| | Introductory paragraph by Christoper Morley, written in 1921 to the book Modern Essays, available online at Bartleby.com: We
have not had in our time a more natural-born essayist, of the
scampering sort, than Hilaire Belloc. He is an infectious fellow: if you
read him much you will find yourself trying to imitate him; there is no
harm in doing so: he himself caught the trick from Rabelais. I do not
propose to rehash here the essay I wrote about him in a book called Shandygaff.
You can refer to it there, which will be good business all round. I
know it is a worthy essay, for much of it was cribbed from an article by
Mr. Thomas Seccombe, which an American paper lifted from the English
journal which, presumably, paid Mr. Seccombe for it. I wrote it for the
Boston Transcript, where I knew the theft would be undetected;
and in shoveling together some stuff for a book (that was in 1917, the
cost of living was rising at an angle of forty-five degrees, as so many
graphs have shown) I put it in, forgetting (until too late) that some of
it was absolute plunder. |
| Mr. Chesterton once said something like this: “It is a
mistake to think that thieves do not respect property. They only wish
it to become their property, so that they may more perfectly respect it.” |
| And by the way, Max Beerbohm’s parody of Belloc, in A Christmas Garland,
is something not to be missed. It is one of the best proofs that Belloc
is a really great artist. Beerbohm does not waste his time mimicking
the small fry. |
| Hilaire Belloc—son of a French father and an English
mother; his happy junction of both English and French genius in prose is
hereditary—was born in France in 1870. He lived in Sussex as a child;
served in the French field artillery; was at Balliol College, Oxford,
1893–95, and sat four years (1906–10) in the House of Commons. Certainly
you must read (among his gatherings of essays) On Nothing, On Everything, On Something, Hills and the Sea, First and Last; then you can read The Path to Rome, and The Four Men, and Caliban’s Guide to Letters and The Pyrenees and Marie Antoinette. If you desire the bouillon (or bullion) of his charm, there is A Picked Company,
a selection (by Mr. E.V. Lucas) of his most representative work. It is
published by Methuen and Company, 36 Essex Street W.C., London. |
| Having done so, come again: we will go off in a corner and talk about Mr. Belloc. |
THERE is a valley in South
England remote from ambition and from fear, where the passage of
strangers is rare and unperceived, and where the scent of the grass in
summer is breathed only by those who are native to that unvisited land.
The roads to the Channel do not traverse it; they choose upon either
side easier passes over the range. One track alone leads up through it
to the hills, and this is changeable: now green where it nears the
homesteads and the barns. The woods grow steep above the slopes; they
reach sometimes the very summit of the heights, or, when they cannot
attain them, fill in and clothe the coombes. And, in between, along the
floor of the valley, deep pastures and their silence are bordered by
lawns of chalky grass and the small yew trees of the Downs. | 1 |
| The clouds that visit its sky reveal themselves beyond the one
great rise, and sail, white and enormous to the other, and sink beyond
that other. But the plains above which they have traveled and the Weald
to which they go, the people of the valley cannot see and hardly recall.
The wind, when it reaches such fields, is no longer a gale from the
salt, but fruitful and soft, an inland breeze; and those whose blood was
nourished here feel in that wind the fruitfulness of our orchards and
all the life that all things draw from the air. | 2 |
| In this place, when I was a boy, I pushed through a fringe of
beeches that made a complete screen between me and the world, and I came
to a glade called No Man’s Land. I climbed beyond it, and I was
surprised and glad, because from the ridge of that glade, I saw the sea.
To this place very lately I returned. | 3 |
| The many things that I recovered as I came up the countryside
were not less charming than when a distant memory had enshrined them,
but much more. Whatever veil is thrown by a longing recollection had not
intensified nor even made more mysterious the beauty of that happy
ground; not in my very dreams of morning had I, in exile, seen it more
beloved or more rare. Much also that I had forgotten now returned to me
as I approached—a group of elms, a little turn of the parson’s wall, a
small paddock beyond the graveyard close, cherished by one man, with a
low wall of very old stone guarding it all round. And all these things
fulfilled and amplified my delight, till even the good vision of the
place, which I had kept so many years, left me and was replaced by its
better reality. “Here,” I said to myself, “is a symbol of what some say
is reserved for the soul: pleasure of a kind which cannot be imagined
save in a moment when at last it is attained.” | 4 |
| When I came to my own gate and my own field, and had before me
the house I knew, I looked around a little (though it was already
evening), and I saw that the grass was standing as it should stand when
it is ready for the scythe. For in this, as in everything that a man can
do—of those things at least which are very old—there is an exact moment
when they are done best. And it has been remarked of whatever rules us
that it works blunderingly, seeing that the good things given to a man
are not given at the precise moment when they would have filled him with
delight. But, whether tis be true or false, we can choose the just turn
of the seasons in everything we do of our own will, and especially in
the making of hay. Many think that hay is best made when the grass is
thickest; and so they delay until it is rank and in flower, and has
already heavily pulled the ground. And there is another false reason for
delay, which is wet weather. For very few will understand (though it
comes year after year) that we have rain always in South England between
the sickle and the scythe, or say just after the weeks of east wind are
over. First we have a week of sudden warmth, as though the south had
come to see us all; then we have the weeks of east and southeast wind;
and then we have more or less of that rain of which I spoke, and which
always astonishes the world. Now it is just before, or during, or at the
very end of that rain—but not later—that grass should be cut for hay.
