News from Nowhere; Or, An Epoch of Rest<br />Being Some Chapters from a Utopian Romance by William Morris (best reads txt) 📗

on, I hope, we may have some more talk together, when our friend Dick isn’t here.  I know he thinks me rather a grinder, and despises me for not being very deft with my hands: that’s the way nowadays.  From what I have read of the nineteenth century literature (and I have read a good deal), it is clear to me that this is a kind of revenge for the stupidity of that day, which despised everybody who could use his hands.  But Dick, old fellow, Ne quid nimis!  Don’t overdo it!”

“Come now,” said Dick, “am I likely to?  Am I not the most tolerant man in the world?  Am I not quite contented so long as you don’t make me learn mathematics, or go into your new science of æsthetics, and let me do a little practical æsthetics with my gold and steel, and the blowpipe and the nice little hammer?  But, hillo! here comes another questioner for you, my poor guest.  I say, Bob, you must help me to defend him now.”

“Here, Boffin,” he cried out, after a pause; “here we are, if you must have it!”

I looked over my shoulder, and saw something flash and gleam in the sunlight that lay across the hall; so I turned round, and at my ease saw a splendid figure slowly sauntering over the pavement; a man whose surcoat was embroidered most copiously as well as elegantly, so that the sun flashed back from him as if he had been clad in golden armour.  The man himself was tall, dark-haired, and exceedingly handsome, and though his face was no less kindly in expression than that of the others, he moved with that somewhat haughty mien which great beauty is apt to give to both men and women.  He came and sat down at our table with a smiling face, stretching out his long legs and hanging his arm over the chair in the slowly graceful way which tall and well-built people may use without affectation.  He was a man in the prime of life, but looked as happy as a child who has just got a new toy.  He bowed gracefully to me and said—

“I see clearly that you are the guest, of whom Annie has just told me, who have come from some distant country that does not know of us, or our ways of life.  So I daresay you would not mind answering me a few questions; for you see—”

Here Dick broke in: “No, please, Boffin! let it alone for the present.  Of course you want the guest to be happy and comfortable; and how can that be if he has to trouble himself with answering all sorts of questions while he is still confused with the new customs and people about him?  No, no: I am going to take him where he can ask questions himself, and have them answered; that is, to my great-grandfather in Bloomsbury: and I am sure you can’t have anything to say against that.  So instead of bothering, you had much better go out to James Allen’s and get a carriage for me, as I shall drive him up myself; and please tell Jim to let me have the old grey, for I can drive a wherry much better than a carriage.  Jump up, old fellow, and don’t be disappointed; our guest will keep himself for you and your stories.”

I stared at Dick; for I wondered at his speaking to such a dignified-looking personage so familiarly, not to say curtly; for I thought that this Mr. Boffin, in spite of his well-known name out of Dickens, must be at the least a senator of these strange people.  However, he got up and said, “All right, old oar-wearer, whatever you like; this is not one of my busy days; and though” (with a condescending bow to me) “my pleasure of a talk with this learned guest is put off, I admit that he ought to see your worthy kinsman as soon as possible.  Besides, perhaps he will be the better able to answer my questions after his own have been answered.”

And therewith he turned and swung himself out of the hall.

When he was well gone, I said: “Is it wrong to ask what Mr. Boffin is? whose name, by the way, reminds me of many pleasant hours passed in reading Dickens.”

Dick laughed.  “Yes, yes,” said he, “as it does us.  I see you take the allusion.  Of course his real name is not Boffin, but Henry Johnson; we only call him Boffin as a joke, partly because he is a dustman, and partly because he will dress so showily, and get as much gold on him as a baron of the Middle Ages.  As why should he not if he likes? only we are his special friends, you know, so of course we jest with him.”

I held my tongue for some time after that; but Dick went on:

“He is a capital fellow, and you can’t help liking him; but he has a weakness: he will spend his time in writing reactionary novels, and is very proud of getting the local colour right, as he calls it; and as he thinks you come from some forgotten corner of the earth, where people are unhappy, and consequently interesting to a story-teller, he thinks he might get some information out of you.  O, he will be quite straightforward with you, for that matter.  Only for your own comfort beware of him!”

“Well, Dick,” said the weaver, doggedly, “I think his novels are very good.”

“Of course you do,” said Dick; “birds of a feather flock together; mathematics and antiquarian novels stand on much the same footing.  But here he comes again.”

And in effect the Golden Dustman hailed us from the hall-door; so we all got up and went into the porch, before which, with a strong grey horse in the shafts, stood a carriage ready for us which I could not help noticing.  It was light and handy, but had none of that sickening vulgarity which I had known as inseparable from the carriages of our time, especially the “elegant” ones, but was as graceful and pleasant in line as a Wessex waggon.  We got in, Dick and I.  The girls, who had come into the porch to see us off, waved their hands to us; the weaver nodded kindly; the dustman bowed as gracefully as a troubadour; Dick shook the reins, and we were off.

