Somewhere too SHE,
the Golden One, the White Woman, was drowsily tossing the
night-clothes from her limbs and rubbing her sleepy eyes.
William Morris's lovely song came into my mind,--

`And midst them all, perchance, my love
Is waking, and doth gently move
And stretch her soft arms out to me,
Forgetting thousand leagues of sea."

Perhaps she was in the very town I was leaving behind. Perhaps
we had slept within a few houses of each other. Who could tell?

Looking back at the old town, with its one steep street climbing
the white face of the chalk hill, I remembered what wonderful
exotic women Thomas Hardy had found eating their hearts out
behind the windows of dull country high streets, through which
hung waving no banners of romance, outwardly as unpromising of
adventure as the windows of the town I had left. And then
turning my steps across a wide common, which ran with gorse and
whortleberry bushes away on every side to distant hilly horizons,
swarthy with pines, and dotted here and there with stone granges
and white villages, I thought of all the women within that
circle, any one of whom might prove the woman I sought,--from
milkmaids crossing the meadows, their strong shoulders straining
with the weight of heavy pails, to fine ladies dying of ennui in
their country-houses; pretty farmers' daughters surreptitiously
reading novels, and longing for London and "life;" passionate
young farmers' wives already weary of their doltish lords;
bright- eyed bar-maids buried alive in country inns, and
wondering "whatever possessed them" to leave Manchester,--for
bar-maids seem always to come from Manchester,--all longing
modestly, said I, to set eyes on a man like me, a man of romance,
a man of feeling, a man, if you like, to run away with.

My heart flooded over with tender pity for these poor sweet
women--though perhaps chiefly for my own sad lot in not
encountering them,--and I conceived a great comprehensive
love-poem to be entitled "The Girls that never can be Mine."
Perhaps before the end of our tramp together, I shall have a few
verses of it to submit to the elegant taste of the reader, but at
present I have not advanced beyond the title.



While occupying myself with these no doubt wanton reflections on
the unfair division of opportunities in human life, I was
leisurely crossing the common, and presently I came up with a
pedestrian who, though I had little suspected it as I caught
sight of him ahead, was destined by a kind providence to make
more entertaining talk for me in half an hour than most people
provide in a lifetime.

He was an oldish man, turned sixty, one would say, and belonging,
to judge from his dress and general appearance, to what one might
call the upper labouring class. He wore a decent square felt
hat, a shabby respectable overcoat, a workman's knitted
waistcoat, and workman's corduroys, and he carried an umbrella.
His upper part might have belonged to a small well-to-do
tradesman, while his lower bore marks of recent bricklaying.
Without its being remarkable, he had what one calls a good face,
somewhat aquiline in character, with a refined forehead and nose.

His cheeks were shaved, and his whitening beard and moustache
were worn somewhat after the fashion of Charles Dickens. This
gave a slight touch of severity to a face that was full of quiet

Passing the time of day to each other, we were soon in
conversation, I asking him this and that question about the
neighbouring country-side, of which I gathered he was an old

"Yes," he said presently, "I was the first to put stick or
stone on Whortleberry Common yonder. Fifteen years ago I built
my own wood cottage there, and now I'm rebuilding it of good
Surrey stone."

"Do you mean that you are building it yourself, with your own
hands, no one to help you?" I asked.

"Not so much as to carry a pail of water," he replied. "I'm
my own contractor, my own carpenter, and my own bricklayer, and I
shall be sixty-seven come Michaelmas," he added, by no means

There was pride in his voice,--pardonable pride, I thought, for
who of us would not be proud to be able to build his own house
from floor to chimney?

"Sixty-seven,--a man can see and do a good deal in that time,"
I said, not flattering myself on the originality of the remark,
but desiring to set him talking. In the country, as elsewhere,
we must forego profundity if we wish to be understood.

"Yes, sir," he said, "I have been about a good deal in my
time. I have seen pretty well all of the world there is to see,
and sailed as far as ship could take me."

"Indeed, you have been a sailor too?"

"Twenty-two thousand miles of sea," he continued, without
directly answering my remark. "Yes, Vancouver's about as far
as any vessel need want to go; and then I have caught seals off
the coast of Labrador, and walked my way through the raspberry
plains at the back of the White Mountains."

"Vancouver," "Labrador," "The White Mountains," the very
names, thus casually mentioned on a Surrey heath, seemed full of
the sounding sea. Like talismans they whisked one away to
strange lands, across vast distances of space imagination refused
to span. Strange to think that the shabby little man at my side
had them all fast locked, pictures upon pictures, in his brain,
and as we were talking was back again in goodness knows what
remote latitude.

I kept looking at him and saying, "Twenty-two thousand miles of
sea! sixty-seven! and builds his own cottage!"

In addition to all this he had found time to be twenty-one years
a policeman, and to beget and rear successfully twelve children.
He was now, I gathered, living partly on his pension, and spoke
of this daughter married, this daughter in service here, and that
daughter in service there, one son settled in London and another
in the States, with something of a patriarchal pride, with the
independent air too of a man who could honestly say to himself
that, with few advantages from fortune, having had, so to say, to
work his passage, every foot and hour of it, across those
twenty-two thousand miles and those sixty-seven years, he had
made a thoroughly creditable job of his life.

As we walked along I caught glimpses in his vivid and
ever-varying talk of the qualities that had made his success
possible. They are always the same qualities!

A little pile of half-hewn stones, the remains of a ruined wall,
scattered by the roadside caught his eye.

"I've seen the time when I wouldn't have left them stones
lying out there," he said, and presently, "Why, God bless you,
I've made my own boots before to-day. Give me the tops and
I'll soon rig up a pair still."

