In a Green Shade | Page 4

that they are not happy now. They hate too many people, they
pant and toil after the wrong things; they serve false gods and forget the
true ones. That is what we think about it in the country; and I am of the
country's opinion.
We need, it seems to me, many things--religion, love, work,
seriousness and so on; but what we need most of all, as I believe, is to
wash our hands. For five years they have been groping and wrenching
in the vitals of other people. They are foul and we are still drunk with
the reek. In God's name, let us wash and then we can begin to build up
the world again. We see the need of that out in the country, but so far as
I can judge by what I read or have seen of London, there's no notion of
it there.
But there's not much about London in this book.

CHANGE AND THE PEASANTRY
A book which I shall never willingly be without, one of my minor
classics, is Idlehurst. Published in 1898, its author John Halsham, it has
a touch upon country things, the penetrating, pitiful and tant soit peu
condescending touch upon them of one who is both scholar and recluse,
fastidious but discerning. He reads our earth, cloudscape, landscape,
season, foison, man and beast of the field, with the same wistfulness
which women who have known sorrow exhibit for children who have
not. Reading him again, however, last night, after the long interval of
fever and unrest which the war has enforced, I found his pessimism
troublesome. Sussex, so far as I know it, is not so degenerate as he
seems to have found it; and surely since the war began he must have
changed his mind. It is hard to remember 1898, or 1913 for that matter,
but I happen to know that Sussex emptied itself of its young manhood,
and voluntarily, because I went to live there for a while in 1915 and
found the village of my choice bare of youth. But that was West Sussex,
and John Halsham lives nearer London, in the forest region, as I judge,
which is a part of the country overflowed and become suburban. I don't
doubt but complete cockneyfication will be the ultimate fate of that
country of deep loam and handsome women before many years are
over. Going down to my village from London, I could not feel that I

was in the country until I had passed Pulborough; and further east the
same would hold good to Lewes.
But when Mr Halsham in his bitterness cries out that "the town has
overflowed the country," meaning the whole country, and that "we are
cockney from sea to sea," he is being tragic at the cost of truth. Would
he drag Wiltshire and all the pastoral West into his turmoil? You may
go about any of the villages here, watch the daily doings of the
inhabitants, and feel confident that, practically, there has been no
substantial change since the Norman Conquest. The "feeling" of the
scene is the same as it always was, the outlook of the people, their habit
of mind, is the same. The one apparent difference is in religion, and
that is not a difference of substance but of accident. We have forgotten
the Madonna and the Saints, who were taken away from us by violence.
We still go to church, but they are not there any more. They were
expelled with a fork: one Cromwell but completed what another began.
And now it is late in the day: they can never be brought back. "Vestigia
nulla" is true of religion as of every other human affair. But it was not
them we worshipped. Rather it was what they stood for--which
endures.
All this leads me away from John Halsham and Idlehurst. A good
antidote to his extreme depression is to be found in another beautiful
book which, if not a classic, will become one. I mean _A Shepherd's
Life_, wherein Mr. Hudson reveals the very heart of pastoral Wilts. I
went right through it only the other day, journeying from Sarum to
Trowbridge on county business--Wishford, Wylye, Codford,
Heytesbury, and so on to Melksham and Westbury--names which to us
are symphonies. No change from the sempiternal round of country
labour in those quiet hollows, though it is true that you saw soldiers in
buff unloading railway trucks, and that the valley was lined with their
wooden hutments. Soldiers, indeed, we have known ever since the
Norman Conquest; but the country is bigger than they are, and they fall
into its ways even as their huts fade into the shadows cast by its
everlasting hills. Mr. Hudson, by the way, does not seem to have
encountered