Springhaven

Springhaven

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Springhaven, by R. D. Blackmore #4
in our series by R. D. Blackmore
Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.
This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.
Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how
the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.
**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since
1971**
*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of
Volunteers!*****
Title: Springhaven A Tale of the Great War
Author: R. D. Blackmore
Release Date: February, 2005 [EBook #7435] [Yes, we are more than
one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on April 30,
2003]
Edition: 10

Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK
SPRINGHAVEN ***

Produced by Don Lainson

SPRINGHAVEN:
A Tale of the Great War
BY
R. D. BLACKMORE (1825-1900)
1887

CHAPTER I
WHEN THE SHIP COMES HOME
In the days when England trusted mainly to the vigor and valor of one
man, against a world of enemies, no part of her coast was in greater
peril than the fair vale of Springhaven. But lying to the west of the
narrow seas, and the shouts both of menace and vigilance, the quiet
little village in the tranquil valley forbore to be uneasy.
For the nature of the place and race, since time has outlived memory,
continually has been, and must be, to let the world pass easily. Little to
talk of, and nothing to do, is the healthy condition of mankind just there.
To all who love repose and shelter, freedom from the cares of money
and the cark of fashion, and (in lieu of these) refreshing air, bright
water, and green country, there is scarcely any valley left to compare
with that of Springhaven. This valley does not interrupt the land, but
comes in as a pleasant relief to it. No glaring chalk, no grim sandstone,
no rugged flint, outface it; but deep rich meadows, and foliage thick,
and cool arcades of ancient trees, defy the noise that men make. And
above the trees, in shelving distance, rise the crests of upland, a soft

gray lias, where orchards thrive, and greensward strokes down the rigor
of the rocks, and quick rills lace the bosom of the slope with tags of
twisted silver.
In the murmur of the valley twenty little waters meet, and discoursing
their way to the sea, give name to the bay that receives them and the
anchorage they make. And here no muddy harbor reeks, no foul mouth
of rat-haunted drains, no slimy and scraggy wall runs out, to mar the
meeting of sweet and salt. With one or two mooring posts to watch it,
and a course of stepping- stones, the brook slides into the peaceful bay,
and is lost in larger waters. Even so, however, it is kindly still, for it
forms a tranquil haven.
Because, where the ruffle of the land stream merges into the heavier
disquietude of sea, slopes of shell sand and white gravel give welcome
pillow to the weary keel. No southerly tempest smites the bark, no long
groundswell upheaves her; for a bold point, known as the
"Haven-head," baffles the storm in the offing, while the bulky rollers of
a strong spring-tide, that need no wind to urge them, are broken by the
shifting of the shore into a tier of white- frilled steps. So the
deep-waisted smacks that fish for many generations, and even the
famous "London trader" (a schooner of five-and-forty tons), have rest
from their labors, whenever they wish or whenever they can afford it,
in the arms of the land, and the mouth of the water, and under the eyes
of Springhaven.
At the corner of the wall, where the brook comes down, and pebble
turns into shingle, there has always been a good white gate, respected
(as a white gate always is) from its strong declaration of purpose.
Outside of it, things may belong to the Crown, the Admiralty, Manor,
or Trinity Brethren, or perhaps the sea itself-- according to the latest
ebb or flow of the fickle tide of Law Courts--but inside that gate
everything belongs to the fine old family of Darling.
Concerning the origin of these Darlings