And with all his success, and his evident satisfaction with his
lot, the man was neither a prig nor a teetotaller. He had
probably seen too much of the world to be either. Yet he had, he
said, been too busy all his life to spend much time in public-
houses, as we drank a pint of ale together in the inn which stood
at the end of the common.

"No, it's all well enough in its way, but it swallows time,"
he remarked. "You see, my wife and I have our own pin at home,
and when I'm a bit tired, I just draw a glass for myself, and
smoke a pipe, and there's no time wasted coming and going, and
drinking first with this and then with the other."

A little way past the inn we came upon a notice-board whereon the
lord of the manor warned all wayfarers against trespassing on the
common by making encampments, lighting fires or cutting firewood
thereon, and to this fortunate circumstance I owe the most
interesting story my companion had to tell.

We had mentioned the lord of the manor as we crossed the common,
and the notice- board brought him once more to the old man's

"Poor gentleman!" he said, pointing to the board as though it
was the lord of the manor himself standing there, "I shouldn't
like to have had the trouble he's had on my shoulders."

"Indeed?" I said interrogatively.

"Well, you see, sir," he continued, instinctively lowering his
voice to a confidential impressiveness, "he married an actress;
a noble lady too she was, a fine dashing merry lady as ever you
saw. All went well for a time, and then it suddenly got
whispered about that she and the village schoolmaster were
meeting each other at nights, in the meadow-bottom at the end of
her own park. It lies over that way,--I could take you to the
very place. The schoolmaster was a noble-looking young man too,
a devil-me-care blade of a fellow, with a turn for poetry, they
said, and a merry man too, and much in request for a song at The
Moonrakers of an evening. Many 's the night I've heard the
windows rattling with the good company gathered round him. Yes,
he was a noble-looking man, a noble-looking man," he repeated
wistfully, and with an evident sympathy for the lovers which, I
need hardly say, won my heart.

"But how, I wonder, did they come to know each other?" I
interrupted, anxious to learn all I could, even if I had to ask
stupid questions to learn it.

"Well, of course, no one can say how these things come about.
She was the lady of the manor and the patroness of his school;
and then, as I say, he was a very noble-looking man, and
probably took her fancy; and, sir, whenever some women set their
hearts on a man there's no stopping them. Have him they will,
whatever happens. They can't help it, poor things! It's just a
freak of nature."

"Well, and how was it found out?" I again jogged him.

"One of Sir William's keepers played the spy on them. He spread
it all over the place how he had seen them on moonlight nights
sitting together in the dingle, drinking champagne, and laughing
and talking as merry as you please; and, of course, it came in
time to Sir William--"

"You see that green lane there," he broke off, pointing to a
romantic path winding along the heath side; "it was along there
he used to go of a night to meet her after every one was in bed;
and when it all came out there was a regular cartload of bottles
found there. The squire had them all broken up, but the pieces
are there to this day.

"Yes," he again proceeded, "it hit Sir William very hard.
He's never been the same man since."

I am afraid that my sympathies were less with Sir William than
better regulated sympathies would have been. I confess that my
imagination was more occupied with that picture of the two lovers
making merry together in the moonlit dingle.

Is it not, indeed, a fascinating little story, with its piquant
contrasts and its wild love-at-all-costs? And how many such
stories are hidden about the country, lying carelessly in rustic
memories, if one only knew where to find them!

At this point my companion left me, and I--well, I confess that I
retraced my steps to the common and rambled up that green lane,
along which the romantic schoolmaster used to steal in the
moonlight to the warm arms of his love. How eagerly he had
trodden the very turf I was treading,--we never know at what
moment we are treading sacred earth! But for that old man, I had
passed along this path without a thrill. Had I not but an hour
ago stood upon this very common, vainly, so it seemed, invoking
the spirits of passion and romance, and the grim old common had
never made a sign. And now I stood in the very dingle where they
had so often and so wildly met; and it was all gone, quite gone
away for ever. The hours that had seemed so real, the kisses
that had seemed like to last for ever, the vows, the tears, all
now as if they had never been, gone on the four winds, lost in
the abysses of time and space.

And to think of all the thousands and thousands of lovers who had
loved no less wildly and tenderly, made sweet these lanes with
their vows, made green these meadows with their feet; and they,
too, all gone, their bright eyes fallen to dust, their sweet
voices for ever put to silence.

To which I would add, for the benefit of the profane, that I
sought in vain for those broken bottles.



I felt lonely after losing my companion, and I met nobody to take
his place. In fact, for a couple of hours I met nothing worth
mentioning, male or female, with the exception of a gipsy
caravan, which I suppose was both; but it was a poor show. Borrow
would have blushed for it. In fact, it is my humble opinion that
the gipsies have been overdone, just as the Alps have been
over-climbed. I have no great desire to see Switzerland, for I
am sure the Alps must be greasy with being climbed.

Besides, the Alps and the gipsies, in common with waterfalls and
ruined castles, belong to the ready-made operatic poetry of the
world, from which the last thrill has long since departed. They
are, so to say, public poetry, the public property of the
emotions, and no longer touch the private heart or stir the
private imagination. Our fathers felt so much about them that
there is nothing left for us to feel. They are as a rose whose
fragrance has been exhausted by greedy and indiscriminate
smelling. I would rather find a little Surrey common for myself
and idle about it a summer day, with the other geese and donkeys,
than climb the tallest Alp.