True, upland grass, which is always thin, should be cut earlier than the
grass in the bottoms and along the water meadows; but not even the
latest, even in the wettest seasons, should be left (as it is) to flower
and even to seed. For what we get when we store our grass is not a
harvest of something ripe, but a thing just caught in its prime before
maturity: as witness that our corn and straw are best yellow, but our
hay is best green. So also Death should be represented with a scythe and
Time with a sickle; for Time can take only what is ripe, but Death
comes always too soon. In a word, then, it is always much easier to cut
grass too late than too early; and I under that evening and come back to
these pleasant fields, looked at the grass and knew that it was time.
June was in full advance; it was the beginning of that season when the
night has already lost her foothold of the earth and hovers over it,
never quite descending, but mixing sunset with the dawn. | 5 |
| Next morning, before it was yet broad day, I awoke, and
thought of the mowing. The birds were already chattering in the trees
beside my window, all except the nightingale, which had left and flown
away to the Weald, where he sings all summer by day as well as by night
in the oaks and the hazel spinneys, and especially along the little
river Adur, one of the rivers of the Weald. The birds and the thought of
the mowing had awakened me, and I went down the stairs and along the
stone floors to where I could find a scythe; and when I took it from its
nail, I remembered how, fourteen years ago, I had last gone out with my
scythe, just so, into the fields at morning. In between that day and
this were many things, cities and armies, and a confusion of books,
mountains and the desert, and horrible great breadths of sea. | 6 |
| When I got out into the long grass the sun was not yet risen,
but there were already many colors in the eastern sky, and I made haste
to sharpen my scythe, so that I might get to the cutting before the dew
should dry. Some say that it is best to wait till all the dew has risen,
so as to get the grass quite dry from the very first. But, though it is
an advantage to get the grass quite dry, yet it is not worth while to
wait till the dew has risen. For, in the first place, you lose many
hours of work (and those the coolest), and next—which is more
important—you lose that great ease and thickness in cutting which comes
of the dew. So I at once began to sharpen my scythe. | 7 |
| There is an art also in the sharpening of the scythe, and it
is worth describing carefully. Your blade must be dry, and that is why
you will see men rubbing the scythe-blade with grass before they whet
it. Then also your rubber must be quite dry, and on this account it is a
good thing to lay it on your coat and keep it there during all your
day’s mowing. The scythe you stand upright, with the blade pointing away
from you, and put your left hand firmly on the back of the blade,
grasping it: then you pass the rubber first down one side of the
blade-edge and then down the other, beginning near the handle and going
on to the point and working quickly and hard. When you first do this you
will, perhaps, cut your hand; but it is only at first that such an
accident will happen to you. | 8 |
| To tell when the scythe is sharp enough this is the rule.
