Chapter: "Well," said I, "so you got clear out of all your trouble.  Were people
satisfied with the new order of things when it came?"

"People?" he said.  "Well, surely all must have been glad of peace when
it came; especially when they found, as they must have found, that after
all, they--even the once rich--were not living very badly.  As to those
who had been poor, all through the war, which lasted about two years,
their condition had been bettering, in spite of the struggle; and when
peace came at last, in a very short time they made great strides towards
a decent life.  The great difficulty was that the once-poor had such a
feeble conception of the real pleasure of life: so to say, they did not
ask enough, did not know how to ask enough, from the new state of things.
It was perhaps rather a good than an evil thing that the necessity for
restoring the wealth destroyed during the war forced them into working at
first almost as hard as they had been used to before the Revolution.  For
all historians are agreed that there never was a war in which there was
so much destruction of wares, and instruments for making them as in this
civil war."

"I am rather surprised at that," said I.

"Are you?  I don't see why," said Hammond.

"Why," I said, "because the party of order would surely look upon the
wealth as their own property, no share of which, if they could help it,
should go to their slaves, supposing they conquered.  And on the other
hand, it was just for the possession of that wealth that 'the rebels'
were fighting, and I should have thought, especially when they saw that
they were winning, that they would have been careful to destroy as little
as possible of what was so soon to be their own."

"It was as I have told you, however," said he.  "The party of order, when
they recovered from their first cowardice of surprise--or, if you please,
when they fairly saw that, whatever happened, they would be ruined,
fought with great bitterness, and cared little what they did, so long as
they injured the enemies who had destroyed the sweets of life for them.
As to 'the rebels,' I have told you that the outbreak of actual war made
them careless of trying to save the wretched scraps of wealth that they
had.  It was a common saying amongst them, Let the country be cleared of
everything except valiant living men, rather than that we fall into
slavery again!"

He sat silently thinking a little while, and then said:

"When the conflict was once really begun, it was seen how little of any
value there was in the old world of slavery and inequality.  Don't you
see what it means?  In the times which you are thinking of, and of which
you seem to know so much, there was no hope; nothing but the dull jog of
the mill-horse under compulsion of collar and whip; but in that fighting-
time that followed, all was hope: 'the rebels' at least felt themselves
strong enough to build up the world again from its dry bones,--and they
did it, too!" said the old man, his eyes glittering under his beetling
brows.  He went on: "And their opponents at least and at last learned
something about the reality of life, and its sorrows, which they--their
class, I mean--had once known nothing of.  In short, the two combatants,
the workman and the gentleman, between them--"

"Between them," said I, quickly, "they destroyed commercialism!"

"Yes, yes, yes," said he; "that is it.  Nor could it have been destroyed
otherwise; except, perhaps, by the whole of society gradually falling
into lower depths, till it should at last reach a condition as rude as
barbarism, but lacking both the hope and the pleasures of barbarism.
Surely the sharper, shorter remedy was the happiest."

"Most surely," said I.

"Yes," said the old man, "the world was being brought to its second
birth; how could that take place without a tragedy?  Moreover, think of
it.  The spirit of the new days, of our days, was to be delight in the
life of the world; intense and overweening love of the very skin and
surface of the earth on which man dwells, such as a lover has in the fair
flesh of the woman he loves; this, I say, was to be the new spirit of the
time.  All other moods save this had been exhausted: the unceasing
criticism, the boundless curiosity in the ways and thoughts of man, which
was the mood of the ancient Greek, to whom these things were not so much
a means, as an end, was gone past recovery; nor had there been really any
shadow of it in the so-called science of the nineteenth century, which,
as you must know, was in the main an appendage to the commercial system;
nay, not seldom an appendage to the police of that system.  In spite of
appearances, it was limited and cowardly, because it did not really
believe in itself.  It was the outcome, as it was the sole relief, of the
unhappiness of the period which made life so bitter even to the rich, and
which, as you may see with your bodily eyes, the great change has swept
away.  More akin to our way of looking at life was the spirit of the
Middle Ages, to whom heaven and the life of the next world was such a
reality, that it became to them a part of the life upon the earth; which
accordingly they loved and adorned, in spite of the ascetic doctrines of
their formal creed, which bade them contemn it.

"But that also, with its assured belief in heaven and hell as two
countries in which to live, has gone, and now we do, both in word and in
deed, believe in the continuous life of the world of men, and as it were,
add every day of that common life to the little stock of days which our
own mere individual experience wins for us: and consequently we are
happy.  Do you wonder at it?  In times past, indeed, men were told to
love their kind, to believe in the religion of humanity, and so forth.
But look you, just in the degree that a man had elevation of mind and
refinement enough to be able to value this idea, was he repelled by the
obvious aspect of the individuals composing the mass which he was to
worship; and he could only evade that repulsion by making a conventional
abstraction of mankind that had little actual or historical relation to
the race; which to his eyes was divided into blind tyrants on the one
hand and apathetic degraded slaves on the other.  But now, where is the
difficulty in accepting the religion of humanity, when the men and women
who go to make up humanity are free, happy, and energetic at least, and
most commonly beautiful of body also, and surrounded by beautiful things
of their own fashioning, and a nature bettered and not worsened by
contact with mankind?  This is what this age of the world has reserved
for us."

"It seems true," said I, "or ought to be, if what my eyes have seen is a
token of the general life you lead.  Can you now tell me anything of your
progress after the years of the struggle?"

Said he: "I could easily tell you more than you have time to listen to;
but I can at least hint at one of the chief difficulties which had to be
met: and that was, that when men began to settle down after the war, and
their labour had pretty much filled up the gap in wealth caused by the
destruction of that war, a kind of disappointment seemed coming over us,
and the prophecies of some of the reactionists of past times seemed as if
they would come true, and a dull level of utilitarian comfort be the end
for a while of our aspirations and success.  The loss of the competitive
spur to exertion had not, indeed, done anything to interfere with the
necessary production of the community, but how if it should make men dull
by giving them too much time for thought or idle musing?  But, after all,
this dull thunder-cloud only threatened us, and then passed over.
Probably, from what I have told you before, you will have a guess at the
remedy for such a disaster; remembering always that many of the things
which used to be produced--slave-wares for the poor and mere
wealth-wasting wares for the rich--ceased to be made.  That remedy was,
in short, the production of what used to be called art, but which has no
name amongst us now, because it has become a necessary part of the labour
of every man who produces."

Said I: "What! had men any time or opportunity for cultivating the fine
arts amidst the desperate struggle for life and freedom that you have
told me of?"

Said Hammond: "You must not suppose that the new form of art was founded
chiefly on the memory of the art of the past; although, strange to say,
the civil war was much less destructive of art than of other things, and
though what of art existed under the old forms, revived in a wonderful
way during the latter part of the struggle, especially as regards music
and poetry.  The art or work-pleasure, as one ought to call it, of which
I am now speaking, sprung up almost spontaneously, it seems, from a kind
of instinct amongst people, no longer driven desperately to painful and
terrible over-work, to do the best they could with the work in hand--to
make it excellent of its kind; and when that had gone on for a little, a
craving for beauty seemed to awaken in men's minds, and they began rudely
and awkwardly to ornament the wares which they made; and when they had
once set to work at that, it soon began to grow.  All this was much
helped by the abolition of the squalor which our immediate ancestors put
up with so coolly; and by the leisurely, but not stupid, country-life
which now grew (as I told you before) to be common amongst us.  Thus at
last and by slow degrees we got pleasure into our work; then we became
conscious of that pleasure, and cultivated it, and took care that we had
our fill of it; and then all was gained, and we were happy.  So may it be
for ages and ages!"

The old man fell into a reverie, not altogether without melancholy I
thought; but I would not break it.  Suddenly he started, and said: "Well,
dear guest, here are come Dick and Clara to fetch you away, and there is
an end of my talk; which I daresay you will not be sorry for; the long
day is coming to an end, and you will have a pleasant ride back to
Hammersmith."





I said nothing, for I was not inclined for mere politeness to him after
such very serious talk; but in fact I should liked to have gone on
talking with the older man, who could understand something at least of my
wonted ways of looking at life, whereas, with the younger people, in
spite of all their kindness, I really was a being from another planet.
However, I made the best of it, and smiled as amiably as I could on the
young couple; and Dick returned the smile by saying, "Well, guest, I am
glad to have you again, and to find that you and my kinsman have not
quite talked yourselves into another world; I was half suspecting as I
was listening to the Welshmen yonder that you would presently be
vanishing away from us, and began to picture my kinsman sitting in the
hall staring at nothing and finding that he had been talking a while past
to nobody."

