her name in simple fondness of the name; a verse, and hints for more, and some sentences, which he thought profound. They were composed as he sat by the roadway, on the top of hills, and in a boat crossing a dark green lake deep under wooded mountain walls: things of priceless value.
It happened, that midway on the lake he perceived his boatman about to prime a pistol to murder the mild-eyed stillness, and he called to the man in his best German to desist. During the altercation, there passed a countryman of his in another of the punts, who said gravely: ‘I thank you for that.’ It was early morning, and they had the lake to themselves, each deeming the other an intruder; for the courtship of solitude wanes when we are haunted by a second person in pursuit of it; he is discolouring matter in our pure crystal cup. Such is the worship of the picturesque; and it would appear to say, that the spirit of man finds itself yet in the society of barbarians. The case admits of good pleading either way, even upon the issue whether the exclusive or the vulgar be the more barbarous. But in those days the solicitation of the picturesque had been revived by a poet of some impassioned rhetoric, and two devotees could hardly meet, as the two met here, and not be mutually obscurants.
They stepped ashore in turn on the same small shoot of land where a farm-house near a chapel in the shadow of cliffs did occasional service for an inn. Each had intended to pass a day and a night in this lonely dwelling-place by the lake, but a rival was less to be tolerated there than in love, and each awaited the other’s departure, with an air that said: ‘You are in my sunlight’; and going deeper, more sternly: ‘Sir, you are an offence to Nature’s pudency!’
Woodseer was the more placable of the two; he had taken possession of the bench outside, and he had his note-book and much profundity to haul up with it while fish were frying. His countryman had rushed inside to avoid him, and remained there pacing the chamber like a lion newly caged. Their boatmen were brotherly in the anticipation of provision and payment.
After eating his fish, Woodseer decided abruptly, that as he could not have the spot to himself, memorable as it would have been to intermarry with Nature in so sacred a welldepth of the mountains, he had better be walking and climbing. Another boat paddling up the lake had been spied: solitude was not merely shared with a rival, but violated by numbers. In the first case, we detest the man; in the second, we fly from an outraged scene. He wrote a line or so in his book, hurriedly paid his bill, and started, full of the matter he had briefly committed to his pages.
At noon, sitting beside the beck that runs from the lake, he was overtaken by the gentleman he had left behind, and accosted in the informal English style, with all the politeness possible to a nervously blunt manner: ‘This book is yours—I have no doubt it is yours; I am glad to be able to restore it; I should be glad to be the owner-writer of the contents, I mean. I have to beg your excuse; I found it lying open; I looked at the page, I looked through the whole; I am quite at your mercy.’
Woodseer jumped at the sight of his note-book, felt for the emptiness of his pocket, and replied: ‘Thank you, thank you. It’s of use to me, though to no one else.’
‘You pardon me?’
‘Certainly. I should have done it myself.’
‘I cannot offer you my apologies as a stranger.’ Lord Fleetwood was the name given.
Woodseer’s plebeian was exchanged for it, and he stood up.
The young lord had fair, straight, thin features, with large restless eyes that lighted quickly, and a mouth that was winning in his present colloquial mood.
‘You could have done the same? I should find it hard to forgive the man who pried into my secret thoughts,’ he remarked.
‘There they are. If one puts them to paper! …’ Woodseer shrugged.
‘Yes, yes. They never last long enough with me. So far I’m safe. One page led to another. You can meditate. I noticed some remarks on Religions. You think deeply.’
Woodseer was of that opinion, but modesty urged him to reply with a small flourish. ‘Just a few heads of ideas. When the wind puffs down a sooty chimney the air is filled with little blacks that settle pretty much like the notes in this book of mine. There they wait for another puff, or my fingers to stamp them.’
‘I could tell you were the owner of that book,’ said Lord Fleetwood. He swept his forehead feverishly. ‘What a power it is to relieve one’s brain by writing! May I ask you, which one of the Universities … ?’
The burden of this question had a ring of irony to one whom it taught to feel rather defiantly, that he carried the blazon of a reeking tramp. ‘My University,’ Woodseer replied, ‘was a merchant’s office in Bremen for some months. I learnt more Greek and Latin in Bremen than business. I was invalided home, and then tried a merchant’s office in London. I put on my hat one day, and walked into the country. My College fellows were hawkers, tinkers, tramps and ploughmen, choughs and crows. A volume of our Poets and a History of Philosophy composed my library. I had scarce any money, so I learnt how to idle inexpensively—a good first lesson. We’re at the bottom of the world when we take to the road; we see men as they were in the beginning—not so eager for harness till they get acquainted with hunger, as I did, and studied in myself the old animal having his head pushed into the collar to earn a feed of corn.’
Woodseer laughed, adding, that he had been of a serious mind in those days of the alternation of smooth indifference and sharp necessity, and he had plucked a flower from them.
His nature prompted him to speak of himself with simple candour, as he had done spontaneously to Chillon Kirby, yet he was now anxious to let his companion know at once the common stuff he was made of, together with the great stuff he contained. He grew conscious of an over-anxiety, and was uneasy, recollecting how he had just spoken about his naturalness, dimly if at all apprehending the cause of this disturbance within. What is a lord to a philosopher! But the world is around us as a cloak, if not a coat; in his ignorance he supposed it specially due to a lord seeking acquaintance with him, that he should expose his condition: doing the which appeared to subject him to parade his intellectual treasures and capacity for shaping sentences; and the effect upon Lord Fleetwood was an incentive to the display. Nevertheless he had a fretful desire to escape from the discomposing society of a lord; he fixed his knapsack and began to saunter.
The young lord was at his elbow. ‘I can’t part with you. Will you allow me?’
Woodseer was puzzled and had to say: ‘If you wish it.’
‘I do wish it: an hour’s walk with you. One does not meet a man like you every day. I have to join a circle of mine in Baden, but there’s no hurry; I could be disengaged for a week. And I have things to ask you, owing to my indiscretion—but you have excused it.’
Woodseer turned for a farewell gaze at the great Watzmann, and saluted him.
‘Splendid,’ said Lord Fleetwood; ‘but don’t clap names on the mountains.—I saw written in your book: “A text for Dada.” You write: “A despotism would procure a perfect solitude, but kill the ghost.” That was my thought at the place where we were at the lake. I had it. Tell me—though I could not have written it, and “ghost” is just the word, the exact word—tell me, are you of Welsh blood? “Dad” is good Welsh—pronounce it hard.’
Woodseer answered: ‘My mother was a Glamorganshire woman. My father, I know, walked up from Wales, mending boots on his road for a livelihood. He is not a bad scholar, he knows Greek enough to like it. He is a Dissenting preacher. When I strike a truism, I ‘ve a habit of scoring it to give him a peg or tuning-fork for one of his discourses. He’s