First the stone clangs and grinds against the iron harshly; then it
rings musically to one note; then, at last, it purrs as though the iron
and stone were exactly suited. When you hear this, your scythe is sharp
enough; and I, when I heard it that June dawn, with everything quite
silent except the birds, let down the scythe and bent myself to mow. | 9 |
| When one does anything anew, after so many years, one fears
very much for one’s trick or habit. But all things once learnt are
easily recoverable, and I very soon recovered the swing and power of the
mower. Mowing well and mowing badly—or rather not mowing at all—are
separated by very little; as is also true of writing verse, of playing
the fiddle, and of dozens of other things, but of nothing more than of
believing. For the bad or young or untaught mower without tradition, the
mower Promethean, the mower original and contemptuous of the past, does
all these things: He leaves great crescents of grass uncut. He digs the
point of the scythe hard into the ground with a jerk. He loosens the
handles and even the fastening of the blade. He twists the blade with
his blundes, he blunts the blade, he chips it, dulls it, or breaks it
clean off at the tip. If any one is standing by he cuts him in the
ankle. He sweeps up into the air wildly, with nothing to resist his
stroke. He drags up earth with the grass, which is like making the
meadow bleed. But the good mower who does things just as they should be
done and have been for a hundred thousand years, falls into none of
these fooleries. He goes forward very steadily, his scythe-blade just
barely missing the ground, every grass falling; the swish and rhythm of
his mowing are always the same. | 10 |
| So great an art can only be learnt by continual practice; but
this much is worth writing down, that, as in all good work, to know the
thing with which you work is the core of the affair. Good verse is best
written on good paper with an easy pen, not with a lump of coal on a
whitewashed wall. The pen thinks for you; and so does the scythe mow for
you if you treat it honorably and in a manner that makes it recognize
its service. The manner is this. You must regard the scythe as a
pendulum that swings, not as a knife that cuts. A good mower puts no
more strength into his stroke than into his lifting. Again, stand up to
your work. The bad mower, eager and full of pain, leans forward and
tries to force the scythe through the grass. The good mower, serene and
able, stands as nearly straight as the shape of the scythe will let him,
and follows up every stroke closely, moving his left foot forward. Then
also let every stroke get well away. Mowing is a thing of ample
gestures, like drawing a cartoon. Then, again, get yourself into a
mechanical and repetitive mood: be thinking of anything at all but your
mowing, and be anxious only when there seems some interruption to the
monotony of the sound. In this mowing should be like one’s prayers—all
of a sort and always the same, and so made that you can establish a
monotony and work them, as it were, with half your mind: that happier
half, the half that does not bother. | 11 |
In this way, when I had recovered the art after so many years,
I went forward over the field, cutting lane after lane through the
grass, and bringing out its most secret essences with the sweep of the
scythe until the air was full of odors. At the end of every lane I
sharpened my scythe and looked back at the work done, and then carried
my scythe down again upon my shoulder to begin another. So, long before
the bell rang in the chapel above me—that is, long before six o’clock,
which is the time for the Angelus—I had many swathes already lying in
order parallel like soldiery; and the high grass yet standing, making a
great contrast with the shaven part, looked dense and high. As it says
in the Ballad of Val-es-Dunes, where—
| | The tall son of the Seven Winds |
| Came riding out of Hither-hythe, |
and his horse-hoofs (you will remember) trampled into the press and made a gap in it, and his sword (as you know)
| | was like scythe |
| In Arcus when the grass is high |
| And all the swathes in order lie, |
| And there’s the bailiff standing by |
| A-gathering of the tithe. |
| 12 |
| So I moved all that morning, till the houses awoke in the
valley, and from some of them rose a little fragrant smoke, and men
began to be seen. | 13 |
| I stood still and rested on my scythe to watch the awakening
of the village, when I saw coming up to my field a man whom I had known
in older times, before I had left the Valley. | 14 |
| He was of that dark silent race upon which all the learned
quarrel, but which, by whatever meaningless name it may be
called—Iberian, or Celtic, or what you will—is the permanent root of all
England, and makes England wealthy and preserves it everywhere, except
perhaps in the Fens and in a part of Yorkshire. Everywhere else you will
find it active and strong. These people are intensive: their thoughts
and their labors turn inward. It is on account of their presence in
these islands that our gardens are the richest in the world. They also
love low rooms and ample fires and great warm slopes of thatch. They
have, as I believe, an older acquaintance with the English air than any
other of all the strains that make up England. They hunted in the Weald
with stones, and camped in the pines of the green-sand. They lurked
under the oaks of the upper rivers, and saw the legionaries go up, up
the straight paved road from the sea. They helped the few pirates to
destroy the towns, and mixed with those pirates and shared the spoils of
the Roman villas and were glad to see the captains and the priests
destroyed. They remain; and no admixture of the Frisian pirates, or the
Breton, or the Angevin and Norman conquerors, has very much affected
their cunning eyes. | 15 |
| To this race, I say, belonged the man who now approached me.