I felt rather uncomfortable at this speech, for suddenly the picture of
the sordid squabble, the dirty and miserable tragedy of the life I had
left for a while, came before my eyes; and I had, as it were, a vision of
all my longings for rest and peace in the past, and I loathed the idea of
going back to it again.  But the old man chuckled and said:

"Don't be afraid, Dick.  In any case, I have not been talking to thin
air; nor, indeed to this new friend of ours only.  Who knows but I may
not have been talking to many people?  For perhaps our guest may some day
go back to the people he has come from, and may take a message from us
which may bear fruit for them, and consequently for us."

Dick looked puzzled, and said: "Well, gaffer, I do not quite understand
what you mean.  All I can say is, that I hope he will not leave us: for
don't you see, he is another kind of man to what we are used to, and
somehow he makes us think of all kind of things; and already I feel as if
I could understand Dickens the better for having talked with him."

"Yes," said Clara, "and I think in a few months we shall make him look
younger; and I should like to see what he was like with the wrinkles
smoothed out of his face.  Don't you think he will look younger after a
little time with us?"

The old man shook his head, and looked earnestly at me, but did not
answer her, and for a moment or two we were all silent.  Then Clara broke
out:

"Kinsman, I don't like this: something or another troubles me, and I feel
as if something untoward were going to happen.  You have been talking of
past miseries to the guest, and have been living in past unhappy times,
and it is in the air all round us, and makes us feel as if we were
longing for something that we cannot have."

The old man smiled on her kindly, and said: "Well, my child, if that be
so, go and live in the present, and you will soon shake it off." Then he
turned to me, and said: "Do you remember anything like that, guest, in
the country from which you come?"

The lovers had turned aside now, and were talking together softly, and
not heeding us; so I said, but in a low voice: "Yes, when I was a happy
child on a sunny holiday, and had everything that I could think of."

"So it is," said he.  "You remember just now you twitted me with living
in the second childhood of the world.  You will find it a happy world to
live in; you will be happy there--for a while."

Again I did not like his scarcely veiled threat, and was beginning to
trouble myself with trying to remember how I had got amongst this curious
people, when the old man called out in a cheery voice: "Now, my children,
take your guest away, and make much of him; for it is your business to
make him sleek of skin and peaceful of mind: he has by no means been as
lucky as you have.  Farewell, guest!" and he grasped my hand warmly.

"Good-bye," said I, "and thank you very much for all that you have told
me.  I will come and see you as soon as I come back to London.  May I?"

"Yes," he said, "come by all means--if you can."

"It won't be for some time yet," quoth Dick, in his cheery voice; "for
when the hay is in up the river, I shall be for taking him a round
through the country between hay and wheat harvest, to see how our friends
live in the north country.  Then in the wheat harvest we shall do a good
stroke of work, I should hope,--in Wiltshire by preference; for he will
be getting a little hard with all the open-air living, and I shall be as
tough as nails."

"But you will take me along, won't you, Dick?" said Clara, laying her
pretty hand on his shoulder.

"Will I not?" said Dick, somewhat boisterously.  "And we will manage to
send you to bed pretty tired every night; and you will look so beautiful
with your neck all brown, and your hands too, and you under your gown as
white as privet, that you will get some of those strange discontented
whims out of your head, my dear.  However, our week's haymaking will do
all that for you."

The girl reddened very prettily, and not for shame but for pleasure; and
the old man laughed, and said:

"Guest, I see that you will be as comfortable as need be; for you need
not fear that those two will be too officious with you: they will be so
busy with each other, that they will leave you a good deal to yourself, I
am sure, and that is a real kindness to a guest, after all.  O, you need
not be afraid of being one too many, either: it is just what these birds
in a nest like, to have a good convenient friend to turn to, so that they
may relieve the ecstasies of love with the solid commonplace of
friendship.  Besides, Dick, and much more Clara, likes a little talking
at times; and you know lovers do not talk unless they get into trouble,
they only prattle.  Good-bye, guest; may you be happy!"

Clara went up to old Hammond, threw her arms about his neck and kissed
him heartily, and said:

"You are a dear old man, and may have your jest about me as much as you
please; and it won't be long before we see you again; and you may be sure
we shall make our guest happy; though, mind you, there is some truth in
what you say."

Then I shook hands again, and we went out of the hall and into the
cloisters, and so in the street found Greylocks in the shafts waiting for
us.  He was well looked after; for a little lad of about seven years old
had his hand on the rein and was solemnly looking up into his face; on
his back, withal, was a girl of fourteen, holding a three-year old sister
on before her; while another girl, about a year older than the boy, hung
on behind.  The three were occupied partly with eating cherries, partly
with patting and punching Greylocks, who took all their caresses in good
part, but pricked up his ears when Dick made his appearance.  The girls
got off quietly, and going up to Clara, made much of her and snuggled up
to her.  And then we got into the carriage, Dick shook the reins, and we
got under way at once, Greylocks trotting soberly between the lovely
trees of the London streets, that were sending floods of fragrance into
the cool evening air; for it was now getting toward sunset.

We could hardly go but fair and softly all the way, as there were a great
many people abroad in that cool hour.  Seeing so many people made me
notice their looks the more; and I must say, my taste, cultivated in the
sombre greyness, or rather brownness, of the nineteenth century, was
rather apt to condemn the gaiety and brightness of the raiment; and I
even ventured to say as much to Clara.  She seemed rather surprised, and
even slightly indignant, and said: "Well, well, what's the matter?  They
are not about any dirty work; they are only amusing themselves in the
fine evening; there is nothing to foul their clothes.  Come, doesn't it
all look very pretty?  It isn't gaudy, you know."

Indeed that was true; for many of the people were clad in colours that
were sober enough, though beautiful, and the harmony of the colours was
perfect and most delightful.

I said, "Yes, that is so; but how can everybody afford such costly
garments?  Look! there goes a middle-aged man in a sober grey dress; but
I can see from here that it is made of very fine woollen stuff, and is
covered with silk embroidery."

Said Clara: "He could wear shabby clothes if he pleased,--that is, if he
didn't think he would hurt people's feelings by doing so."

"But please tell me," said I, "how can they afford it?"

As soon as I had spoken I perceived that I had got back to my old
blunder; for I saw Dick's shoulders shaking with laughter; but he
wouldn't say a word, but handed me over to the tender mercies of Clara,
who said--

"Why, I don't know what you mean.  Of course we can afford it, or else we
shouldn't do it.  It would be easy enough for us to say, we will only
spend our labour on making our clothes comfortable: but we don't choose
to stop there.  Why do you find fault with us?  Does it seem to you as if
we starved ourselves of food in order to make ourselves fine clothes?  Or
do you think there is anything wrong in liking to see the coverings of
our bodies beautiful like our bodies are?--just as a deer's or an otter's
skin has been made beautiful from the first?  Come, what is wrong with
you?"

I bowed before the storm, and mumbled out some excuse or other.  I must
say, I might have known that people who were so fond of architecture
generally, would not be backward in ornamenting themselves; all the more
as the shape of their raiment, apart from its colour, was both beautiful
and reasonable--veiling the form, without either muffling or caricaturing
it.

Clara was soon mollified; and as we drove along toward the wood before
mentioned, she said to Dick--

"I tell you what, Dick: now that kinsman Hammond the Elder has seen our
guest in his queer clothes, I think we ought to find him something decent
to put on for our journey to-morrow: especially since, if we do not, we
shall have to answer all sorts of questions as to his clothes and where
they came from.  Besides," she said slily, "when he is clad in handsome
garments he will not be so quick to blame us for our childishness in
wasting our time in making ourselves look pleasant to each other."

"All right, Clara," said Dick; "he shall have everything that you--that
he wants to have.  I will look something out for him before he gets up to-
morrow."





Amidst such talk, driving quietly through the balmy evening, we came to
Hammersmith, and were well received by our friends there.  Boffin, in a
fresh suit of clothes, welcomed me back with stately courtesy; the weaver
wanted to button-hole me and get out of me what old Hammond had said, but
was very friendly and cheerful when Dick warned him off; Annie shook
hands with me, and hoped I had had a pleasant day--so kindly, that I felt
a slight pang as our hands parted; for to say the truth, I liked her
better than Clara, who seemed to be always a little on the defensive,
whereas Annie was as frank as could be, and seemed to get honest pleasure
from everything and everybody about her without the least effort.