Most gipsies are merely tenth-rate provincial companies,
travelling with and villainously travestying Borrow's great
pieces of "Lavengro" and "Romany Rye." Dirty, ill-looking,
scowling men; dirty, slovenly, and wickedly ugly women; children
to match, snarling, filthy little curs, with a ready beggar's
whine on occasion. A gipsy encampment to-day is little more than
a moving slum, a scab of squalor on the fair face of the

But there was one little trifle of an incident that touched me as
I passed this particular caravan. Evidently one of the vans had
come to grief, and several men of the party were making a great
show of repairing it. After I had run the gauntlet of the
begging children, and was just out of ear- shot of the group, I
turned round to survey it from a distance. It was encamped on a
slight rise of the undulating road, and from where I stood tents
and vans and men were clearly silhouetted against the sky. The
road ran through and a little higher than the encampment, which
occupied both sides of it. Presently the figure of a young man
separated itself from the rest, stept up on to the smooth road,
and standing in the middle of it, in an absorbed attitude, began
to make a movement with his hands as though winding string round
a top. That in fact was his occupation, and for the next five
minutes he kept thus winding the cord, flinging the top to the
ground, and intently bending down to catch it on his hand, none
of the others, not even the children, taking the slightest notice
of him,--he entirely alone there with his poor little pleasure.
There seemed to me pathos in his loneliness. Had some one spun
the top with him, it would have vanished; and presently, no doubt
at the bidding of an oath I could not hear, he hurriedly thrust
the top into his pocket, and once more joined the straining group
of men. The snatched pleasure must be put by at the call of
reality; the world and its work must rush in upon his dream. I
have often thought about the top and its spinner, as I have noted
the absorbed faces of other people's pleasures in the
streets,--two lovers passing along the crowded Strand with eyes
only for each other; a student deep in his book in the corner of
an omnibus; a young mother glowing over the child in her arms;
the wild-eyed musician dreamily treading on everybody's toes, and
begging nobody's pardon; the pretty little Gaiety Girl hurrying
to rehearsal with no thought but of her own sweet self and
whether there will be a letter from Harry at the stage-
door,--yes, if we are alone in our griefs, we are no less alone
in our pleasures. We spin our tops as in an enchanted circle,
and no one sees or heeds save ourselves,--as how should they with
their own tops to spin? Happy indeed is he, who has his top and
cares still to spin it; for to be tired of our tops is to be
tired of life, saith the preacher.

As the young gipsy's little holiday came to an end, I turned with
a sigh upon my way; and here, while still on the subject, may I
remark on the curious fact that probably Borrow has lived and
died without a single gipsy having heard of him, just as the
expertest anglers know nothing of Izaak Walton.

Has the British soldier, one wonders, yet discovered Rudyard
Kipling, or is the Wessex peasant aware of Thomas Hardy? It is
odd to think that the last people to read such authors are the
very people they most concern. For you might spend your life,
say, in studying the London street boy, and write never so
movingly and humourously about him, yet would he never know your
name; and though Whitechapel makes novelists, it does so without
knowing it,--makes them to be read in Mayfair,--just as it never
wears the dainty hats and gowns its weary little milliners and
seamstresses make through the day and night. It is Capital and
Labour over again, for in literature also we reap in gladness
what others have sown in tears.

And now, after these admirable reflections, I am about to make
such "art" as I can of another man's tragedy, as will appear in
the next chapter.



My moralisings were cut short by my entering a village, and, it
being about the hour of noon, finding myself in the thick of a
village wedding.

Undoubtedly the nicest way to get married is on the sly, and
indeed it is at present becoming quite fashionable. Many young
couples of my acquaintance, who have had no other reason for
concealing the fact beyond their own whim, have thus slipped off
without saying a word to anybody, and returned full-blown
housekeepers, with "at home" days of their own, and everything
else like real married people,--for, as said an old lady to me,
"one can never be sure of married people nowadays unless you
have been at the wedding."

My friend George Muncaster, who does everything charmingly
different from any one else, hit upon one of the quaintest plans
for his marriage. It was simple, and some may say prosaic
enough. His days being spent at a great office in the city, he
got leave of absence for a couple of hours, met his wife, went
with her to the registrar's, returned to his office, worked the
rest of the day as usual, and then went to his new home to find
his wife and dinner awaiting him,--all just as it was going to
be every night for so many happy years. Prosaic, you say! Not
your idea of poetry, perhaps, but, after a new and growing
fashion in poetry, truly poetic. George Muncaster's marriage is
a type of the new poetry, the poetry of essentials. The old
poetry, as exemplified in the old-fashioned marriage, is a poetry
of externals, and certainly it has the advantage of

There is perhaps more to be said for it than that. Indeed, if I
were ever to get married, I am at a loss to know which way I
should choose,--George Muncaster's way or the old merry fashion,
with the rice and the old shoes and the orange-blossom. No doubt
the old cheery publicity is a little embarrassing to the two most
concerned, and the old marriage customs, the singing of the bride
and bridegroom to their nuptial couch, the frank jests, the
country horse-play, must have fretted the souls of many a lover
before Shelley, who, it will be remembered, resented the choral
celebrations of his Scotch landlord and friends by appearing at
his bedroom door with a brace of pistols.

How like Shelley! The Scotch landlord meant well, we may be
sure, and a very small pinch of humour, or even mere ordinary
humanity, as distinct from humanitarianism, would have taken in
the situation. Of course Shelley's mind was full of the sanctity
of the moment, and indignant that "the hour for which the years
did sigh" should thus be broken in upon by vulgar revelry; but
while we may sympathise with his view, and admit to the full the
sacredness, not to say the solemnity, of the marriage ceremony,
yet it is to be hoped that it still retains a naturally mirthful
side, of which such public merriment is but the crude expression.

