Three men in a boat (to say nothing of the dog)
without a cold, except once for nine weeks while he had scarlet fever;
and he always had chilblains. During the great cholera scare of 1871,
our neighbourhood was singularly free from it. There was only one
reputed case in the whole parish: that case was young Stivvings.
He had to stop in bed when he was ill, and eat chicken and custards and
hot-house grapes; and he would lie there and sob, because they wouldn’t
let him do Latin exercises, and took his German grammar away from him.
And we other boys, who would have sacrificed ten terms of our
school-life for the sake of being ill for a day, and had no desire
whatever to give our parents any excuse for being stuck-up about us,
couldn’t catch so much as a stiff neck. We fooled about in draughts,
and it did us good, and freshened us up; and we took things to make us
sick, and they made us fat, and gave us an appetite. Nothing we could
think of seemed to make us ill until the holidays began. Then, on the
breaking-up day, we caught colds, and whooping cough, and all kinds of
disorders, which lasted till the term recommenced; when, in spite of
everything we could manœuvre to the contrary, we would get suddenly
well again, and be better than ever.
Such is life; and we are but as grass that is cut down, and put into
the oven and baked.
To go back to the carved-oak question, they must have had
very fair notions of the artistic and the beautiful, our
great-great-grandfathers. Why, all our art treasures of to-day are only
the dug-up commonplaces of three or four hundred years ago. I wonder
if there is real intrinsic beauty in the old soup-plates, beer-mugs,
and candle-snuffers that we prize so now, or if it is only the halo
of age glowing around them that gives them their charms in our eyes.
The “old blue” that we hang about our walls as ornaments were the
common every-day household utensils of a few centuries ago; and the
pink shepherds and the yellow shepherdesses that we hand round now for
all our friends to gush over, and pretend they understand, were the
unvalued mantel-ornaments that the mother of the eighteenth century
would have given the baby to suck when he cried.
Will it be the same in the future? Will the prized treasures of to-day
always be the cheap trifles of the day before? Will rows of our
willow-pattern dinner-plates be ranged above the chimneypieces of the
great in the years 2000 and odd? Will the white cups with the gold rim
and the beautiful gold flower inside (species unknown), that our Sarah
Janes now break in sheer light-heartedness of spirit, be carefully
mended, and stood upon a bracket, and dusted only by the lady of the
house?
[Picture: China dog] That china dog that ornaments the bedroom of my
furnished lodgings. It is a white dog. Its eyes blue. Its nose is a
delicate red, with spots. Its head is painfully erect, its expression
is amiability carried to verge of imbecility. I do not admire it
myself. Considered as a work of art, I may say it irritates me.
Thoughtless friends jeer at it, and even my landlady herself has no
admiration for it, and excuses its presence by the circumstance that
her aunt gave it to her.
But in 200 years’ time it is more than probable that that dog will
be dug up from somewhere or other, minus its legs, and with its tail
broken, and will be sold for old china, and put in a glass cabinet.
And people will pass it round, and admire it. They will be struck by
the wonderful depth of the colour on the nose, and speculate as to how
beautiful the bit of the tail that is lost no doubt was.
We, in this age, do not see the beauty of that dog. We are too familiar
with it. It is like the sunset and the stars: we are not awed by their
loveliness because they are common to our eyes. So it is with that
china dog. In 2288 people will gush over it. The making of such dogs
will have become a lost art. Our descendants will wonder how we did
it, and say how clever we were. We shall be referred to lovingly as
“those grand old artists that flourished in the nineteenth century, and
produced those china dogs.”
The “sampler” that the eldest daughter did at school will be spoken
of as “tapestry of the Victorian era,” and be almost priceless. The
blue-and-white mugs of the present-day roadside inn will be hunted up,
all cracked and chipped, and sold for their weight in gold, and rich
people will use them for claret cups; and travellers from Japan will
buy up all the “Presents from Ramsgate,” and “Souvenirs of Margate,”
that may have escaped destruction, and take them back to Jedo as
ancient English curios.
At this point Harris threw away the sculls, got up and left his seat,
and sat on his back, and stuck his legs in the air. Montmorency howled,
and turned a somersault, and the top hamper jumped up, and all the
things came out.
I was somewhat surprised, but I did not lose my temper. I said,
pleasantly enough:
“Hulloa! what’s that for?”
“What’s that for? Why—”
No, on second thoughts, I will not repeat what Harris said. I may have
been to blame, I admit it; but nothing excuses violence of language and
coarseness of expression, especially in a man who has been carefully
brought up, as I know Harris has been. I was thinking of other things,
and forgot, as any one might easily understand, that I was steering,
and the consequence was that we had got mixed up a good deal with the
tow-path. It was difficult to say, for the moment, which was us and
which was the Middlesex bank of the river; but we found out after a
while, and separated ourselves.
