the days of my life-第84部分

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sters　in　the　Italian　papers。　The　Times　had　asked　me　if　I　would　care　to　go　to　South　Africa　as　one　of　their　war　correspondents；　but　this　did　not　strike　me　as　an　attractive　business　at　my　age。　However；　I　entered　into　another　arrangement　with　Mr。　Arthur　Pearson；　the　owner　of　the　group　of　papers　of　which　the　Daily　Express　is　the　principal。　This　was　that；　on　the　conclusion　of　the　war；　I　should　write　a　series　of　articles　under　the　title　of　“The　New　South　Africa；”　which　would；　of　course；　have　involved　a　long　journey　in　that　country。　This　engagement　was　never　fulfilled；　for　the　reason　that　the　war　carried　on　for　another　two　years　or　so；　before　which　time　the　British　public　was　utterly　weary　of　the　subject　of　South　Africa。　Upon　this　ground　Pearson　suggested　that　the　contract　should　be　cancelled。
In　the　meantime；　however；　while　I　was　taking　my　bath　one　morning　—　a　domestic　occasion　on　which；　for　some　reason　unexplained；　I　have　observed　that　I　am　more　open　to　new　impressions　than　at　any　other　time　—　an　idea　struck　me。　It　was　to　the　effect　that　I　should　like　to　emulate　Arthur　Young；　who　more　than　a　century　before　had　travelled　through　and　written　of　the　state　of　agriculture　in　the　majority　of　the　English　counties。　Second　thoughts　showed　me　that　the　enterprise　was　very　vast。　It　had　taken　Arthur　Young　about　thirty　years；　if　I　remember　right；　not　to　plete　it　—　for　this　neither　he　nor　any　one　else　ever　did　—　but　to　deal　with　about　twenty…six　counties；　travelling　leisurely　on　horseback　and　for　the　most　part；　I　think；　as　an　official　of　what　in　those　days　answered　to　the　present　Board　of　Agriculture。
I　may　add　that　about　a　year　ago　I　paid　a　visit　to　Arthur　Young’s　home；　Bradfield　bust；　more　monly　called　Burnt　Bradfield；　near　Bury　St。　Edmunds；　which　was　then　for　sale。　The　house；　of　course；　is　rebuilt；　but　all　the　rest　—　park；　ancient　oaks；　and　little　lake　—　remain　much　as　they　were　in　his　day；　a　hundred　years　ago。
Readers　of　his　Life　will　remember　how　he　instructed　his　delicate　daughter　—　who　afterwards　died；　poor　child　—　to　walk　in　certain　places；　such　as　in　the　Round　Garden　or　on　the　flagged　path　where　it　was　dry　—　“the　little　garden　where　I　have　so　many　times　seen　her　happy。”
There　they　are　to　this　day；　and；　standing　among　them　alone；　I　could　almost　re…create　the　figure　of　pale　little　Bobbin　as　she　obeyed　the　orders　sent　from　France　in　her　father’s　letters。　There；　too；　is　the　great　avenue　of　limes　which　were；　I　believe；　planted　by　Mr。　Arthur　Young；　running　from　the　house　across　the　timbered　grounds　to　the　highway　by　the　church。　Here　in　the　churchyard　lie　the　mortal　remains　of　this　great　man；　for；　when　his　prescience　and　his　patient　industry　are　taken　into　account；　I　think　he　may　be　fairly　described　as　great。　In　the　church；　actually　underneath　his　pew；　is　buried　his　sweet　Bobbin；　and　on　a　tablet　in　an　annexe　appears　a　touching　memorial　inscription　to　her；　which　I　regret　I　had　no　time　to　copy。　It　does　not；　I　think；　appear　in　the　Life　by　Miss　Betham　Edwards。
How　sadly　read　his　words　written　at　Bradfield　in　the　year　1800：