And he said to me, “mowing?” And I answered, “Ar.” Then he also said
“Ar,” as in duty bound; for so we speak to each other in the Stenes of
the Downs. | 16 |
| Next he told me that, as he had nothing to do, he would lend
me a hand; and I thanked him warmly, or, as we say, “kindly.” For it is a
good custom of ours always to treat bargaining as though it were a
courteous pastime; and though what he was after was money, and what I
wanted was his labor at the least pay, yet we both played the comedy
that we were free men, the one granting a grace and the other accepting
it. For the dry bones of commerce, avarice and method and need, are
odious to the Valley; and we cover them up with a pretty body of fiction
and observances. Thus, when it comes to buying pigs, the buyer does not
begin to decry the pig and the vendor to praise it, as is the custom
with lesser men; but tradition makes them do business in this fashion:— | 17 |
| First the buyer will go up to the seller when he sees him in
his own steading, and, looking at the pig with admiration, the buyer
will say that rain may or may not fall, or that we shall have snow or
thunder, according to the time of the year. Then the seller, looking
critically at the pig, will agree that the weather is as his friend
maintains. There is no haste at all; great leisure marks the dignity of
their exchange. And the next step is, that the buyer says: “That’s a
fine pig you have there, Mr.—” (giving the seller’s name). “Ar, powerful
fine pig.” Then the seller, saying also “Mr.” (for twin brothers rocked
in one cradle give each other ceremonious observance here), the seller,
I say, admits, as though with reluctance, the strength and beauty of
the pig, and falls into deep thought. Then the buyer says, as though
moved by a great desire, that he is ready to give so much for the pig,
naming half the proper price, or a little less. Then the seller remains
in silence for some moments; and at last begins to shake his head
slowly, till he says: “I don’t be thinking of selling the pig, anyways.”
He will also add that a party only Wednesday offered him so much for
the pig—and he names about double the proper price. Thus all ritual is
duly accomplished; and the solemn act is entered upon with reverence and
in a spirit of truth. For when the buyer uses this phrase: “I’ll tell
you what I will do,” and offers within half a crown of the pig’s
value, the seller replies that he can refuse him nothing, and names half
a crown above its value; the difference is split, the pig is sold, and
in the quiet soul of each runs the peace of something accomplished. | 18 |
| Thus do we buy a pig or land or labor or malt or lime, always
with elaboration and set forms; and many a London man has paid double
and more for his violence and his greedy haste and very unchivalrous
higgling. As happened with the land at Underwaltham, which the
mortgagees had begged and implored the estate to take at twelve hundred
and had privately offered to all the world at a thousand, but which a
sharp direct man, of the kind that makes great fortunes, a man in a
motor-car, a man in a fur coat, a man of few words, bought for two
thousand three hundred before my very eyes, protesting that they might
take his offer or leave it; and all because he did not begin by praising
the land. | 19 |
| Well then, this man I spoke of offered to help me, and he went
to get his scythe. But I went into this house and brought out a gallon
jar of small ale for him and for me; for the sun was now very warm, and
small ale goes well with mowing. When we had drunk some of this ale in
mugs called “I see you,” we took each a swathe, he a little behind me
because he was the better mower; and so for many hours we swung, one
before the other, mowing and mowing at the tall grass of the field. And
the sun rose to noon and we were still at our mowing; and we ate food,
but only for a little while, and we took again to our mowing. And at
last there was nothing left but a small square of grass, standing like a
square of linesmen who keep their formation, tall and unbroken, with
all the dead lying around them when the battle is over and done. | 20 |
| Then for some little time I rested after all those hours; and
the man and I talked together, and a long way off we heard in another
field the musical sharpening of a scythe. | 21 |
| The sunlight slanted powdered and mellow over the breadth of
the valley; for day was nearing its end. I went to fetch rakes from the
steading; and when I had come back the last of the grass had fallen, and
all the field lay flat and smooth, with the very green short grass in
lanes between the dead and yellow swathes. | 22 |
| These swathes we raked into cocks to keep them from the dew
against our return at daybreak; and we made the cocks as tall and steep
as we could, for in that shape they best keep off the dew, and it is
easier also to spread them after the sun has risen. Then we raked up
every straggling blade, till the whole field was a clean floor for the
tedding and the carrying of the hay next morning. The grass we had mown
was but a little over two acres; for that is all the pasture on my
little tiny farm. | 23 |
| When we had done all this, there fell upon us the beneficent
and deliberate evening; so that as we sat a little while together near
the rakes, we saw the valley more solemn and dim around us, and all the
trees and hedgerows quite still, and held by a complete silence. Then I
paid my companion his wage, and bade him a good night, till we should
meet in the same place before sunrise. | 24 |
He went off with a slow and steady progress, as all our
peasants do, making their walking a part of the easy but continual labor
of their lives. But I sat on, watching the light creep around towards
the north and change, and the waning moon coming up as though by stealth
behind the woods of No Man’s Land.
 |
| G.B. Shaw, Hilaire Belloc, and G.K. Chesterton |
 |
| Walk the wonderlands with Belloc. |
 |
| Next oldest:
the scythe. Steep Swiss mountains discourage machinery...plus the Swiss
are awesome...even more awesome than Cowboys, even of the Dallas
variety...especially if you're Jordan Myer. |
 |
| A Harvesting Team |
 |
| Prettier Harvesting Team |
 |
| Bieber? Sounds weak; I'm marrying a strong man. |
|
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