A Miscellany of Men | Page 4

still and yet bracing, that I had
met somewhere in literature. There was poetry in it as well as piety;
and yet it was not poetry after my particular taste. It was somehow at
once solid and airy. Then I remembered that it was the atmosphere in
some of Wordsworth's rural poems; which are full of genuine freshness
and wonder, and yet are in some incurable way commonplace. This was

curious; for Wordsworth's men were of the rocks and fells, and not of
the fenlands or flats. But perhaps it is the clearness of still water and
the mirrored skies of meres and pools that produces this crystalline
virtue. Perhaps that is why Wordsworth is called a Lake Poet instead of
a mountain poet. Perhaps it is the water that does it. Certainly the
whole of that town was like a cup of water given at morning.
After a few sentences exchanged at long intervals in the manner of
rustic courtesy, I inquired casually what was the name of the town. The
old lady answered that its name was Stilton, and composedly continued
her needlework. But I had paused with my mug in air, and was gazing
at her with a suddenly arrested concern. "I suppose," I said, "that it has
nothing to do with the cheese of that name." "Oh, yes," she answered,
with a staggering indifference, "they used to make it here."
I put down my mug with a gravity far greater than her own. "But this
place is a Shrine!" I said. "Pilgrims should be pouring into it from
wherever the English legend has endured alive. There ought to be a
colossal statue in the market-place of the man who invented Stilton
cheese. There ought to be another colossal statue of the first cow who
provided the foundations of it. There should be a burnished tablet let
into the ground on the spot where some courageous man first ate Stilton
cheese, and survived. On the top of a neighbouring hill (if there are any
neighbouring hills) there should be a huge model of a Stilton cheese,
made of some rich green marble and engraven with some haughty
motto: I suggest something like 'Ver non semper viret; sed Stiltonia
semper virescit.'" The old lady said, "Yes, sir," and continued her
domestic occupations.
After a strained and emotional silence, I said, "If I take a meal here
tonight can you give me any Stilton?"
"No, sir; I'm afraid we haven't got any Stilton," said the immovable one,
speaking as if it were something thousands of miles away.
"This is awful," I said: for it seemed to me a strange allegory of
England as she is now; this little town that had lost its glory; and
forgotten, so to speak, the meaning of its own name. And I thought it

yet more symbolic because from all that old and full and virile life, the
great cheese was gone; and only the beer remained. And even that will
be stolen by the Liberals or adulterated by the Conservatives. Politely
disengaging myself, I made my way as quickly as possible to the
nearest large, noisy, and nasty town in that neighbourhood, where I
sought out the nearest vulgar, tawdry, and avaricious restaurant.
There (after trifling with beef, mutton, puddings, pies, and so on) I got
a Stilton cheese. I was so much moved by my memories that I wrote a
sonnet to the cheese. Some critical friends have hinted to me that my
sonnet is not strictly new; that it contains "echoes" (as they express it)
of some other poem that they have read somewhere. Here, at least, are
the lines I wrote :
SONNET TO A STILTON CHEESE
Stilton, thou shouldst be living at this hour And so thou art. Nor losest
grace thereby; England has need of thee, and so have I-- She is a Fen.
Far as the eye can scour, League after grassy league from Lincoln
tower To Stilton in the fields, she is a Fen. Yet this high cheese, by
choice of fenland men, Like a tall green volcano rose in power.
Plain living and long drinking are no more, And pure religion reading
'Household Words', And sturdy manhood sitting still all day Shrink,
like this cheese that crumbles to its core; While my digestion, like the
House of Lords, The heaviest burdens on herself doth lay.
I confess I feel myself as if some literary influence, something that has
haunted me, were present in this otherwise original poem; but it is
hopeless to disentangle it now.

THE THING
The wind awoke last night with so noble a violence that it was like the
war in heaven; and I thought for a moment that the Thing had broken
free. For wind never seems like empty air. Wind always