We had quite a little feast that evening, partly in my honour, and
partly, I suspect, though nothing was said about it, in honour of Dick
and Clara coming together again.  The wine was of the best; the hall was
redolent of rich summer flowers; and after supper we not only had music
(Annie, to my mind, surpassing all the others for sweetness and clearness
of voice, as well as for feeling and meaning), but at last we even got to
telling stories, and sat there listening, with no other light but that of
the summer moon streaming through the beautiful traceries of the windows,
as if we had belonged to time long passed, when books were scarce and the
art of reading somewhat rare.  Indeed, I may say here, that, though, as
you will have noted, my friends had mostly something to say about books,
yet they were not great readers, considering the refinement of their
manners and the great amount of leisure which they obviously had.  In
fact, when Dick, especially, mentioned a book, he did so with an air of a
man who has accomplished an achievement; as much as to say, "There, you
see, I have actually read that!"

The evening passed all too quickly for me; since that day, for the first
time in my life, I was having my fill of the pleasure of the eyes without
any of that sense of incongruity, that dread of approaching ruin, which
had always beset me hitherto when I had been amongst the beautiful works
of art of the past, mingled with the lovely nature of the present; both
of them, in fact, the result of the long centuries of tradition, which
had compelled men to produce the art, and compelled nature to run into
the mould of the ages.  Here I could enjoy everything without an
afterthought of the injustice and miserable toil which made my leisure;
the ignorance and dulness of life which went to make my keen appreciation
of history; the tyranny and the struggle full of fear and mishap which
went to make my romance.  The only weight I had upon my heart was a vague
fear as it drew toward bed-time concerning the place wherein I should
wake on the morrow: but I choked that down, and went to bed happy, and in
a very few moments was in a dreamless sleep.





When I did wake, to a beautiful sunny morning, I leapt out of bed with my
over-night apprehension still clinging to me, which vanished delightfully
however in a moment as I looked around my little sleeping chamber and saw
the pale but pure-coloured figures painted on the plaster of the wall,
with verses written underneath them which I knew somewhat over well.  I
dressed speedily, in a suit of blue laid ready for me, so handsome that I
quite blushed when I had got into it, feeling as I did so that excited
pleasure of anticipation of a holiday, which, well remembered as it was,
I had not felt since I was a boy, new come home for the summer holidays.

It seemed quite early in the morning, and I expected to have the hall to
myself when I came into it out of the corridor wherein was my sleeping
chamber; but I met Annie at once, who let fall her broom and gave me a
kiss, quite meaningless I fear, except as betokening friendship, though
she reddened as she did it, not from shyness, but from friendly pleasure,
and then stood and picked up her broom again, and went on with her
sweeping, nodding to me as if to bid me stand out of the way and look on;
which, to say the truth, I thought amusing enough, as there were five
other girls helping her, and their graceful figures engaged in the
leisurely work were worth going a long way to see, and their merry talk
and laughing as they swept in quite a scientific manner was worth going a
long way to hear.  But Annie presently threw me back a word or two as she
went on to the other end of the hall: "Guest," she said, "I am glad that
you are up early, though we wouldn't disturb you; for our Thames is a
lovely river at half-past six on a June morning: and as it would be a
pity for you to lose it, I am told just to give you a cup of milk and a
bit of bread outside there, and put you into the boat: for Dick and Clara
are all ready now.  Wait half a minute till I have swept down this row."

So presently she let her broom drop again, and came and took me by the
hand and led me out on to the terrace above the river, to a little table
under the boughs, where my bread and milk took the form of as dainty a
breakfast as any one could desire, and then sat by me as I ate.  And in a
minute or two Dick and Clara came to me, the latter looking most fresh
and beautiful in a light silk embroidered gown, which to my unused eyes
was extravagantly gay and bright; while Dick was also handsomely dressed
in white flannel prettily embroidered.  Clara raised her gown in her
hands as she gave me the morning greeting, and said laughingly: "Look,
guest! you see we are at least as fine as any of the people you felt
inclined to scold last night; you see we are not going to make the bright
day and the flowers feel ashamed of themselves.  Now scold me!"

Quoth I: "No, indeed; the pair of you seem as if you were born out of the
summer day itself; and I will scold you when I scold it."

"Well, you know," said Dick, "this is a special day--all these days are,
I mean.  The hay-harvest is in some ways better than corn-harvest because
of the beautiful weather; and really, unless you had worked in the hay-
field in fine weather, you couldn't tell what pleasant work it is.  The
women look so pretty at it, too," he said, shyly; "so all things
considered, I think we are right to adorn it in a simple manner."

"Do the women work at it in silk dresses?" said I, smiling.

Dick was going to answer me soberly; but Clara put her hand over his
mouth, and said, "No, no, Dick; not too much information for him, or I
shall think that you are your old kinsman again.  Let him find out for
himself: he will not have long to wait."

"Yes," quoth Annie, "don't make your description of the picture too fine,
or else he will be disappointed when the curtain is drawn.  I don't want
him to be disappointed.  But now it's time for you to be gone, if you are
to have the best of the tide, and also of the sunny morning.  Good-bye,
guest."

She kissed me in her frank friendly way, and almost took away from me my
desire for the expedition thereby; but I had to get over that, as it was
clear that so delightful a woman would hardly be without a due lover of
her own age.  We went down the steps of the landing stage, and got into a
pretty boat, not too light to hold us and our belongings comfortably, and
handsomely ornamented; and just as we got in, down came Boffin and the
weaver to see us off.  The former had now veiled his splendour in a due
suit of working clothes, crowned with a fantail hat, which he took off,
however, to wave us farewell with his grave old-Spanish-like courtesy.
Then Dick pushed off into the stream, and bent vigorously to his sculls,
and Hammersmith, with its noble trees and beautiful water-side houses,
began to slip away from us.

As we went, I could not help putting beside his promised picture of the
hay-field as it was then the picture of it as I remembered it, and
especially the images of the women engaged in the work rose up before me:
the row of gaunt figures, lean, flat-breasted, ugly, without a grace of
form or face about them; dressed in wretched skimpy print gowns, and
hideous flapping sun-bonnets, moving their rakes in a listless mechanical
way.  How often had that marred the loveliness of the June day to me; how
often had I longed to see the hay-fields peopled with men and women
worthy of the sweet abundance of midsummer, of its endless wealth of
beautiful sights, and delicious sounds and scents.  And now, the world
had grown old and wiser, and I was to see my hope realised at last!





So on we went, Dick rowing in an easy tireless way, and Clara sitting by
my side admiring his manly beauty and heartily good-natured face, and
thinking, I fancy, of nothing else.  As we went higher up the river,
there was less difference between the Thames of that day and Thames as I
remembered it; for setting aside the hideous vulgarity of the cockney
villas of the well-to-do, stockbrokers and other such, which in older
time marred the beauty of the bough-hung banks, even this beginning of
the country Thames was always beautiful; and as we slipped between the
lovely summer greenery, I almost felt my youth come back to me, and as if
I were on one of those water excursions which I used to enjoy so much in
days when I was too happy to think that there could be much amiss
anywhere.

At last we came to a reach of the river where on the left hand a very
pretty little village with some old houses in it came down to the edge of
the water, over which was a ferry; and beyond these houses the elm-beset
meadows ended in a fringe of tall willows, while on the right hand went
the tow-path and a clear space before a row of trees, which rose up
behind huge and ancient, the ornaments of a great park: but these drew
back still further from the river at the end of the reach to make way for
a little town of quaint and pretty houses, some new, some old, dominated
by the long walls and sharp gables of a great red-brick pile of building,
partly of the latest Gothic, partly of the court-style of Dutch William,
but so blended together by the bright sun and beautiful surroundings,
including the bright blue river, which it looked down upon, that even
amidst the beautiful buildings of that new happy time it had a strange
charm about it.  A great wave of fragrance, amidst which the lime-tree
blossom was clearly to be distinguished, came down to us from its unseen
gardens, as Clara sat up in her place, and said:

"O Dick, dear, couldn't we stop at Hampton Court for to-day, and take the
guest about the park a little, and show him those sweet old buildings?
Somehow, I suppose because you have lived so near it, you have seldom
taken me to Hampton Court."

Dick rested on his oars a little, and said: "Well, well, Clara, you are
lazy to-day.  I didn't feel like stopping short of Shepperton for the
night; suppose we just go and have our dinner at the Court, and go on
again about five o'clock?"

"Well," she said, "so be it; but I should like the guest to have spent an
hour or two in the Park."

"The Park!" said Dick; "why, the whole Thames-side is a park this time of
the year; and for my part, I had rather lie under an elm-tree on the
borders of a wheat-field, with the bees humming about me and the corn-
crake crying from furrow to furrow, than in any park in England.
Besides--"

"Besides," said she, "you want to get on to your dearly-loved upper
Thames, and show your prowess down the heavy swathes of the mowing
grass."

