We had a very pleasant day on the hill, but as the sports were all the same as those of the day before (with the exception of jumping in sacks, which was substituted for climbing the pole, and was very good fun), I shall not give any further account of them; especially as the gentlemen who are going to publish my story seem to think already that I am rather too long-winded.
We got down home in capital time for tea, and Joe followed very soon afterwards, in the highest spirits; for, as he said, every thing had gone off so well, and everybody was pleased and satisfied; so we were all very merry, and had another charming evening. I couldn’t tell what had come to me when I got up stairs alone by myself, for I seemed as if a new life were growing up in me, and I were getting all of a sudden into a much bigger world, full of all sorts of work and pleasure, which I had never dreamt of, and of people whom I could get to love and honour, though I might never see or speak to them.
I had been bred up from a child never to look beyond my own narrow sphere. To get on in it was the purpose of my life, and I had drilled myself into despising every thing which did not, as I thought, help towards this end. Near relations I had none. I was really fond of my two friends, but I don’t think I should ever have got to be friends with them if we hadn’t been in the same office; and I used often to be half provoked with them, and to think myself a very wise fellow, because out of office-hours they would read poetry and novels instead of fagging at shorthand or accounts, as I did, and spent all their salaries instead of saving. Except those two, I knew nobody; and though I belonged to a debating society, it wasn’t that I cared for the members, or what they talked about, but that I thought it might be useful to me to talk fluently if I got on in business. Sometimes, and especially in my yearly holidays, I had felt as if I wanted something else, and that my way of life was after all rather a one-eyed sort of business; but I set all such misgivings down as delusions, and had never allowed them long to trouble me. In short I begin to suspect that I must have been getting to be a very narrow, bigoted, disagreeable sort of fellow, and it was high time that I should find my way to Elm Close, or some such place, to have my eyes opened a little, and discover that a man may work just as steadily and honestly—aye, much more steadily and honestly—at his own business, without shutting up his brains and his heart against every thing else that is going on in the world around him. However, I can’t be too thankful that my teaching came to me in the way it did, for I might have had to learn my lesson in a very different school from Elm Close Farm.
There certainly never was such a pleasant school. For the next two or three days after ‘the Scouring,’ Mr. Warton was my chief companion. Joe and Miss Lucy both had their work to attend to after breakfast, and so the Parson and I were left a good deal together; and we used to start off to see some of the old men whom he had promised to show me, who could tell me about the old pastimes. I never liked any thing so much as these walks—not even the walks I afterwards used to have alone with Miss Lucy, for they were too exciting, and half the time I was in such a fret that I couldn’t thoroughly enjoy them. But there was no drawback in these walks with the Parson. He was full of fun, and of all sorts of knowledge; and he liked talking, and I think rather took a fancy to me, and was pleased to see how I worked at collecting all the information I could about the White Horse, for he took a great deal of pains to help me.
One morning though I remember he got me into a regular puzzle about King Alfred, for I had been reading over my notes of the old gentleman’s story, and couldn’t make it agree with the tales which I had read about Alfred’s hiding away in the cowherd’s hut, and burning the cakes. So I asked Mr. Warton about it.
“I think,” said he, “you will find that Alfred was in the cowherd’s cottage in the year 878, after the battle at Chippenham.”
“But, Sir,” said I, “according to the old gentleman’s story, Ashdown was Alfred’s greatest victory; and Ashdown was fought in 871. Now it seems very odd that he should have to run away and skulk about in such places after that.”
“Well,” said he, “I’m not well enough up in the history to explain it to you, but I’m pretty sure you’ll find I’m right about the dates—why shouldn’t you write and ask the old gentleman?”
So I did, and I kept a copy of my letter; but I don’t think I need print that, because his answer will be quite enough without it. Here it is:—
“22d September, 1857.