With all its sweet and mystical significance, surely the
prevailing feeling in the hearts of bride and bridegroom is, or
should be, that of happiness,--happiness bubbling and dancing,
all sunny ripples from heart to heart.

Surely they can spare a little of it, just one day's sight of it,
to a less happy world,--a world long since married and done for,
and with little happiness in it save the spectacle of other
people's happiness. It is good for us to see happy people, good
for the symbols of happiness to be carried high amidst us on
occasion; for if they serve no other purpose, they inspire in us
the hope that we too may some day be happy, or remind our
discontented hearts that we have been.

If it were only for the sake of those quaint old women for whom
life would be entirely robbed of interest were it not for other
people's weddings and funerals, one feels the public ceremony of
marriage a sort of public duty, the happiness tax, so to say, due
to the somewhat impoverished revenues of public happiness. Other
forms of happiness are taxed; why not marriage?

In a village, particularly, two people who robbed the community
of its perquisites in this respect would be looked upon as
"enemies of the people," and their joint life would begin under
a social ban which it would cost much subsequent hospitality to
remove. The dramatic instinct to which the life of towns is
necessarily unfavourable, is kept alive in the country by the
smallness of the stage and the fewness of the actors. A village
is an organism, conscious of its several parts, as a town is not.

In a village everybody is a public man. The great events of his
life are of public as well as private significance,
appropriately, therefore, invested with public ceremonial. Thus
used to living in the public eye, the actors carry off their
parts at weddings and other dramatic ceremonials, with more
spirit than is easy to a townsman, who is naturally made
self-conscious by being suddenly called upon to fill for a day a
public position for which he has had no training. That no doubt
is the real reason for the growth of quiet marriages; and the
desire for them, I suspect, comes first from the man, for there
are few women who at heart do not prefer the old histrionic

However, the village wedding at which I suddenly found myself a
spectator was, for a village, a singularly quiet one. There was
no bell-ringing, and there were no bridesmaids. The bride drove
up quietly with her father, and there was a subdued note even in
the murmur of recognition which ran along the villagers as they
stood in groups near the church porch. There was an absence of
the usual hilarity which struck me. One might almost have said
that there was a quite ominous silence.

Seating myself in a corner of the transept where I could see all
and be little seen, I with the rest awaited the coming of the
overdue bridegroom. Meanwhile the usual buzzing and bobbing of
heads went on amongst the usual little group near the foot of the
altar. Now and then one caught a glisten of tears through a
widow's veil, and the little bride, dressed quietly in grey,
talked with the usual nervous gaiety to her girl friends, and
made the usual whispered confidences about her trousseau. The
father, in occasional conversation with one and another, appeared
to be avoiding the subject with the usual self-conscious
solemnity, and occasionally he looked, somewhat anxiously, I
thought, towards the church door. The bridegroom did not keep us
waiting long,--I noticed that he had a rather delicate sad
face,--and presently the service began.

I don't know myself what getting married must feel like, but it
cannot be much more exciting than watching other people getting
married. Probably the spectators are more conscious of the
impressive meaning of it all than the brave young people
themselves. I say brave, for I am always struck by the courage of
the two who thus gaily leap into the gulf of the unknown
together, thus join hands over the inevitable, and put their
signatures to the irrevocable. Indeed, I always get something
like a palpitation of the heart just before the priest utters
those final fateful words, "I declare you man and-- wife."
Half a second before you were still free, half a second after you
are bound for the term of your natural life. Half a second
before you had only to dash the book from the priest's hands, and
put your hand over his mouth, and though thus giddily swinging on
the brink of the precipice, you are saved. Half a second after

Not all the king's horses and all the king's men
Can make you a bachelor ever again.

It is the knife-edge moment 'twixt time and eternity.

And, curiously enough, while my thoughts were thus running on
towards the rapids of that swirling moment, the very thing
happened which I had often imagined might happen to myself.
Suddenly, with a sob, the bridegroom covered his face with his
hands, and crying, "I cannot! I cannot!" hurriedly left the
church, tears streaming down his cheeks, to the complete dismay
of the sad little group at the altar, and the consternation of
all present.

"Poor young man! I thought he would never go through with it,"
said an old woman half to herself, who was sitting near me. I
involuntarily looked my desire of explanation.

"Well, you see," she said, "he had been married before. His
first wife died four years ago, and he loved her beyond all
heaven and earth."

That evening, I afterwards heard, the young bridegroom's body was
found by some boys as they went to bathe in the river. As I
recalled once more that sad yearning face, and heard again that
terrible "I cannot! I cannot!" I thought of Heine's son of
Asra, who loved the Sultan's daughter.

"What is thy name, slave?" asked the princess, "and what thy
race and birthplace?"

"My name," the young slave answered, "is Mahomet. I come from
Yemen. My race is that of Asra, and when we love, we die."

And likewise a voice kept saying in my heart, "If ever you find
your Golden Bride, be sure she will die."



The sad thoughts with which this incident naturally left me were
at length and suddenly dispersed, as sad thoughts not
infrequently are, by a petticoat. When I say petticoat, I use
the word in its literal sense, not colloquially as a metaphor for
its usual wearer, meaning thereby a dainty feminine undergarment
seen only by men on rainy days, and one might add washing-days.
It was indeed to the fortunate accident of its being washing-day
at the pretty cottage near which in the course of my morning
wanderings I had set me down to rest, that I owed the sight of
the petticoat in question.