CHAPTER IV: A MARKET BY THE WAY

We turned away from the river at once, and were soon in the main road that runs through Hammersmith.  But I should have had no guess as to where I was, if I had not started from the waterside; for King Street was gone, and the highway ran through wide sunny meadows and garden-like tillage.  The Creek, which we crossed at once, had been rescued from its culvert, and as we went over its pretty bridge we saw its waters, yet swollen by the tide, covered with gay boats of different sizes.  There were houses about, some on the road, some amongst the fields with pleasant lanes leading down to them, and each surrounded by a teeming garden.  They were all pretty in design, and as solid as might be, but countryfied in appearance, like yeomen’s dwellings; some of them of red brick like those by the river, but more of timber and plaster, which were by the necessity of their construction so like mediæval houses of the same materials that I fairly felt as if I were alive in the fourteenth century; a sensation helped out by the costume of the people that we met or passed, in whose dress there was nothing “modern.”  Almost everybody was gaily dressed, but especially the women, who were so well-looking, or even so handsome, that I could scarcely refrain my tongue from calling my companion’s attention to the fact.  Some faces I saw that were thoughtful, and in these I noticed great nobility of expression, but none that had a glimmer of unhappiness, and the greater part (we came upon a good many people) were frankly and openly joyous.

I thought I knew the Broadway by the lie of the roads that still met there.  On the north side of the road was a range of buildings and courts, low, but very handsomely built and ornamented, and in that way forming a great contrast to the unpretentiousness of the houses round about; while above this lower building rose the steep lead-covered roof and the buttresses and higher part of the wall of a great hall, of a splendid and exuberant style of architecture, of which one can say little more than that it seemed to me to embrace the best qualities of the Gothic of northern Europe with those of the Saracenic and Byzantine, though there was no copying of any one of these styles.  On the other, the south side, of the road was an octagonal building with a high roof, not unlike the Baptistry at Florence in outline, except that it was surrounded by a lean-to that clearly made an arcade or cloisters to it: it also was most delicately ornamented.

This whole mass of architecture which we had come upon so suddenly from amidst the pleasant fields was not only exquisitely beautiful in itself, but it bore upon it the expression of such generosity and abundance of life that I was exhilarated to a pitch that I had never yet reached.  I fairly chuckled for pleasure.  My friend seemed to understand it, and sat looking on me with a pleased and affectionate interest.  We had pulled up amongst a crowd of carts, wherein sat handsome healthy-looking people, men, women, and children very gaily dressed, and which were clearly market carts, as they were full of very tempting-looking country produce.

I said, “I need not ask if this is a market, for I see clearly that it is; but what market is it that it is so splendid?  And what is the glorious hall there, and what is the building on the south side?”

“O,” said he, “it is just our Hammersmith market; and I am glad you like it so much, for we are really proud of it.  Of course the hall inside is our winter Mote-House; for in summer we mostly meet in the fields down by the river opposite Barn Elms.  The building on our right hand is our theatre: I hope you like it.”

“I should be a fool if I didn’t,” said I.

He blushed a little as he said: “I am glad of that, too, because I had a hand in it; I made the great doors, which are of damascened bronze.  We will look at them later in the day, perhaps: but we ought to be getting on now.  As to the market, this is not one of our busy days; so we shall do better with it another time, because you will see more people.”

I thanked him, and said: “Are these the regular country people?  What very pretty girls there are amongst them.”

As I spoke, my eye caught the face of a beautiful woman, tall, dark-haired, and white-skinned, dressed in a pretty light-green dress in honour of the season and the hot day, who smiled kindly on me, and more kindly still, I thought on Dick; so I stopped a minute, but presently went on:

“I ask because I do not see any of the country-looking people I should have expected to see at a market—I mean selling things there.”

“I don’t understand,” said he, “what kind of people you would expect to see; nor quite what you mean by ‘country’ people.  These are the neighbours, and that like they run in the Thames valley.  There are parts of these islands which are rougher and rainier than we are here, and there people are rougher in their dress; and they themselves are tougher and more hard-bitten than we are to look at.  But some people like their looks better than ours; they say they have more character in them—that’s the word.  Well, it’s a matter of taste.—Anyhow, the cross between us and them generally turns out well,” added he, thoughtfully.

I heard him, though my eyes were turned away from him, for that pretty girl was just disappearing through the gate with her big basket of early peas, and I felt that disappointed kind of feeling which overtakes one when one has seen an interesting or lovely face in the streets which one is never likely to see again; and I was silent a little.  At last I said: “What I mean is, that I haven’t seen any poor people about—not one.”

He knit his brows, looked puzzled, and said: “No, naturally; if anybody is poorly, he is likely to be within doors, or at best crawling about the garden: but I don’t know of any one sick at present.  Why should you expect to see poorly people on the road?”

“No, no,” I said; “I don’t mean sick people.  I mean poor people, you know; rough people.”

“No,” said he, smiling merrily, “I really do not know.  The fact is, you must