Chapter VI SPORT AND WORK

IT was at this period that, like so many young Englishmen who were his contemporaries, he gave attention to field sports, and took interest in that athleticism which, to judge from Wilkie Collins's scathing pictures, was quite as rampant and absurd then as it is in our own time. It was then too that he acquired that familiarity with the figures prominent in the ring which startles one in his reminiscences of George Borrow. But it will scarcely interest the readers of this book to dwell long upon this subject. Nor have I time to repeat the humorous stories I have heard him tell about the queer characters who could then be met at St.

Ives Fair (said to have been the largest cattle fair in England), and at another favourite resort of his, Stourbridge Fair, near Cambridge.

Stourbridge Fair still exists, but its glory was departing when Mr.

Watts-Dunton was familiar with it; and now, possibly, it has departed for ever. Of Cambridge and the entire county he tells many anecdotes. Here is a specimen:-

Once in the early sixties he and his brother and some friends were greatly exercised by the news that Deerfoot, the famous American Indian runner in whom Borrow took such an interest, was to run at Cambridge against the English champion. When the day came, they drove to Cambridge in a dog-cart from St. Ives, about a dozen miles. The race took place in a field called Fenner's Ground, much used by cricketers. This is how, as far as I can recall the words, he tells the anecdote:-

"The place was crammed with all sorts of young men-'varsity men and others. There were not many young farmers or squires or yeomen within a radius of a good many miles that did not put in an appearance on that occasion. The Indian won easily, and at the conclusion of the race there was a frantic rush to get near him and shake his hand. The rush was so wild and so insensate that it irritated me more than I should at the present moment consider it possible to be irritated. But I ought to say that at that time of my life I had developed into a strangely imperious little chap. I had been over-indulged-not at home, but at the Cambridge school to which I had been sent-and spoilt. This seems odd, but it's true. It was the boys who spoilt me in a curious way-a way which will not be understood by those who went to public schools like Eton, where the f.a.gging principle would have stood in the way of the development of the curious relation between me and my fellow-pupils which I am alluding to. There is an inscrutable form of the monarchic instinct in the genus h.o.m.o which causes boys, without in the least knowing why, to select one boy as a kind of leader, or rather emperor, and spoil him, almost unfit him indeed for that sense of equality which is so valuable in the social struggle for life that follows school-days. This kind of emperor I had been at that school. It indicated no sort of real superiority on my part; for I learnt that immediately after I had left the vacant post it was filled by another boy-filled for an equally inscrutable reason. The result of it was that I became (as I often think when I recall those days) the most masterful young urchin that ever lived. If I had not been so, I could not have got into a fury at being jostled by a good-humoured crowd. My brother, who had not been so spoilt at school, was very different, and kept urging me to keep my temper. 'It's capital fun,'

he said; 'look at this blue-eyed young chap jostling and being jostled close to us. He's fond of a hustle, and no mistake. That's the kind of chap I should like to know'; and he indicated a young 'varsity man of whose elbow at that moment I was unpleasantly conscious, and who seemed to be in a state of delight at other elbows being pushed into his ribs. I soon perceived that certain men whom he was with seemed angry, not on their own account, but on account of this youth of the laughing lips and blue eyes. As they were trying to make a ring round him, 'Hanged if it isn't the Prince!' said my brother. 'And look how he takes it! Surely you can stand what he stands!' It was, in fact, the Prince of Wales, who had come to see the American runner. I needed only two or three years of buffeting with the great life outside the schoolroom to lose all my imperiousness and learn the essential lesson of give-and-take."

For a time Mr. Watts-Dunton wavered about being articled to his father as a solicitor. His love of the woods and fields was too great at that time for him to find life in a solicitor's office at all tolerable. Moreover, it would seem that he who had been so precocious a student, and who had lived in books, felt a temporary revulsion from them, and an irresistible impulse to study Nature apart from books, to study her face to face. And it was at this time that, as the 'Encyclopaedia Britannica' remarks, he 'moved much among the East Anglian gypsies, of whose superst.i.tions and folklore he made a careful study.' But of this period of his life I have but little knowledge. Judging from Groome's remarks upon 'Aylwin' in the 'Bookman,' he alone had Mr. Watts-Dunton's full confidence in the matter.

So great was his desire to pore over the book of nature, there appears to have been some likelihood, perhaps I ought to say some danger, of his feeling the impulse which had taken George Borrow away from civilization.

He seems, besides, to have shared with the Greeks and with Montaigne a belief in the value of leisure. It was at this period, to judge from his writings, that he exclaimed with Montaigne, 'Have you known how to regulate your conduct, you have done a great deal more than he who has composed books. Have you known how to take repose, you have done more than he who has taken empires and cities.' I suppose, however, that this was the time when he composed that unpublished 'Dictionary for Nature-worshippers,' from which he often used to quote in the 'Athenaeum.'

There is nothing in his writings so characteristic as those definitions.