But first allow me to describe a little more fully my
surroundings at the moment. Not indeed that I can hope to put
into words the charm of those embowered cottages, like nests in
the armpits of great trees, tucked snugly in the hollows of those
narrow, winding, almost subterranean lanes which burrow their way
beneath the warm-hearted Surrey woodlands.

Nothing can be straighter and smoother than a Surrey road--when
it is on the king's business; then it is a high-road and behaves
accordingly: but a Surrey bye-road is the most whimsical
companion in the world. It is like a sheep-dog, always running
backwards and forwards, poking into the most out-of-the-way
corners, now climbing at a run some steep hummock of the down,
and now leisurely going miles about to escape an ant-hill; and
all the time (here, by the way, ends the sheep-dog) it is
stopping to gossip with rillets vagabond as itself, or loitering
to bedeck itself with flowers. It seems as innocent of a
destination as a boy on an errand; but, after taking at least six
times as long as any other road in the kingdom for its amount of
work, you usually find it dip down of a sudden into some lovely
natural cul-de-sac, a meadow-bottom surrounded by trees, with a
stream spreading itself in fantastic silver shallows through its
midst, and a cottage half hidden at the end. Had the lane been
going to some great house, it would have made more haste, we may
be sure.

The lane I had been following had finally dropped me down at
something of a run upon just such a scene. The cottage, built
substantially of grey stone, stood upon the side of the slope,
and a broad strip of garden, half cultivated and half wild, began
near the house with cabbages, and ended in a jungle of giant
bulrushes as it touched the stream. Golden patches of ragwort
blazed here and there among a tangled mass of no doubt worthier
herbage,--such even in nature is the power of gold,--and there
were the usual birds.

However, my business is with the week's washing, which in various
shades of white, with occasional patches of scarlet, fluttered
fantastically across a space of the garden, thereby giving
unmistakable witness to human inhabitants, male and female.

As I lounged upon the green bank, I lazily watched these parodies
of humanity as they were tossed hither and thither with humourous
indignity by the breeze, remarking to myself on the quaint
shamelessness with which we thus expose to the public view
garments which at other times we are at such bashful pains to
conceal. And thus philosophising, like a much greater
philosopher, upon clothes, I found myself involuntarily deducing
the cottage family from the family washing. I soon decided that
there must be at least one woman say of the age of fifty, one
young woman, one little child, sex doubtful, and one man probably
young. Further than this it was impossible to conjecture. Thus I
made the rough guess that a young man and his wife, a child, and
a mother-in-law were among the inhabitants of this idyllic

But the clothes-line presented charming evidence of still another
occupant; and here, though so far easy to read, came in something
of a puzzle. Who in this humble out-of-the-way cottage could
afford to wear that exquisite cambric petticoat edged with a fine
and very expensive lace? And surely it was on no country legs
that those delicately clocked and open-worked silk stockings
walked invisible through the world.

Nor was the lace any ordinary expensive English lace, such as any
good shop can supply. Indeed, I recognised it as being of a
Parisian design as yet little known in England; while on the tops
of the stockings I laughingly suspected a border designed by a
certain eccentric artist, who devotes his strange gifts to
decorating with fascinating miniatures the under-world of woman.
I have seen corsets thus made beautiful by him valued at five
hundred pounds, and he never paints a pair of garters for less
than a hundred. His name is not yet a famous one, as, for
obvious reasons, his works are not exhibited at public galleries,
though they are occasionally to be seen at private views.

I am far from despising an honest red-flannel country petticoat.
There is no warmer kinder-looking garment in the world. It
suggests country laps and country breasts, with sturdy country
babes greedy for the warm white milk, and it seems dyed in
country blushes. Yet, for all that, one could not be insensible
to the exotic race and distinction of that frivolous town
petticoat, daintily disporting itself there among its country
cousins, like a queen among milkmaids.

What numberless suggestions of romance it awoke! What strange
perfumes seemed to waft across from it, perfumes laden with
associations of a world so different from the green world where
it now was, a charming world of gay intrigue and wanton pleasure.
No wonder the wind chose it so often for its partner as it danced
through the garden, scorning to notice the heavy homespun things
about it. It was not every day that that washing-day wind met so
fine a lady, and it was charming to see how gently he played
about her stockings. "Ah, wind," I said, "evidently you are a
gallant born; but tell us the name of the lady. It is somewhere
on that pretty petticoat, I'll be bound."

Is she some little danseuse with the whim to be romantically
rustic for a week? or is she somebody else's pretty wife run away
with somebody else's man? or is she some naughty little grisette
with an extravagant lover? or is she just the usual lady
landscape artist, with a more than usual taste in lingerie?

At all events, it was fairly obvious that, for one reason or
another, the wearer of the petticoat and stockings which have now
occupied us for perhaps a sufficient number of pages, was a
visitor at the cottage.

The next thing was to get a look at her. So, remembering how fond
I was of milk from the cow, I pushed open the gate and advanced
to the cottage door.



The door was opened by a comely young woman, with ruddy cheeks
and a bright kind eye that promised conversation. But "H'm,"
said I to myself, as she went to fetch my milk, "evidently not
yours, my dear."

"A nice drying day for your washing," I said, as I slowly
sipped my milk, with a half-inclination of my head towards the

"Very fine, indeed, sir," she returned, with something of a
blush, and a shy deprecating look that seemed to beg me not to
notice the peculiarly quaint antics which the wind, evidently a
humourist, chose at that moment to execute with the female
garments upon the line. However, I was for once cased in triple
brass and inexorable.

"And who," I ventured, smiling, "may be the owner of those
fine things?"

"Not those," I continued, pointing to an odd garment which the
wind was wantonly puffing out in the quaintest way, "but that
pretty petticoat and those silk stockings?"