She looked at him fondly, and I could tell that she was seeing him in her
mind's eye showing his splendid form at its best amidst the rhymed
strokes of the scythes; and she looked down at her own pretty feet with a
half sigh, as though she were contrasting her slight woman's beauty with
his man's beauty; as women will when they are really in love, and are not
spoiled with conventional sentiment.

As for Dick, he looked at her admiringly a while, and then said at last:
"Well, Clara, I do wish we were there!  But, hilloa! we are getting back
way."  And he set to work sculling again, and in two minutes we were all
standing on the gravelly strand below the bridge, which, as you may
imagine, was no longer the old hideous iron abortion, but a handsome
piece of very solid oak framing.

We went into the Court and straight into the great hall, so well
remembered, where there were tables spread for dinner, and everything
arranged much as in Hammersmith Guest-Hall.  Dinner over, we sauntered
through the ancient rooms, where the pictures and tapestry were still
preserved, and nothing was much changed, except that the people whom we
met there had an indefinable kind of look of being at home and at ease,
which communicated itself to me, so that I felt that the beautiful old
place was mine in the best sense of the word; and my pleasure of past
days seemed to add itself to that of to-day, and filled my whole soul
with content.

Dick (who, in spite of Clara's gibe, knew the place very well) told me
that the beautiful old Tudor rooms, which I remembered had been the
dwellings of the lesser fry of Court flunkies, were now much used by
people coming and going; for, beautiful as architecture had now become,
and although the whole face of the country had quite recovered its
beauty, there was still a sort of tradition of pleasure and beauty which
clung to that group of buildings, and people thought going to Hampton
Court a necessary summer outing, as they did in the days when London was
so grimy and miserable.  We went into some of the rooms looking into the
old garden, and were well received by the people in them, who got
speedily into talk with us, and looked with politely half-concealed
wonder at my strange face.  Besides these birds of passage, and a few
regular dwellers in the place, we saw out in the meadows near the garden,
down "the Long Water," as it used to be called, many gay tents with men,
women, and children round about them.  As it seemed, this pleasure-loving
people were fond of tent-life, with all its inconveniences, which,
indeed, they turned into pleasure also.

We left this old friend by the time appointed, and I made some feeble
show of taking the sculls; but Dick repulsed me, not much to my grief, I
must say, as I found I had quite enough to do between the enjoyment of
the beautiful time and my own lazily blended thoughts.

As to Dick, it was quite right to let him pull, for he was as strong as a
horse, and had the greatest delight in bodily exercise, whatever it was.
We really had some difficulty in getting him to stop when it was getting
rather more than dusk, and the moon was brightening just as we were off
Runnymede.  We landed there, and were looking about for a place whereon
to pitch our tents (for we had brought two with us), when an old man came
up to us, bade us good evening, and asked if we were housed for that that
night; and finding that we were not, bade us home to his house.  Nothing
loth, we went with him, and Clara took his hand in a coaxing way which I
noticed she used with old men; and as we went on our way, made some
commonplace remark about the beauty of the day.  The old man stopped
short, and looked at her and said: "You really like it then?"

"Yes," she said, looking very much astonished, "Don't you?"

"Well," said he, "perhaps I do.  I did, at any rate, when I was younger;
but now I think I should like it cooler."

She said nothing, and went on, the night growing about as dark as it
would be; till just at the rise of the hill we came to a hedge with a
gate in it, which the old man unlatched and led us into a garden, at the
end of which we could see a little house, one of whose little windows was
already yellow with candlelight.  We could see even under the doubtful
light of the moon and the last of the western glow that the garden was
stuffed full of flowers; and the fragrance it gave out in the gathering
coolness was so wonderfully sweet, that it seemed the very heart of the
delight of the June dusk; so that we three stopped instinctively, and
Clara gave forth a little sweet "O," like a bird beginning to sing.

"What's the matter?" said the old man, a little testily, and pulling at
her hand.  "There's no dog; or have you trodden on a thorn and hurt your
foot?"

"No, no, neighbour," she said; "but how sweet, how sweet it is!"

"Of course it is," said he, "but do you care so much for that?"

She laughed out musically, and we followed suit in our gruffer voices;
and then she said: "Of course I do, neighbour; don't you?"

"Well, I don't know," quoth the old fellow; then he added, as if somewhat
ashamed of himself: "Besides, you know, when the waters are out and all
Runnymede is flooded, it's none so pleasant."

"_I_ should like it," quoth Dick.  "What a jolly sail one would get about
here on the floods on a bright frosty January morning!"

"_Would_ you like it?" said our host.  "Well, I won't argue with you,
neighbour; it isn't worth while.  Come in and have some supper."

We went up a paved path between the roses, and straight into a very
pretty room, panelled and carved, and as clean as a new pin; but the
chief ornament of which was a young woman, light-haired and grey-eyed,
but with her face and hands and bare feet tanned quite brown with the
sun.  Though she was very lightly clad, that was clearly from choice, not
from poverty, though these were the first cottage-dwellers I had come
across; for her gown was of silk, and on her wrists were bracelets that
seemed to me of great value.  She was lying on a sheep-skin near the
window, but jumped up as soon as we entered, and when she saw the guests
behind the old man, she clapped her hands and cried out with pleasure,
and when she got us into the middle of the room, fairly danced round us
in delight of our company.

"What!" said the old man, "you are pleased, are you, Ellen?"

The girl danced up to him and threw her arms round him, and said: "Yes I
am, and so ought you to be grandfather."

"Well, well, I am," said he, "as much as I can be pleased.  Guests,
please be seated."

This seemed rather strange to us; stranger, I suspect, to my friends than
to me; but Dick took the opportunity of both the host and his
grand-daughter being out of the room to say to me, softly: "A grumbler:
there are a few of them still.  Once upon a time, I am told, they were
quite a nuisance."

The old man came in as he spoke and sat down beside us with a sigh,
which, indeed, seemed fetched up as if he wanted us to take notice of it;
but just then the girl came in with the victuals, and the carle missed
his mark, what between our hunger generally and that I was pretty busy
watching the grand-daughter moving about as beautiful as a picture.

Everything to eat and drink, though it was somewhat different to what we
had had in London, was better than good, but the old man eyed rather
sulkily the chief dish on the table, on which lay a leash of fine perch,
and said:

"H'm, perch!  I am sorry we can't do better for you, guests.  The time
was when we might have had a good piece of salmon up from London for you;
but the times have grown mean and petty."

"Yes, but you might have had it now," said the girl, giggling, "if you
had known that they were coming."

"It's our fault for not bringing it with us, neighbours," said Dick, good-
humouredly.  "But if the times have grown petty, at any rate the perch
haven't; that fellow in the middle there must have weighed a good two
pounds when he was showing his dark stripes and red fins to the minnows
yonder.  And as to the salmon, why, neighbour, my friend here, who comes
from the outlands, was quite surprised yesterday morning when I told him
we had plenty of salmon at Hammersmith.  I am sure I have heard nothing
of the times worsening."

He looked a little uncomfortable.  And the old man, turning to me, said
very courteously:

"Well, sir, I am happy to see a man from over the water; but I really
must appeal to you to say whether on the whole you are not better off in
your country; where I suppose, from what our guest says, you are brisker
and more alive, because you have not wholly got rid of competition.  You
see, I have read not a few books of the past days, and certainly _they_
are much more alive than those which are written now; and good sound
unlimited competition was the condition under which they were written,--if
we didn't know that from the record of history, we should know it from
the books themselves.  There is a spirit of adventure in them, and signs
of a capacity to extract good out of evil which our literature quite
lacks now; and I cannot help thinking that our moralists and historians
exaggerate hugely the unhappiness of the past days, in which such
splendid works of imagination and intellect were produced."

Clara listened to him with restless eyes, as if she were excited and
pleased; Dick knitted his brow and looked still more uncomfortable, but
said nothing.  Indeed, the old man gradually, as he warmed to his
subject, dropped his sneering manner, and both spoke and looked very
seriously.  But the girl broke out before I could deliver myself of the
answer I was framing:

"Books, books! always books, grandfather!  When will you understand that
after all it is the world we live in which interests us; the world of
which we are a part, and which we can never love too much?  Look!" she
said, throwing open the casement wider and showing us the white light
sparkling between the black shadows of the moonlit garden, through which
ran a little shiver of the summer night-wind, "look! these are our books
in these days!--and these," she said, stepping lightly up to the two
lovers and laying a hand on each of their shoulders; "and the guest
there, with his over-sea knowledge and experience;--yes, and even you,
grandfather" (a smile ran over her face as she spoke), "with all your
grumbling and wishing yourself back again in the good old days,--in
which, as far as I can make out, a harmless and lazy old man like you
would either have pretty nearly starved, or have had to pay soldiers and
people to take the folk's victuals and clothes and houses away from them
by force.  Yes, these are our books; and if we want more, can we not find
work to do in the beautiful buildings that we raise up all over the
country (and I know there was nothing like them in past times), wherein a
man can put forth whatever is in him, and make his hands set forth his
mind and his soul."