Work and Sport are thus defined: 'Work: that activity of mind or body which exhausts the vital forces without yielding pleasure or health to the individual. Sport: that activity of mind or body which, in exhausting the vital forces, yields pleasure and health to the individual. The activity, however severe, of a born artist at his easel, of a born poet at his rhymings, of a born carpenter at his plane, is sport. The activity, however slight, of the born artist or poet at the merchant's desk, is work. Hence, to work is not to pray. We have called the heresy of Work modern because it is the characteristic one of our time; but, alas! like all heresies, it is old. It was preached by Zoroaster in almost Mr. Carlyle's words when Concord itself was in the woods and ere Chelsea was.'

[Picture: 'Evening Dreams with the Poets.' (From an Oil Painting at 'The Pines.')]

In one of his books Mr. Watts-Dunton writes with great eloquence upon this subject:-

"How hateful is the word 'experience' in the mouth of the litterateur. They all seem to think that this universe exists to educate them, and that they should write books about it. They never look on a sunrise without thinking what an experience it is; how it is educating them for bookmaking. It is this that so often turns the true Nature-worshipper away from books altogether, that makes him bless with what at times seems such malicious fervour those two great benefactors of the human race, Caliph Omar and Warburton's cook.

In Th.o.r.eau there was an almost perpetual warring of the Nature instinct with the Humanity instinct. And, to say the truth, the number is smaller than even Nature-worshippers themselves are aware-those in whom there is not that warring of these two great primal instincts. For six or eight months at a time there are many, perhaps, who could revel in 'utter solitude,' as companionship with Nature is called; with no minster clock to tell them the time of day, but, instead, the bleating of sheep and the lowing of cattle in the morning, the shifting of the shadows at noon, and the cawing of rooks going home at sunset. But then to these, there comes suddenly, and without the smallest warning, a half-recognized but secretly sweet pleasure in looking at the smooth high-road, and thinking that it leads to the city-a beating of the heart at the sound of the distant railway-whistle, as the train winds its way, like a vast gliding snake, to the whirlpool they have left.

In order to realize the folly of the modern Carlylean heresy of work, it is necessary to realize fully how infinitely rich is Nature, and how generous, and consequently what a sacred duty as well as wise resolve it is that, before he 'returns unto the ground,' man should drink deeply while he may at the fountain of Life. Let it be enough for the Nature-worshipper to know that he, at least, has been blessed. Suppose he were to preach in London or Paris or New York against this b.a.s.t.a.r.d civilization, and expatiate on Nature's largess, of which it robs us? Suppose he were to say to people to whom opinion is the breath of life, 'What is it that this civilization of yours can give you by way of compensation for that of which it robs you? Is it your art? Is it your literature? Is it your music? Is it your science?' Suppose, for instance, he were to say to the collector of Claudes, or Turners, or David c.o.xes: 'Your possessions are precious undoubtedly, but what are even they when set against the tamest and quietest sunrise, in the tamest and quietest district of Cambridge or Lincoln, in this tame and quiet month, when, over the treeless flat you may see, and for nothing, purple bar after purple bar trembling along the grey, as the cows lift up their heads from the sheet of silver mist in which they are lying? How can you really enjoy your Turners, you who have never seen a sunrise in your lives?'

Or suppose he were to say to the opera-goer: 'Those notes of your favourite soprano were superb indeed; and superb they ought to be to keep you in the opera-house on a June night, when all over the south of England a thousand thickets, warm with the perfumed breath of the summer night, are musical with the gurgle of the nightingales.'

Th.o.r.eau preached after this fashion, and was deservedly laughed at for his pains.

Yet it is not a little singular that this heresy of the sacredness of work should be most flourishing at the very time when the sophism on which it was originally built is exploded; the sophism, we mean, that Nature herself is the result of Work, whereas she is the result of growth. One would have thought that this was the very time for recognizing what the sophism had blinded us to, that Nature's permanent temper-whatever may be said of this or that mood of hers-is the temper of Sport, that her pet abhorrence, which is said to be a vacuum, is really Work. We see this clearly enough in what are called the lower animals-whether it be a tiger or a gazelle, a ferret or a coney, a bat or a b.u.t.terfly-the final cause of the existence of every conscious thing is that it should sport. It has no other use than that. For this end it was that 'the great Vishnu yearned to create a world.' Yet over the toiling and moiling world sits Moloch Work; while those whose hearts are withering up with hatred of him are told by certain writers to fall down before him and pretend to love.

The worker of the mischief is, of course, civilization in excess, or rather, civilization in wrong directions. For this word, too, has to be newly defined in the Dictionary before mentioned, where you will find it thus given:-Civilization: a widening and enriching of human life. b.a.s.t.a.r.d or Modern Western Civilization: the art of inventing fict.i.tious wants and working to supply them. In b.a.s.t.a.r.d civilization life becomes poorer and poorer, paltrier and paltrier, till at last life goes out of fashion altogether, and is supplanted by work. True freedom is more remote from us than ever. For modern Freedom is thus defined: the exchange of the slavery of feudality for the slavery of opinion. Th.o.r.eau realized this, and tried to preach men back to common-sense and Nature. Here was his mistake-in trying to preach.