The poor girl had gone scarlet, scarlet as the petticoat which I
was sure WAS hers, with probably a fellow at the moment keeping
warm her buxom figure.

"You are very bold, sir," she stammered through her blushes,
but I could see that she was not ill-pleased that the finery
should attract attention.

"But won't you tell me?" I urged; "I have a reason for

And here I had better warn the reader that, as the result of a
whim that presently seized me, I must be content to appear mad in
his eyes for the next few pages, till I get an opportunity of

"Well, what if they should be mine?" at length I persuaded her
into saying.

I made the obvious gallant reply, but, "All the same," I added,
"you know they are not yours. They belong to some lady visitor,
who, I'll be bound, isn't half so pretty; now, don't they?"

"Well, they just don't then. They're mine, as I tell you."

"H'm," I continued, a little nonplussed, "but do you really
mean there is no lady staying with you?"

"Certainly," she replied, evidently enjoying my bewilderment.

"Well, then, some lady must have stayed here once," I retorted,
with a sudden inspiration, "and left them behind--"

"You might be a detective after stolen goods," she interrupted.

"I tell you the things are mine; and what I should like to know
does a gentleman want bothering himself about a lady's petticoat!

No wonder you blush," for, in fact, as was easy to foresee, the
situation was becoming a little ridiculous for me.

"Now, look here," I said with an affectation of gravity, "if
you'll tell me how you came by those things, I'll make it worth
your while. They were given to you by a lady who stayed here not
so long ago, now, weren't they?"

"Well, then, they were."

"The lady stayed here with a gentleman?"

"Yes, she did."

"H'm! I thought so," I said. "Yes! that lady, it pains me to
say, was my wife!"

This unblushing statement was not, I could see, without its
effect upon the present owner of the petticoat.

"But she said they were brother and sister," she replied.

"Of course she did," I returned, with a fine assumption of
scorn,--"of course she did. They always do."

"Dear young woman," I continued, when I was able to control my
emotion, "you are happily remote from the sin and wickedness of
the town, and I am sorry to speak of such things in so peaceful a
spot--but as a strange chance has led me here, I must speak, must
tell you that all wives are not so virtuous and faithful as you,
I am sure, are. There are wives who forsake their husbands
and--and go off with a handsomer man, as the poet says; and mine,
mine, alas! was one of them. It is now some months ago that my
wife left me in this way, and since then I have spent every day
in searching for her; but never till this moment have I come upon
the least trace of her. Strange, is it not? that here, in this
peaceful out-of-the- way garden, I should come upon her very
petticoat, her very stockings--"

By this my grief had become such that the kind girl put her hand
on my arm. "Don't take on so," she said kindly, and then
remembering her treasured property, and probably fearing a
counterclaim on my part to its possession, "But how can you be
sure she was here? There are lots of petticoats like that--"

"What was she like?" I asked through my agitation.

"Middle height, slim and fair, with red goldy hair and big blue
eyes; about thirty, I should say."

"The very same," I groaned, "there is no mistake; and now," I
continued, "I want you to sell me that petticoat and those
stockings," and I took a couple of sovereigns from my purse.
"I want to have them to confront her with, when I do find her.
Perhaps it will touch her heart to think of the strange way in
which I came by them; and you can buy just as pretty ones again
with the money," I added, as I noticed the disappointment on her
face at the prospect of thus losing her finery.

"Well, it's a funny business, to be sure," she said, as still
half reluctantly she unpegged the coveted garments from the line;
"but if what you say 's true, I suppose you must have them."

The wanton wind had been so busily kissing them all the morning
that they were quite dry, so I was able to find room for them in
my knapsack without danger to the other contents; and, with a
hasty good-day to their recent possessor, I set off at full speed
to find a secure nook where I could throw myself down on the
grass, and let loose the absurd laughter that was dangerously
bottled up within me; but even before I do that it behoves me if
possible to vindicate my sanity to the reader.



What a sane man should be doing carrying about with him a woman's
petticoat and silk stockings, may well be a puzzle to the most
intelligent reader.

Whim, sir, whim! and few human actions admit of more satisfactory
solution. Like Shylock, I'll say "It is my humour." But no!
I'll be more explanatory. This madcap quest of mine, was it not
understood between us from the beginning to be a fantastic whim,
a poetical wild-goose chase, conceived entirely as an excuse for
being some time in each other's company? To be whimsical,
therefore, in pursuit of a whim, fanciful in the chase of a
fancy, is surely but to maintain the spirit of the game. Now,
for the purpose, therefore, of a romance that makes no pretence
to reasonableness, I had very good reasons for buying that
petticoat, which (the reasons, not the petticoat) I will now lay
before you.

I have been conscious all the way along through this pilgrimage
of its inevitable vagueness of direction, of my need of something
definite, some place, some name, anything at all, however slight,
which I might associate, if only for a time, with the object of
my quest, a definite something to seek, a definite goal for my

Now, when I saw that mysterious petticoat, and realised that its
wearer would probably be pretty and young and generally charming,
and that probably her name was somewhere on the waistband, the
spirit of whim rejoiced within me. "Why not," it said, "buy
the petticoat, find out the name of its owner, and, instead of
seeking a vague Golden Girl, make up your mind doggedly to find
and marry her, or, failing that, carry the petticoat with you, as
a sort of Cinderella's slipper, try it on any girl you happen to
fancy, and marry her it exactly fits?"

Now, I confess, that seemed to me quite a pretty idea, and I
hope the reader will think so too. If not, I'm afraid I can
offer him no better explanation; and in fact I am all impatience
to open my knapsack, and inform myself of the name of her to the
discovery of whom my wanderings are henceforth to be devoted.