She paused a little, and I for my part could not help staring at her, and
thinking that if she were a book, the pictures in it were most lovely.
The colour mantled in her delicate sunburnt cheeks; her grey eyes, light
amidst the tan of her face, kindly looked on us all as she spoke.  She
paused, and said again:

"As for your books, they were well enough for times when intelligent
people had but little else in which they could take pleasure, and when
they must needs supplement the sordid miseries of their own lives with
imaginations of the lives of other people.  But I say flatly that in
spite of all their cleverness and vigour, and capacity for story-telling,
there is something loathsome about them.  Some of them, indeed, do here
and there show some feeling for those whom the history-books call 'poor,'
and of the misery of whose lives we have some inkling; but presently they
give it up, and towards the end of the story we must be contented to see
the hero and heroine living happily in an island of bliss on other
people's troubles; and that after a long series of sham troubles (or
mostly sham) of their own making, illustrated by dreary introspective
nonsense about their feelings and aspirations, and all the rest of it;
while the world must even then have gone on its way, and dug and sewed
and baked and built and carpentered round about these useless--animals."

"There!" said the old man, reverting to his dry sulky manner again.
"There's eloquence!  I suppose you like it?"

"Yes," said I, very emphatically.

"Well," said he, "now the storm of eloquence has lulled for a little,
suppose you answer my question?--that is, if you like, you know," quoth
he, with a sudden access of courtesy.

"What question?" said I.  For I must confess that Ellen's strange and
almost wild beauty had put it out of my head.

Said he: "First of all (excuse my catechising), is there competition in
life, after the old kind, in the country whence you come?"

"Yes," said I, "it is the rule there."  And I wondered as I spoke what
fresh complications I should get into as a result of this answer.

"Question two," said the carle: "Are you not on the whole much freer,
more energetic--in a word, healthier and happier--for it?"

I smiled.  "You wouldn't talk so if you had any idea of our life.  To me
you seem here as if you were living in heaven compared with us of the
country from which I came."

"Heaven?" said he: "you like heaven, do you?"

"Yes," said I--snappishly, I am afraid; for I was beginning rather to
resent his formula.

"Well, I am far from sure that I do," quoth he.  "I think one may do more
with one's life than sitting on a damp cloud and singing hymns."

I was rather nettled by this inconsequence, and said: "Well, neighbour,
to be short, and without using metaphors, in the land whence I come,
where the competition which produced those literary works which you
admire so much is still the rule, most people are thoroughly unhappy;
here, to me at least most people seem thoroughly happy."

"No offence, guest--no offence," said he; "but let me ask you; you like
that, do you?"

His formula, put with such obstinate persistence, made us all laugh
heartily; and even the old man joined in the laughter on the sly.
However, he was by no means beaten, and said presently:

"From all I can hear, I should judge that a young woman so beautiful as
my dear Ellen yonder would have been a lady, as they called it in the old
time, and wouldn't have had to wear a few rags of silk as she does now,
or to have browned herself in the sun as she has to do now.  What do you
say to that, eh?"

Here Clara, who had been pretty much silent hitherto, struck in, and
said: "Well, really, I don't think that you would have mended matters, or
that they want mending.  Don't you see that she is dressed deliciously
for this beautiful weather?  And as for the sun-burning of your
hay-fields, why, I hope to pick up some of that for myself when we get a
little higher up the river.  Look if I don't need a little sun on my
pasty white skin!"

And she stripped up the sleeve from her arm and laid it beside Ellen's
who was now sitting next her.  To say the truth, it was rather amusing to
me to see Clara putting herself forward as a town-bred fine lady, for she
was as well-knit and clean-skinned a girl as might be met with anywhere
at the best.  Dick stroked the beautiful arm rather shyly, and pulled
down the sleeve again, while she blushed at his touch; and the old man
said laughingly: "Well, I suppose you _do_ like that; don't you?"

Ellen kissed her new friend, and we all sat silent for a little, till she
broke out into a sweet shrill song, and held us all entranced with the
wonder of her clear voice; and the old grumbler sat looking at her
lovingly.  The other young people sang also in due time; and then Ellen
showed us to our beds in small cottage chambers, fragrant and clean as
the ideal of the old pastoral poets; and the pleasure of the evening
quite extinguished my fear of the last night, that I should wake up in
the old miserable world of worn-out pleasures, and hopes that were half
fears.





Though there were no rough noises to wake me, I could not lie long abed
the next morning, where the world seemed so well awake, and, despite the
old grumbler, so happy; so I got up, and found that, early as it was,
someone had been stirring, since all was trim and in its place in the
little parlour, and the table laid for the morning meal.  Nobody was
afoot in the house as then, however, so I went out a-doors, and after a
turn or two round the superabundant garden, I wandered down over the
meadow to the river-side, where lay our boat, looking quite familiar and
friendly to me.  I walked up stream a little, watching the light mist
curling up from the river till the sun gained power to draw it all away;
saw the bleak speckling the water under the willow boughs, whence the
tiny flies they fed on were falling in myriads; heard the great chub
splashing here and there at some belated moth or other, and felt almost
back again in my boyhood.  Then I went back again to the boat, and
loitered there a minute or two, and then walked slowly up the meadow
towards the little house.  I noted now that there were four more houses
of about the same size on the slope away from the river.  The meadow in
which I was going was not up for hay; but a row of flake-hurdles ran up
the slope not far from me on each side, and in the field so parted off
from ours on the left they were making hay busily by now, in the simple
fashion of the days when I was a boy.  My feet turned that way
instinctively, as I wanted to see how haymakers looked in these new and
better times, and also I rather expected to see Ellen there.  I came to
the hurdles and stood looking over into the hay-field, and was close to
the end of the long line of haymakers who were spreading the low ridges
to dry off the night dew.  The majority of these were young women clad
much like Ellen last night, though not mostly in silk, but in light
woollen mostly gaily embroidered; the men being all clad in white flannel
embroidered in bright colours.  The meadow looked like a gigantic tulip-
bed because of them.  All hands were working deliberately but well and
steadily, though they were as noisy with merry talk as a grove of autumn
starlings.  Half a dozen of them, men and women, came up to me and shook
hands, gave me the sele of the morning, and asked a few questions as to
whence and whither, and wishing me good luck, went back to their work.
Ellen, to my disappointment, was not amongst them, but presently I saw a
light figure come out of the hay-field higher up the slope, and make for
our house; and that was Ellen, holding a basket in her hand.  But before
she had come to the garden gate, out came Dick and Clara, who, after a
minute's pause, came down to meet me, leaving Ellen in the garden; then
we three went down to the boat, talking mere morning prattle.  We stayed
there a little, Dick arranging some of the matters in her, for we had
only taken up to the house such things as we thought the dew might
damage; and then we went toward the house again; but when we came near
the garden, Dick stopped us by laying a hand on my arm and said,--

"Just look a moment."

I looked, and over the low hedge saw Ellen, shading her eyes against the
sun as she looked toward the hay-field, a light wind stirring in her
tawny hair, her eyes like light jewels amidst her sunburnt face, which
looked as if the warmth of the sun were yet in it.

"Look, guest," said Dick; "doesn't it all look like one of those very
stories out of Grimm that we were talking about up in Bloomsbury?  Here
are we two lovers wandering about the world, and we have come to a fairy
garden, and there is the very fairy herself amidst of it: I wonder what
she will do for us."

Said Clara demurely, but not stiffly: "Is she a good fairy, Dick?"

"O, yes," said he; "and according to the card, she would do better, if it
were not for the gnome or wood-spirit, our grumbling friend of last
night."

We laughed at this; and I said, "I hope you see that you have left me out
of the tale."

"Well," said he, "that's true.  You had better consider that you have got
the cap of darkness, and are seeing everything, yourself invisible."

That touched me on my weak side of not feeling sure of my position in
this beautiful new country; so in order not to make matters worse, I held
my tongue, and we all went into the garden and up to the house together.
I noticed by the way that Clara must really rather have felt the contrast
between herself as a town madam and this piece of the summer country that
we all admired so, for she had rather dressed after Ellen that morning as
to thinness and scantiness, and went barefoot also, except for light
sandals.