No man ever yet had the Nature-instinct preached into him."

Chapter VII EAST ANGLIA

WHATEVER may have been those experiences with the gryengroes which made Groome, when speaking of the gypsies of 'Aylwin,' say 'the author writes only of what he knows,' it seems to have been after his intercourse with the gypsies that he and a younger brother, Alfred Eugene Watts (elsewhere described), were articled as solicitors to their father. His bent, however, was always towards literature, especially poetry, of which he had now written a great deal-indeed, the major part of the volume which was destined to lie unpublished for so many years. But before I deal with the most important period of Mr. Watts-Dunton's life-his life in London-it seems necessary to say a word or two about his visits to East Anglia, and especially to the Norfolk coast. There are some admirable remarks upon the East Coast in Mr. William Sharp's chapter on 'Aylwinland' in 'Literary Geography,' and he notes the way in which Rhona Boswell links it with Cowslip Land; but he does not give examples of the poems which thus link it, such as the double roundel called 'The Golden Hand.'

THE GOLDEN HAND {73a}

PERCY

Do you forget that day on Rington strand When, near the crumbling ruin's parapet, I saw you stand beside the long-sh.o.r.e net The gorgios spread to dry on sunlit sand?

RHONA

Do I forget?

PERCY

You wove the wood-flowers in a dewy band Around your hair which shone as black as jet: No fairy's crown of bloom was ever set Round brows so sweet as those the wood-flowers spanned.

I see that picture now; hair dewy-wet: Dark eyes that pictures in the sky expand: Love-lips (with one tattoo 'for dukkerin' {73b}) tanned By sunny winds that kiss them as you stand.

RHONA

Do I forget?

The Golden Hand shone there: it's you forget, Or p'raps us Romanies ondly understand The way the Lover's Dukkeripen is planned Which shone that second time when us two met.

PERCY

Blest 'Golden Hand'!

RHONA

The wind, that mixed the smell o' violet Wi' chirp o' bird, a-blowin' from the land Where my dear Mammy lies, said as it fanned My heart-like, 'Them 'ere tears makes Mammy fret.'

She loves to see her chavi {74} lookin' grand, So I made what you call'd a coronet, And in the front I put her amulet: She sent the Hand to show she sees me yet.

PERCY

Blest 'Golden Hand'!

In the same way that the velvety green of Hunts is seen in the verses I have already quoted, so the softer side of the inland scenery of East Anglia is described in the following lines, where also we find an exquisite use of the East Anglian fancy about the fairies and the foxglove bells.

At a waltz during certain Venetian revels after the liberation from the Austrian yoke, a forsaken lover stands and watches a lady whose child-love he had won in England:-

Has she forgotten for such halls as these The domes the angels built in holy times, When wings were ours in childhood's flowery climes To dance with b.u.t.terflies and golden bees?- Forgotten how the sunny-fingered breeze Shook out those English harebells' magic chimes On that child-wedding morn, 'neath English limes, 'Mid wild-flowers tall enough to kiss her knees?

The love that childhood cradled-girlhood nursed- Has she forgotten it for this dull play, Where far-off pigmies seem to waltz and sway Like dancers in a telescope reversed?

Or does not pallid Conscience come and say, 'Who sells her glory of beauty stands accursed'?

But was it this that bought her-this poor splendour That won her from her troth and wild-flower wreath Who 'cracked the foxglove bells' on Grayland Heath, Or played with playful winds that tried to bend her, Or, tripping through the deer-park, tall and slender, Answered the larks above, the crakes beneath, Or mocked, with glitter of laughing lips and teeth, When Love grew grave-to hide her soul's surrender?

Mr. Sharp has dwelt upon the striking way in which the scenery and atmosphere are rendered in 'Aylwin,' but this, as I think, is even more clearly seen in the poems. And in none of these is it seen so vividly as in that exhilarating poem, 'Gypsy Heather,' published in the 'Athenaeum,'

and not yet garnered in a volume. This poem also shows his lyrical power, which never seems to be at its very best unless he is depicting Romany life and Romany pa.s.sion. The metre of this poem is as original as that of 'The Gypsy Haymaking Song,' quoted in an earlier chapter. It has a swing like that of no other poem:-

GYPSY HEATHER

'If you breathe on a heather-spray and send it to your man it'll show him the selfsame heather where it wur born.'-SINFI LOVELL.

[Percy Aylwin, standing on the deck of the 'Petrel,' takes from his pocket a letter which, before he had set sail to return to the south seas, the Melbourne post had brought him-a letter from Rhona, staying then with the Boswells on a patch of heath much favoured by the Boswells, called 'Gypsy Heather.' He takes from the envelope a withered heather-spray, encircled by a little scroll of paper on which Rhona has written the words, 'Remember Gypsy Heather.']