project was duly executed. It was not late when he arrived at the place of outlook, only just after dusk, but a black north-east sky, accompanied by a wind from the same quarter, made the occasion dark enough. He was rewarded; but what he saw was not the lamps in rows, as he had half expected. No individual light was visible, only a halo or glow-fog over-arching the place against the black heavens behind it, making the light and the city seem distant but a mile or so.
He set himself to wonder on the exact point in the glow where the schoolmaster might be — he who never communicated with anybody at Marygreen now; who was as if dead to them here. In the glow he seemed to see Phillotson promenading at ease, like one of the forms in Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace.
He had heard that breezes travelled at the rate of ten miles an hour, and the fact now came into his mind. He parted his lips as he faced the north-east, and drew in the wind as if it were a sweet liquor.
“You,” he said, addressing the breeze caressingly “were in Christminster city between one and two hours ago, floating along the streets, pulling round the weather-cocks, touching Mr. Phillotson’s face, being breathed by him; and now you are here, breathed by me — you, the very same.”
Suddenly there came along this wind something towards him — a message from the place — from some soul residing there, it seemed. Surely it was the sound of bells, the voice of the city, faint and musical, calling to him, “We are happy here!”
He had become entirely lost to his bodily situation during this mental leap, and only got back to it by a rough recalling. A few yards below the brow of the hill on which he paused a team of horses made its appearance, having reached the place by dint of half an hour’s serpentine progress from the bottom of the immense declivity. They had a load of coals behind them — a fuel that could only be got into the upland by this particular route. They were accompanied by a carter, a second man, and a boy, who now kicked a large stone behind one of the wheels, and allowed the panting animals to have a long rest, while those in charge took a flagon off the load and indulged in a drink round.
They were elderly men, and had genial voices. Jude addressed them, inquiring if they had come from Christminster.
“Heaven forbid, with this load!” said they.
“The place I mean is that one yonder.” He was getting so romantically attached to Christminster that, like a young lover alluding to his mistress, he felt bashful at mentioning its name again. He pointed to the light in the sky — hardly perceptible to their older eyes.
“Yes. There do seem a spot a bit brighter in the nor’-east than elsewhere, though I shouldn’t ha’ noticed it myself, and no doubt it med be Christminster.”
Here a little book of tales which Jude had tucked up under his arm, having brought them to read on his way hither before it grew dark, slipped and fell into the road. The carter eyed him while he picked it up and straightened the leaves.
“Ah, young man,” he observed, “you’d have to get your head screwed on t’other way before you could read what they read there.”
“Why?” asked the boy.
“Oh, they never look at anything that folks like we can understand,” the carter continued, by way of passing the time. “On’y foreign tongues used in the days of the Tower of Babel, when no two families spoke alike. They read that sort of thing as fast as a night-hawk will whir. ’Tis all learning there — nothing but learning, except religion. And that’s learning too, for I never could understand it. Yes, ’tis a serious-minded place. Not but there’s wenches in the streets o’ nights. . . . You know, I suppose, that they raise pa’sons there like radishes in a bed? And though it do take — how many years, Bob? — five years to turn a lirruping hobble-de-hoy chap into a solemn preaching man with no corrupt passions, they’ll do it, if it can be done, and polish un off like the workmen they be, and turn un out wi’ a long face, and a long black coat and waistcoat, and a religious collar and hat, same as they used to wear in the Scriptures, so that his own mother wouldn’t know un sometimes. . . . There, ’tis their business, like anybody else’s.”
“But how should you know”
“Now don’t you interrupt, my boy. Never interrupt your senyers. Move the fore hoss aside, Bobby; here’s som’at coming. . . . You must mind that I be a-talking of the college life. ‘Em lives on a lofty level; there’s no gainsaying it, though I myself med not think much of ’em. As we be here in our bodies on this high ground, so be they in their minds — noble-minded men enough, no doubt — some on ’em — able to earn hundreds by thinking out loud. And some on ’em be strong young fellows that can earn a’most as much in silver cups. As for music, there’s beautiful music everywhere in Christminster. You med be religious, or you med not, but you can’t help striking in your homely note with the rest. And there’s a street in the place — the main street — that ha’n’t another like it in the world. I should think I did know a little about Christminster!”
By this time the horses had recovered breath and bent to their collars again. Jude, throwing a last adoring look at the distant halo, turned and walked beside his remarkably well-informed friend, who had no objection to telling him as they moved on more yet of the city — its towers and halls and churches. The waggon turned into a cross-road, whereupon Jude thanked the carter warmly for his information, and said he only wished he could talk half as well about Christminster as he.
“Well, ’tis oonly what has come in my way,” said the carter unboastfully. “I’ve never been there, no more than you; but I’ve picked up the knowledge here and there, and you be welcome to it. A-getting about the world as I do, and mixing with all classes of society, one can’t help hearing of things. A friend o’ mine, that used to clane the boots at the Crozier Hotel in Christminster when he was in his prime, why, I knowed un as well as my own brother in his later years.”
Jude continued his walk homeward alone, pondering so deeply that he forgot to feel timid. He suddenly grew older. It had been the yearning of his heart to find something to anchor on, to cling to — for some place which he could call admirable. Should he find that place in this city if he could get there? Would it be a spot in which, without fear of farmers, or hindrance, or ridicule, he could watch and wait, and set himself to some mighty undertaking like the men of old of whom he had heard? As the halo had been to his eyes when gazing at it a quarter of an hour earlier, so was the spot mentally to him as he pursued his dark way.
“It is a city of light,” he said to himself.
“The tree of knowledge grows there,” he added a few steps further on.
“It is a place that teachers of men spring from and go to.”
“It is what you may call a castle, manned by scholarship and religion.”
After this figure he was silent a long while, till he added:
“It would just suit me.”
CHAPTER 4
WALKING somewhat slowly by reason of his concentration, the boy — an ancient man in some phases of thought, much younger than his years in others — was overtaken by a light-footed pedestrian, whom, notwithstanding the gloom, he could perceive to be wearing an extraordinarily tall hat, a swallow-tailed coat, and a watch-chain that danced madly and threw around scintillations of sky-light as its owner