The old man greeted us kindly in the parlour, and said: "Well, guests, so
you have been looking about to search into the nakedness of the land: I
suppose your illusions of last night have given way a bit before the
morning light?  Do you still like, it, eh?"

"Very much," said I, doggedly; "it is one of the prettiest places on the
lower Thames."

"Oho!" said he; "so you know the Thames, do you?"

I reddened, for I saw Dick and Clara looking at me, and scarcely knew
what to say.  However, since I had said in our early intercourse with my
Hammersmith friends that I had known Epping Forest, I thought a hasty
generalisation might be better in avoiding complications than a downright
lie; so I said--

"I have been in this country before; and I have been on the Thames in
those days."

"O," said the old man, eagerly, "so you have been in this country before.
Now really, don't you _find_ it (apart from all theory, you know) much
changed for the worse?"

"No, not at all," said I; "I find it much changed for the better."

"Ah," quoth he, "I fear that you have been prejudiced by some theory or
another.  However, of course the time when you were here before must have
been so near our own days that the deterioration might not be very great:
as then we were, of course, still living under the same customs as we are
now.  I was thinking of earlier days than that."

"In short," said Clara, "you have _theories_ about the change which has
taken place."

"I have facts as well," said he.  "Look here! from this hill you can see
just four little houses, including this one.  Well, I know for certain
that in old times, even in the summer, when the leaves were thickest, you
could see from the same place six quite big and fine houses; and higher
up the water, garden joined garden right up to Windsor; and there were
big houses in all the gardens.  Ah!  England was an important place in
those days."

I was getting nettled, and said: "What you mean is that you
de-cockneyised the place, and sent the damned flunkies packing, and that
everybody can live comfortably and happily, and not a few damned thieves
only, who were centres of vulgarity and corruption wherever they were,
and who, as to this lovely river, destroyed its beauty morally, and had
almost destroyed it physically, when they were thrown out of it."

There was silence after this outburst, which for the life of me I could
not help, remembering how I had suffered from cockneyism and its cause on
those same waters of old time.  But at last the old man said, quite
coolly:

"My dear guest, I really don't know what you mean by either cockneys, or
flunkies, or thieves, or damned; or how only a few people could live
happily and comfortably in a wealthy country.  All I can see is that you
are angry, and I fear with me: so if you like we will change the
subject."

I thought this kind and hospitable in him, considering his obstinacy
about his theory; and hastened to say that I did not mean to be angry,
only emphatic.  He bowed gravely, and I thought the storm was over, when
suddenly Ellen broke in:

"Grandfather, our guest is reticent from courtesy; but really what he has
in his mind to say to you ought to be said; so as I know pretty well what
it is, I will say it for him: for as you know, I have been taught these
things by people who--"

"Yes," said the old man, "by the sage of Bloomsbury, and others."

"O," said Dick, "so you know my old kinsman Hammond?"

"Yes," said she, "and other people too, as my grandfather says, and they
have taught me things: and this is the upshot of it.  We live in a little
house now, not because we have nothing grander to do than working in the
fields, but because we please; for if we liked, we could go and live in a
big house amongst pleasant companions."

Grumbled the old man: "Just so!  As if I would live amongst those
conceited fellows; all of them looking down upon me!"

She smiled on him kindly, but went on as if he had not spoken.  "In the
past times, when those big houses of which grandfather speaks were so
plenty, we _must_ have lived in a cottage whether we had liked it or not;
and the said cottage, instead of having in it everything we want, would
have been bare and empty.  We should not have got enough to eat; our
clothes would have been ugly to look at, dirty and frowsy.  You,
grandfather, have done no hard work for years now, but wander about and
read your books and have nothing to worry you; and as for me, I work hard
when I like it, because I like it, and think it does me good, and knits
up my muscles, and makes me prettier to look at, and healthier and
happier.  But in those past days you, grandfather, would have had to work
hard after you were old; and would have been always afraid of having to
be shut up in a kind of prison along with other old men, half-starved and
without amusement.  And as for me, I am twenty years old.  In those days
my middle age would be beginning now, and in a few years I should be
pinched, thin, and haggard, beset with troubles and miseries, so that no
one could have guessed that I was once a beautiful girl.

"Is this what you have had in your mind, guest?" said she, the tears in
her eyes at thought of the past miseries of people like herself.

"Yes," said I, much moved; "that and more.  Often--in my country I have
seen that wretched change you have spoken of, from the fresh handsome
country lass to the poor draggle-tailed country woman."

The old man sat silent for a little, but presently recovered himself and
took comfort in his old phrase of "Well, you like it so, do you?"

"Yes," said Ellen, "I love life better than death."

"O, you do, do you?" said he.  "Well, for my part I like reading a good
old book with plenty of fun in it, like Thackeray's 'Vanity Fair.'  Why
don't you write books like that now?  Ask that question of your
Bloomsbury sage."

Seeing Dick's cheeks reddening a little at this sally, and noting that
silence followed, I thought I had better do something.  So I said: "I am
only the guest, friends; but I know you want to show me your river at its
best, so don't you think we had better be moving presently, as it is
certainly going to be a hot day?"





They were not slow to take my hint; and indeed, as to the mere time of
day, it was best for us to be off, as it was past seven o'clock, and the
day promised to be very hot.  So we got up and went down to our
boat--Ellen thoughtful and abstracted; the old man very kind and
courteous, as if to make up for his crabbedness of opinion.  Clara was
cheerful and natural, but a little subdued, I thought; and she at least
was not sorry to be gone, and often looked shyly and timidly at Ellen and
her strange wild beauty.  So we got into the boat, Dick saying as he took
his place, "Well, it _is_ a fine day!" and the old man answering "What!
you like that, do you?" once more; and presently Dick was sending the
bows swiftly through the slow weed-checked stream.  I turned round as we
got into mid-stream, and waving my hand to our hosts, saw Ellen leaning
on the old man's shoulder, and caressing his healthy apple-red cheek, and
quite a keen pang smote me as I thought how I should never see the
beautiful girl again.  Presently I insisted on taking the sculls, and I
rowed a good deal that day; which no doubt accounts for the fact that we
got very late to the place which Dick had aimed at.  Clara was
particularly affectionate to Dick, as I noticed from the rowing thwart;
but as for him, he was as frankly kind and merry as ever; and I was glad
to see it, as a man of his temperament could not have taken her caresses
cheerfully and without embarrassment if he had been at all entangled by
the fairy of our last night's abode.

I need say little about the lovely reaches of the river here.  I duly
noted that absence of cockney villas which the old man had lamented; and
I saw with pleasure that my old enemies the "Gothic" cast-iron bridges
had been replaced by handsome oak and stone ones.  Also the banks of the
forest that we passed through had lost their courtly game-keeperish
trimness, and were as wild and beautiful as need he, though the trees
were clearly well seen to.  I thought it best, in order to get the most
direct information, to play the innocent about Eton and Windsor; but Dick
volunteered his knowledge to me as we lay in Datchet lock about the
first.  Quoth he:

"Up yonder are some beautiful old buildings, which were built for a great
college or teaching-place by one of the mediaeval kings--Edward the
Sixth, I think" (I smiled to myself at his rather natural blunder).  "He
meant poor people's sons to be taught there what knowledge was going in
his days; but it was a matter of course that in the times of which you
seem to know so much they spoilt whatever good there was in the founder's
intentions.  My old kinsman says that they treated them in a very simple
way, and instead of teaching poor men's sons to know something, they
taught rich men's sons to know nothing.  It seems from what he says that
it was a place for the 'aristocracy' (if you know what that word means; I
have been told its meaning) to get rid of the company of their male
children for a great part of the year.  I daresay old Hammond would give
you plenty of information in detail about it."

"What is it used for now?" said I.

"Well," said he, "the buildings were a good deal spoilt by the last few
generations of aristocrats, who seem to have had a great hatred against
beautiful old buildings, and indeed all records of past history; but it
is still a delightful place.  Of course, we cannot use it quite as the
founder intended, since our ideas about teaching young people are so
changed from the ideas of his time; so it is used now as a dwelling for
people engaged in learning; and folk from round about come and get taught
things that they want to learn; and there is a great library there of the
best books.  So that I don't think that the old dead king would be much
hurt if he were to come to life and see what we are doing there."

"Well," said Clara, laughing, "I think he would miss the boys."

"Not always, my dear," said Dick, "for there are often plenty of boys
there, who come to get taught; and also," said he, smiling, "to learn
boating and swimming.  I wish we could stop there: but perhaps we had
better do that coming down the water."