So imagine me seated in a grassy corner, with my knapsack open on
the ground and my petticoat and silk stockings spread out in
front of me,--an odd picture, to be sure, for any passer by to
come upon. I suppose I could have passed for a pedlar, but
undoubtedly it would have been very embarrassing. However, as it
happened, I remained undisturbed, and was able to examine my
purchases at leisure. I had never seen a petticoat so near
before,--at all events I had never given one such close
attention. What delicious dainty things they are! How
essentially womanly--as I hope no one would call a pair of
trousers essentially manly.

How pretty it looked spread out on the grass in front of me! How
soft! how wondrously dainty the finish
of every little seam! And the lace! It almost tempts one to
change one's sex to wear such things. There was a time indeed,
and not so long ago, when brave men wore garments no less dainty.

Rupert's Cavaliers were every bit as particular about their lace
collars and frills as the lady whose pretty limbs once warmed
this cambric.

But where is the name? Ah! here it is! What sweet writing!
"Sylvia Joy, No. 6."

Sylvia Joy! What a perfectly enchanting name! and as I repeated
it enthusiastically, it seemed to have a certain familiarity for
my ear,--as though it were the name of some famous beauty or some
popular actress,--yet the exact association eluded me, and
obviously it was better it should remain a name of mystery.
Sylvia Joy! Who could have hoped for such a pretty name!
Indeed, to tell the truth, I had dreaded to find a "Mary Jones"
or an "Ann Williams"-- but Sylvia Joy! The name was a romance
in itself. I already felt myself falling in love with its unseen
owner. With such a petticoat and such a name, Sylvia herself
could not be otherwise than delightful too. Already, you see, I
was calling her by her Christian name! And the more I thought of
her, the stronger grew the conviction-- which has no doubt
already forced itself upon the romantic reader--that we were born
for each other.

But who is Sylvia, who is she? and likewise where is Sylvia,
where is she? Obviously they were questions not to be answered
off-hand. Was not my future--at all events my immediate
future--to be spent in answering them?

Indeed, curiously enough, my recent haste to have them answered
had suddenly died down. A sort of matrimonial security possessed
me. I felt as I imagine a husband may feel on a solitary
holiday--if there are husbands unnatural enough to go holidaying
without their wives--pleasantly conscious of a home tucked
somewhere beneath the distant sunset, yet in no precipitate hurry
to return there before the appointed day.

In fact, a chill tremor went through me as I realised that, to
all intent, I was at length respectably settled down, with quite
a considerable retrospect of happy married life. To come to a
decision is always to bring something to an end. And, with
something of a pang, resolutely stifled, I realised for a moment
the true blessedness of the single state I was so soon to leave
behind. At all events, a little golden fragment of bachelorhood
remained. There was yet a fertile strip of time wherein to sow
my last handful of the wild oats of youth. So festina lente, my
destined Sylvia, festina lente!



As I once more shouldered my pack and went my way, the character
of the country side began to change, and, from a semi- pastoral
heathiness and furziness, took on a wildness of aspect, which if
indeed melodramatic was melodrama carried to the point of genius.

It was a scene for which the nineteenth century has no worthy
use. It finds ignoble occupation as a gaping-ground for the
vacuous tourist,--somewhat as Heine might have imagined Pan
carrying the gentleman's luggage from the coach to the hotel. It
suffers teetotal picnic-parties to encamp amid its savage
hollows, and it humbly allows itself to be painted by the worst
artists. Like a lion in a menagerie, it is a survival of the
extinct chaos entrapped and exhibited amid the smug parks and
well-rolled downs of England.

I came upon it by a winding ledge of road, which clung to the
bare side of the hill like the battlements of some huge castle.
Some two hundred feet below, a brawling upland stream stood for
the moat, and for the enemy there was on the opposite side of the
valley a great green company of trees, settled like a cloud slope
upon slope, making all haste to cross the river and ascend the
heights where I stood. Some intrepid larches waved green pennons
in the very midst of the turbulent water, here and there a
veteran lay with his many-summered head abased in the rocky
course of the stream, and here was a young foolhardy beech that
had climbed within a dozen yards of the rampart. All was wild
and solitary, and one might have declared it a scene untrodden by
the foot of man, but for the telegraph posts and small piles of
broken "macadam" at punctual intervals, and the ginger-beer
bottles and paper bags of local confectioners that lent an air of
civilisation to the road.

It was a place to quote Alastor in, and nothing but a bad memory
prevented my affrighting the oaks and rills with declamation. As
it was, I could only recall the lines

"The Poet wandering on, through Arabie
And Persia, and the wild Carmanian waste,
And o'er the aerial mountains which pour down
Indus and Oxus from their icy caves--"

and that other passage beginning

"At length upon the lone Chorasmian shore
He paused--"

This last I mouthed, loving the taste of its thunder; mouthed
thrice, as though it were an incantation,--and, indeed, from what
immediately followed, it might reasonably have seemed so.

"At length upon the lone Chorasmian shore
He paused--"

I mouthed for the fourth time. And lo! advancing to me eagerly
along the causeway seemed the very sprite of Alastor himself!
There was a star upon his forehead, and around his young face
there glowed an aureole of gold and roses--to speak figuratively,
for the star upon his brow was hope, and the gold and roses
encircling his head, a miniature rainbow, were youth and health.
His longish golden hair had no doubt its share in the effect, as
likewise the soft yellow silk tie that fluttered like a flame in
the speed of his going. His blue eyes were tragically fresh and
clear,--as though they had as yet been little used. There were
little wings of haste upon his feet, and he came straight to me,
with the air of the Angel Gabriel about to make his divine
announcement. For a moment I thought that he was an apparition
of prophecy charged to announce the maiden of the Lord for whom I
was seeking. However, his brief flushed question was not of
these things. He desired first to ask the time of day, and
next--here, after a bump to the earth, one's thoughts ballooned
again heavenwards--"had I seen a green copy of Shelley lying
anywhere along the road?"