Harris, however, said he had done enough for a bit, and proposed that I
should take a turn; so, as we were in, I got out and took the tow-line,
and ran the boat on past Hampton Court. What a dear old wall that is
that runs along by the river there! I never pass it without feeling
better for the sight of it. Such a mellow, bright, sweet old wall; what
a charming picture it would make, with the lichen creeping here, and
the moss growing there, a shy young vine peeping over the top at this
spot, to see what is going on upon the busy river, and the sober old
ivy clustering a little farther down! There are fifty shades and tints
and hues in every ten yards of that old wall. If I could only draw,
and knew how to paint, I could make a lovely sketch of that old wall,
I’m sure. I’ve often thought I should like to live at Hampton Court.
It looks so peaceful and so quiet, and it is such a dear old place to
ramble round in the early morning before many people are about.
But, there, I don’t suppose I should really care for it when it came
to actual practice. It would be so ghastly dull and depressing in the
evening, when your lamp cast uncanny shadows on the panelled walls, and
the echo of distant feet rang through the cold stone corridors, and now
drew nearer, and now died away, and all was death-like silence, save
the beating of one’s own heart.
We are creatures of the sun, we men and women. We love light and life.
That is why we crowd into the towns and cities, and the country grows
more and more deserted every year. In the sunlight—in the daytime, when
Nature is alive and busy all around us, we like the open hill-sides and
the deep woods well enough: but in the night, when our Mother Earth has
gone to sleep, and left us waking, oh! the world seems so lonesome,
and we get frightened, like children in a silent house. Then we sit
and sob, and long for the gas-lit streets, and the sound of human
voices, and the answering throb of human life. We feel so helpless and
so little in the great stillness, when the dark trees rustle in the
night-wind. There are so many ghosts about, and their silent sighs make
us feel so sad. Let us gather together in the great cities, and light
huge bonfires of a million gas-jets, and shout and sing together, and
feel brave.
[Picture: People at Hampton Maze] Harris asked me if I’d ever been in
the maze at Hampton Court. He said he went in once to show somebody
else the way. He had studied it up in a map, and it was so simple that
it seemed foolish—hardly worth the twopence charged for admission.
Harris said he thought that map must have been got up as a practical
joke, because it wasn’t a bit like the real thing, and only misleading.
It was a country cousin that Harris took in. He said:
“We’ll just go in here, so that you can say you’ve been, but it’s very
simple. It’s absurd to call it a maze. You keep on taking the first
turning to the right. We’ll just walk round for ten minutes, and then
go and get some lunch.”
They met some people soon after they had got inside, who said they had
been there for three-quarters of an hour, and had had about enough of
it. Harris told them they could follow him, if they liked; he was just
going in, and then should turn round and come out again. They said it
was very kind of him, and fell behind, and followed.
They picked up various other people who wanted to get it over, as they
went along, until they had absorbed all the persons in the maze. People
who had given up all hopes of ever getting either in or out, or of ever
seeing their home and friends again, plucked up courage at the sight of
Harris and his party, and joined the procession, blessing him. Harris
said he should judge there must have been twenty people, following him,
in all; and one woman with a baby, who had been there all the morning,
insisted on taking his arm, for fear of losing him.
Harris kept on turning to the right, but it seemed a long way, and his
cousin said he supposed it was a very big maze.
“Oh, one of the largest in Europe,” said Harris.
“Yes, it must be,” replied the cousin, “because we’ve walked a good two
miles already.”
Harris began to think it rather strange himself, but he held on until,
at last, they passed the half of a penny bun on the ground that
Harris’s cousin swore he had noticed there seven minutes ago. Harris
said: “Oh, impossible!” but the woman with the baby said, “Not at all,”
as she herself had taken it from the child, and thrown it down there,
just before she met Harris. She also added that she wished she never
had met Harris, and expressed an opinion that he was an impostor. That
made Harris mad, and he produced his map, and explained his theory.
“The map may be all right enough,” said one of the party, “if you know
whereabouts in it we are now.”
Harris didn’t know, and suggested that the best thing to do would
be to go back to the entrance, and begin again. For the beginning
again part of it there was not much enthusiasm; but with regard to
the advisability of going back to the entrance there was complete
unanimity, and so they turned, and trailed after Harris again, in the
opposite direction. About ten minutes more passed, and then they found
themselves in the centre.
Harris thought at first of pretending that that was what he had been
aiming at; but the crowd looked dangerous, and he decided to treat it
as an accident.
Anyhow, they had got something to start from then. They did know where
they were, and the map was once more consulted, and the thing seemed
simpler than ever, and off they started for the third time.
And three minutes later they were back in the centre again.
After that, they simply couldn’t get anywhere else. Whatever way
they turned brought them back to the middle. It became so regular at
length, that some of the people stopped there, and waited for the
others to take a walk round, and come back to them. Harris drew out
his map again, after a while, but the sight of it only infuriated the
mob, and they told him to go and curl his hair with it. Harris said
that he couldn’t help feeling that, to a certain extent, he had become
unpopular.
They all got crazy at last, and sang out for the keeper, and the man