The lock-gates opened as he spoke, and out we went, and on.  And as for
Windsor, he said nothing till I lay on my oars (for I was sculling then)
in Clewer reach, and looking up, said, "What is all that building up
there?"

Said he: "There, I thought I would wait till you asked, yourself.  That
is Windsor Castle: that also I thought I would keep for you till we come
down the water.  It looks fine from here, doesn't it?  But a great deal
of it has been built or skinned in the time of the Degradation, and we
wouldn't pull the buildings down, since they were there; just as with the
buildings of the Dung-Market.  You know, of course, that it was the
palace of our old mediaeval kings, and was used later on for the same
purpose by the parliamentary commercial sham-kings, as my old kinsman
calls them."

"Yes," said I, "I know all that.  What is it used for now?"

"A great many people live there," said he, "as, with all drawbacks, it is
a pleasant place; there is also a well-arranged store of antiquities of
various kinds that have seemed worth keeping--a museum, it would have
been called in the times you understand so well."

I drew my sculls through the water at that last word, and pulled as if I
were fleeing from those times which I understood so well; and we were
soon going up the once sorely be-cockneyed reaches of the river about
Maidenhead, which now looked as pleasant and enjoyable as the up-river
reaches.

The morning was now getting on, the morning of a jewel of a summer day;
one of those days which, if they were commoner in these islands, would
make our climate the best of all climates, without dispute.  A light wind
blew from the west; the little clouds that had arisen at about our
breakfast time had seemed to get higher and higher in the heavens; and in
spite of the burning sun we no more longed for rain than we feared it.
Burning as the sun was, there was a fresh feeling in the air that almost
set us a-longing for the rest of the hot afternoon, and the stretch of
blossoming wheat seen from the shadow of the boughs.  No one unburdened
with very heavy anxieties could have felt otherwise than happy that
morning: and it must be said that whatever anxieties might lie beneath
the surface of things, we didn't seem to come across any of them.

We passed by several fields where haymaking was going on, but Dick, and
especially Clara, were so jealous of our up-river festival that they
would not allow me to have much to say to them.  I could only notice that
the people in the fields looked strong and handsome, both men and women,
and that so far from there being any appearance of sordidness about their
attire, they seemed to be dressed specially for the occasion,--lightly,
of course, but gaily and with plenty of adornment.

Both on this day as well as yesterday we had, as you may think, met and
passed and been passed by many craft of one kind and another.  The most
part of these were being rowed like ourselves, or were sailing, in the
sort of way that sailing is managed on the upper reaches of the river;
but every now and then we came on barges, laden with hay or other country
produce, or carrying bricks, lime, timber, and the like, and these were
going on their way without any means of propulsion visible to me--just a
man at the tiller, with often a friend or two laughing and talking with
him.  Dick, seeing on one occasion this day, that I was looking rather
hard on one of these, said: "That is one of our force-barges; it is quite
as easy to work vehicles by force by water as by land."

I understood pretty well that these "force vehicles" had taken the place
of our old steam-power carrying; but I took good care not to ask any
questions about them, as I knew well enough both that I should never be
able to understand how they were worked, and that in attempting to do so
I should betray myself, or get into some complication impossible to
explain; so I merely said, "Yes, of course, I understand."

We went ashore at Bisham, where the remains of the old Abbey and the
Elizabethan house that had been added to them yet remained, none the
worse for many years of careful and appreciative habitation.  The folk of
the place, however, were mostly in the fields that day, both men and
women; so we met only two old men there, and a younger one who had stayed
at home to get on with some literary work, which I imagine we
considerably interrupted.  Yet I also think that the hard-working man who
received us was not very sorry for the interruption.  Anyhow, he kept on
pressing us to stay over and over again, till at last we did not get away
till the cool of the evening.

However, that mattered little to us; the nights were light, for the moon
was shining in her third quarter, and it was all one to Dick whether he
sculled or sat quiet in the boat: so we went away a great pace.  The
evening sun shone bright on the remains of the old buildings at
Medmenham; close beside which arose an irregular pile of building which
Dick told us was a very pleasant house; and there were plenty of houses
visible on the wide meadows opposite, under the hill; for, as it seems
that the beauty of Hurley had compelled people to build and live there a
good deal.  The sun very low down showed us Henley little altered in
outward aspect from what I remembered it.  Actual daylight failed us as
we passed through the lovely reaches of Wargrave and Shiplake; but the
moon rose behind us presently.  I should like to have seen with my eyes
what success the new order of things had had in getting rid of the
sprawling mess with which commercialism had littered the banks of the
wide stream about Reading and Caversham: certainly everything smelt too
deliciously in the early night for there to be any of the old careless
sordidness of so-called manufacture; and in answer to my question as to
what sort of a place Reading was, Dick answered:

"O, a nice town enough in its way; mostly rebuilt within the last hundred
years; and there are a good many houses, as you can see by the lights
just down under the hills yonder.  In fact, it is one of the most
populous places on the Thames round about here.  Keep up your spirits,
guest! we are close to our journey's end for the night.  I ought to ask
your pardon for not stopping at one of the houses here or higher up; but
a friend, who is living in a very pleasant house in the Maple-Durham
meads, particularly wanted me and Clara to come and see him on our way up
the Thames; and I thought you wouldn't mind this bit of night
travelling."

He need not have adjured me to keep up my spirits, which were as high as
possible; though the strangeness and excitement of the happy and quiet
life which I saw everywhere around me was, it is true, a little wearing
off, yet a deep content, as different as possible from languid
acquiescence, was taking its place, and I was, as it were, really new-
born.

We landed presently just where I remembered the river making an elbow to
the north towards the ancient house of the Blunts; with the wide meadows
spreading on the right-hand side, and on the left the long line of
beautiful old trees overhanging the water.  As we got out of the boat, I
said to Dick--

"Is it the old house we are going to?"

"No," he said, "though that is standing still in green old age, and is
well inhabited.  I see, by the way, that you know your Thames well.  But
my friend Walter Allen, who asked me to stop here, lives in a house, not
very big, which has been built here lately, because these meadows are so
much liked, especially in summer, that there was getting to be rather too
much of tenting on the open field; so the parishes here about, who rather
objected to that, built three houses between this and Caversham, and
quite a large one at Basildon, a little higher up.  Look, yonder are the
lights of Walter Allen's house!"

So we walked over the grass of the meadows under a flood of moonlight,
and soon came to the house, which was low and built round a quadrangle
big enough to get plenty of sunshine in it.  Walter Allen, Dick's friend,
was leaning against the jamb of the doorway waiting for us, and took us
into the hall without overplus of words.  There were not many people in
it, as some of the dwellers there were away at the haymaking in the
neighbourhood, and some, as Walter told us, were wandering about the
meadow enjoying the beautiful moonlit night.  Dick's friend looked to be
a man of about forty; tall, black-haired, very kind-looking and
thoughtful; but rather to my surprise there was a shade of melancholy on
his face, and he seemed a little abstracted and inattentive to our chat,
in spite of obvious efforts to listen.

Dick looked on him from time to time, and seemed troubled; and at last he
said: "I say, old fellow, if there is anything the matter which we didn't
know of when you wrote to me, don't you think you had better tell us
about it at once?  Or else we shall think we have come here at an unlucky
time, and are not quite wanted."

Walter turned red, and seemed to have some difficulty in restraining his
tears, but said at last: "Of course everybody here is very glad to see
you, Dick, and your friends; but it is true that we are not at our best,
in spite of the fine weather and the glorious hay-crop.  We have had a
death here."

Said Dick: "Well, you should get over that, neighbour: such things must
be."

"Yes," Walter said, "but this was a death by violence, and it seems
likely to lead to at least one more; and somehow it makes us feel rather
shy of one another; and to say the truth, that is one reason why there
are so few of us present to-night."

"Tell us the story, Walter," said Dick; "perhaps telling it will help you
to shake off your sadness."

Said Walter: "Well, I will; and I will make it short enough, though I
daresay it might be spun out into a long one, as used to be done with
such subjects in the old novels.  There is a very charming girl here whom
we all like, and whom some of us do more than like; and she very
naturally liked one of us better than anybody else.  And another of us (I
won't name him) got fairly bitten with love-madness, and used to go about
making himself as unpleasant as he could--not of malice prepense, of
course; so that the girl, who liked him well enough at first, though she
didn't love him, began fairly to dislike him.  Of course, those of us who
knew him best--myself amongst others--advised him to go away, as he was
making matters worse and worse for himself every day.  Well, he wouldn't
take our advice (that also, I suppose, was a matter of course), so we had
to tell him that he _must_ go, or the inevitable sending to Coventry
would follow; for his individual trouble had so overmastered him that we
felt that _we_ must go if he did not.