Nothing so good had happened to me, I replied--but I believed
that I had seen a copy of Alastor! For a moment my meaning was
lost on him; then he flushed and smiled, thanked me and was off
again, saying that he must find his Shelley, as he wouldn't lose
it for the world!

He had presently disappeared as suddenly as he had come, but he
had left me a companion, a radiant reverberant name; and for some
little space the name of Shelley clashed silvery music among the

Its seven letters seemed to hang right across the clouds like the
Seven Stars, an apocalyptic constellation, a veritable sky sign;
and again the name was an angel standing with a silver trumpet,
and again it was a song. The heavens opened, and across the blue
rift it hung in a glory of celestial fire, while from behind and
above the clouds came a warbling as of innumerable larks.

How strange was this miracle of fame, I pondered, this strange
apotheosis by which a mere private name becomes a public symbol!
Shelley was once a private person whose name had no more
universal meaning than my own, and so were Byron and Cromwell and
Shakespeare; yet now their names are facts as stubborn as the
Rocky Mountains, or the National Gallery, or the circulation of
the blood. From their original inch or so of private handwriting
they have spread and spread out across the world, and now whole
generations of men find intellectual accommodation within
them,--drinking fountains and other public institutions are
erected upon them; yea, Carlyle has become a Chelsea
swimming-bath, and "Highland Mary" is sold for whiskey, while
Mr. Gladstone is to be met everywhere in the form of a bag.

Does Mr. Gladstone, I wonder, instruct his valet "to pack his
Gladstone"? How strange it must seem! Try it yourself some day
and its effect on your servant. Ask him, for example, to "pack
your ----" and see how he'll stare.

Coming nearer and nearer to earth, I wondered if Colonel Boycott
ever uses the word "boycott," and how strange it must have
seemed to the late MacAdam to walk for miles and miles upon his
own name, like a carpet spread out before him.

Then I once more rebounded heavenwards, at the vision of the
eager dreamy lad whose question had set going all this odd
clockwork of association. He wouldn't lose his Shelley for the
world! How like twenty! And how many things that he wouldn't
lose for the world will he have to give up before he is thirty, I
reflected sententiously,--give up at last, maybe, with a stony
indifference, as men on a sinking ship take no thought of the
gold and specie in the hold.

And then, all of a sudden, a little way up the ferny grassy
hillside, I caught sight of the end of a book half hidden among
the ferns. I climbed up to it. Of course it was that very green
Shelley which the young stranger wouldn't lose for the world.



Picking up the book, I opened it involuntarily at the titlepage,
and then--I resisted a great temptation! I shut it again. A
little flowery plot of girl's handwriting had caught my eye, and
a girl's pretty name. When Love and Beauty meet, it is hard not
to play the eavesdropper, and it was easy to guess that Love and
Beauty met upon that page. St. Anthony had no harder fight with
the ladies he was unpolite enough to call demons, than I in
resisting the temptation to take another look at that pen-and-ink
love making. Now, as I look back, I think it was sheer
priggishness to resist so human and yet so reverent an impulse.
There is nothing sacred from reverence, and love's lovers have a
right to regard themselves as the confidants of lovers, whenever
they may chance to surprise either them or their letters.

While I was still hesitating, and wondering how I could get the
book conveyed to its romantic owner, suddenly a figure turned the
corner of the road, and there was Alastor coming back again. I
slipped the book, in distracted search for which he was evidently
still engaged, under the ferns, and, leisurely lighting a pipe,
prepared to tease him. He was presently within hail, and,
looking up, caught sight of me.

"Have you found your Shelley yet?" I called down to him, as he
stood a moment in the road.

He shook his head. No! But he meant to find it, if he had to
hunt every square foot of the valley inch by inch.

Wouldn't any other book do, I asked him. Would he take a
Boccaccio, or a "Golden Ass," or a "Tom Jones," in
exchange?--for of such consisted my knapsack library. He laughed
a negative, and it seemed a shame to tease him.

"It is not so much the book itself," he said.

"But the giver?" I suggested.

"Of course," he blushingly replied.

"Well, suppose I have found it?" I continued.

"You don't mean it--"

"But suppose I have--I'm only supposing-- will you give me the
pleasure of your company at dinner at the next inn and tell me
its story?"

"Indeed I will, gladly," he replied.

"Well, then," I said, "catch, for here it is!"

The joy with which he recovered it was pretty to behold, and the
eagerness with which he ran through the leaves, to see that the
violets and the primroses and a spray of meadowsweet, young
love's bookmarkers, were all in their right places, touched my

He could not thank me enough; and as we stepped out to the inn,
some three or four miles on the road, I elicited something of his

He was a clerk in a city office, he said, but his dreams were not
commercial. His one dream was to be a great poet, or a great
writer of some sort, and this was one of his holidays. As I
looked at his sensitive young face, unmarred by pleasure and
unscathed by sorrow, bathed daily, I surmised, in the may-dew of
high philosophies--ah, so high! washed from within by a constant
radiancy of pure thoughts, and from without by a constant basking
in the shine of every beautiful and noble and tender thing,--I
thought it not unlikely that he might fulfil his dream.


Back to Full Books