"He took that better than we expected, when something or other--an
interview with the girl, I think, and some hot words with the successful
lover following close upon it, threw him quite off his balance; and he
got hold of an axe and fell upon his rival when there was no one by; and
in the struggle that followed the man attacked, hit him an unlucky blow
and killed him.  And now the slayer in his turn is so upset that he is
like to kill himself; and if he does, the girl will do as much, I fear.
And all this we could no more help than the earthquake of the year before
last."

"It is very unhappy," said Dick; "but since the man is dead, and cannot
be brought to life again, and since the slayer had no malice in him, I
cannot for the life of me see why he shouldn't get over it before long.
Besides, it was the right man that was killed and not the wrong.  Why
should a man brood over a mere accident for ever?  And the girl?"

"As to her," said Walter, "the whole thing seems to have inspired her
with terror rather than grief.  What you say about the man is true, or it
should be; but then, you see, the excitement and jealousy that was the
prelude to this tragedy had made an evil and feverish element round about
him, from which he does not seem to be able to escape.  However, we have
advised him to go away--in fact, to cross the seas; but he is in such a
state that I do not think he _can_ go unless someone _takes_ him, and I
think it will fall to my lot to do so; which is scarcely a cheerful
outlook for me."

"O, you will find a certain kind of interest in it," said Dick.  "And of
course he _must_ soon look upon the affair from a reasonable point of
view sooner or later."

"Well, at any rate," quoth Walter, "now that I have eased my mind by
making you uncomfortable, let us have an end of the subject for the
present.  Are you going to take your guest to Oxford?"

"Why, of course we must pass through it," said Dick, smiling, "as we are
going into the upper waters: but I thought that we wouldn't stop there,
or we shall be belated as to the haymaking up our way.  So Oxford and my
learned lecture on it, all got at second-hand from my old kinsman, must
wait till we come down the water a fortnight hence."

I listened to this story with much surprise, and could not help wondering
at first that the man who had slain the other had not been put in custody
till it could be proved that he killed his rival in self-defence only.
However, the more I thought of it, the plainer it grew to me that no
amount of examination of witnesses, who had witnessed nothing but the ill-
blood between the two rivals, would have done anything to clear up the
case.  I could not help thinking, also, that the remorse of this homicide
gave point to what old Hammond had said to me about the way in which this
strange people dealt with what I had been used to hear called crimes.
Truly, the remorse was exaggerated; but it was quite clear that the
slayer took the whole consequences of the act upon himself, and did not
expect society to whitewash him by punishing him.  I had no fear any
longer that "the sacredness of human life" was likely to suffer amongst
my friends from the absence of gallows and prison.

 The Beginning of the New Life William asks Old Hammond whether people were satisfied with the new order and Old Hammond replies that they were since their position only improved throughout the two-year struggle and especially after peace came. If anything, they did not know how to ask enough from the new society, but had to set to work repairing all that was broken during the civil war. William says he is surprised to hear that there was so much destruction when the masses should have believed someday those things would be theirs, and Old Hammond blames the counter-revolutionaries who fought viciously from their fear and anger. Old Hammond discusses how people came to find pleasure in life and give up religion. William asks about developments since the revolution and Old Hammond replies by talking about the disappointment immediately following the success of the revolution that was solved through the production of art. Chapter 19: The Drive Back to Hammersmith Dick and Clara return to the hall, though William does not wish to leave Old Hammond. William feels uncomfortable after Dick makes a comment about him going back to his people, and the feeling seems to spread such that Clara says something troubles her as well. The group tries to shake the feeling by focusing on the present. They part ways for the night, with William asking if he can visit Old Hammond again later, though Dick says that that won't be for quite some time because he, William, and Clara will be going to the harvest. Outside, Dick, Clara, and William find their horse Greylocks being looked after by three children eating cherries. The adults get into the carriage and ride off. They discuss clothing, with William again exposing his beliefs about beautiful clothing needing to be expensive, and they agree that William will get new clothes the next day. Chapter 20: The Hammersmith Guest-House Again Dick, Clara, and William stop for the night again at the Hammersmith Guest-House and are welcomed home by Boffin and Annie. They eat and drink another good meal and spend the evening singing and telling stories. William enjoys himself immensely without regret for those who are unhappy or suffered for the things that please him. He feels only a little worry that when he goes to sleep he might not wake up in the same time period. Chapter 21: Going Up the River When William awakes, he is still in the 21st century. He sees that Dick has already gotten and laid out a beautiful blue suit for him. Annie is already awake as well when William emerges into the hall and she gives him a friendly kiss. Annie is cleaning along with five other young women, and she tells him to eat a quick breakfast and then join Dick and Clara in the boat. William eats and talks cheerfully with Dick and Clara and then Annie kisses him again to say goodbye and the group of three sets off up the river, immediately passing people working on the harvest along the bank. Chapter 22: Hampton Court and a Praiser of Past Times Dick rows while Clara and William watch him and the scenery; William notes that this section of the Thames does not look so different from the 19th century. They come to a village called Hampton Court and Clara asks to stop for the day, though Dick suggests because it is still early that they stop for dinner and then continue on in the evening. They get out of their boat and quickly find a hall and eat a pleasant dinner with others. After walking around a while to look at the old architecture and visit with people living on the property in tents, they get back into their boat and Dick resumes sculling. Dick rows them further upstream until they are near another village named Runnymead as dusk turns to night. They begin to set up a campsite, but an old man tells them to come stay at his house. As the three walk with the old man, Clara makes a comment about the beauty of the day and the man asks, "You really like it then?" , which surprises her. As they near the house, Clara again makes a noise of pleasure and the man questions her and then begins to criticize Runnymead's beauty. The old man invites them to have dinner inside and they meet a beautiful young woman who literally jumps for joy at their appearance in her home. It turns out that she is his granddaughter, Ellen. As he seats the guests for dinner, Dick tells William that he is "a grumbler" , which he says was more common in the olden days but still is a nuisance. The food at dinner is very good, but the old man still complains throughout the meal and the others including his granddaughter reply to him good-naturedly. The old man strikes up conversation with William, encouraging him to compare his country and the ways it is likely better than England in that it still has the competition and adventure he reads about in old literature. The group discusses books, with Clara arguing that there is not such a need for books now that life is so pleasant. Clara speaks out near the end of the meal, lashing out at the old man for grumbling and comparing her light skin to Ellen's tan arm. The meal ends with Ellen beginning to sing and the others joining in before they all go to bed, with William no longer fearing that he will wake up in another time. Chapter 23: An Early Morning by Runnymead William wakes early and goes out exploring. He wanders to a hay field where people are already working; he looks for Ellen but she is not among those working. However, he sees her up a hill with a basket, and Dick and Clara come out of the house as she arrives back. William goes down to the boat with Dick and Clara to arrange things and then they return to the house. They pause before entering the garden, seeing Ellen standing in the garden looking beautiful. Dick and Clara compare her to a fairy. They go inside to eat and the old man again criticizes life and talks about the negative aspects of the changes since the old days. It comes out that the old man has learned some of what he knows from Old Hammond, Dick's kinsman. Ellen chimes in to give a lengthy speech supporting their current way of life, especially the choices they have about how they live. When the old man retorts with more criticism, William suggests that they set off up the river before it gets hot. Chapter 24: Up the Thames: The Second Day The group says goodbye to Ellen and her grandfather and William takes the sculls as they head up the Thames again. Dick points out various bits of architecture as they go, including Eton - which William knows to be prestigious schools for rich young boys and which Dick reveals is still used as a center for learning in the 21st century - and Windsor Castle. They stop to rest in Bisham; there aren't many people around because most are out working for the harvest, but two old men and one young man who stayed inside to do literary work ask them to stay until evening. In the evening, they go back in the boat with Dick sculling, and they keep going even once it has turned to night so that they can sleep at the home of Dick's friend, Walter Allen, in Maple-Durham. When they arrive in Maple-Durham, Walter Allen is waiting outside his house to greet them. William and Dick notice that Walter seems upset about something and eventually Dick asks what is wrong. Walter responds with a story about how a man who was "bitten with love-madness" over a girl who didn't love him back killed her lover with an axe. Since then, the whole village has felt badly and advised the man to go somewhere far away, but they don't believe he can go on his own. Furthermore, Walter thinks that he will have to be the one to do so. Dick and Walter change the subject by talking about where they plan to go, but William continues thinking about this predicament and the way the system of laws affects those who commit crimes and the communities around them.