I　never　e　to　this　place　without　reaping　all　the　pleasure　which　any　place　can　give　me　now。　It　is　beautiful　and　healthy；　and　is　endeared　to　me　by　so　many　recollections；　melancholy　ones　now；　alas！　that　I　feel　more　here　than　anywhere　else。　Here　have　I　lived　from　my　infancy；　here　my　dear　mother　breathed　her　last；　here　was　all　I　knew　of　a　sister；　and　the　church　contains　the　remains　of　my　father；　mother；　and　ever　beloved　child！　Here；　under　my　window；　her　little　garden　—　the　shrubs　and　flowers　she　planted　—　the　willow　on　the　island；　her　room；　her　books；　her　papers。　There　have　I　prayed　to　the　Almighty　that　I　might　join　her　in　the　next　world。
Well；　his　sorrows　are　done　and；　had　she　lived　the　full　life　of　woman；　by　now　Bobbin’s　days　would　have　been　counted　out　twice　over。　Let　us　trust　that　long　ago　her　broken…hearted　father’s　petition　has　been　granted；　and　that　this　pathetic　pair　once　more　walk　hand　in　hand　in　some　celestial　garden；　never　to　be　parted　more。
If　I　may　venture　to　pare　myself　with　such　a　man；　there　is　a　considerable　similarity　between　our　aims　and　circumstances。　We　have　both　been　animated　by　an　overwhelming　sense　of　the　vital　importance　of　British　agriculture　to　this　country　and　its　citizens。　We　are　both　East　Anglians　and　born　of　the　class　of　landed　gentry　or　“squires。”　We　have　both　been　official　servants　of　the　State。　We　have　both　written　novels　and　much　connected　with　the　land。　We　were　both　practical　farmers；　which　many　who　write　on　such　things　are　not；　and　in　the　same　counties。　We　were　both　tall；　thin；　with　pronounced　features；　and　possessed　a　nervous　temperament　and　somewhat　similar　powers　of　observation。　We　both　suffered　a　terrible　loss　that　saddened　our　lives；　though　happily　for　him　the　blow　fell　in　his　later　days。　Both　of　us　have　been　animated　by　the　same　hopes。
Such　are　some　of　the　resemblances；　and　I　dare　say　others　could　be　found；　for　instance；　if　Young　wrote　of　rural　France；　I　have　written　of　rural　Denmark。　Only　I　am　thankful　to　say　I　have　been　spared　his　domestic　separations；　as　I　hope　I　shall　be　spared　his　blindness　and　the　religious　mania；　or　something　approaching　it；　that　darkened　his　last　years。
To　return；　in　the　end　I　determined　to　cling　to　my　inspiration　and　to　follow　old　Arthur　Young’s　example；　if　in　any　way　I　could　manage　to　do　so。
My　chance　came　in　connection　with　this　South　African　agreement。　In　answer　to　Pearson’s　suggestion　that　it　should　be　cancelled；　I　requested　my　agents；　Messrs。　A。　P。　Watt　&　Sons；　to　inform　him　that　I　was　prepared　to　agree；　on　the　condition　that；　in　place　of　it；　he　would　substitute　another　—　namely；　that　the　articles　should　deal　with　rural　England。　Otherwise　I　would　proceed　to　South　Africa；　as　I　had　made　all　my　plans　to　do。　Pearson　considered　and；　in　the　end；　assented。　I　do　not　know　that　he　was　particularly　anxious　to　exploit　rural　England　in　the　columns　of　the　Daily　Express；　but　at　any　rate　it　was　a　fresh　cry；　whereas　that　of　South　Africa　had　bee　very　stale　indeed。
Before　speaking　of　this　matter；　however；　which　only　matured　in　the　beginnings　of　1901；　I　will　return　for　a　moment　to　my　travels　which　menced　at　Florence。　I　had　arranged　verbally　with　Moberly　Bell　of　The　Times　to　visit　Cyprus　and　the　Holy　Land；　and　to　write　for　that　journal　some　articles　upon　the　affairs　of　the　Near　East。　I　did　visit　Cyprus　and　the　Holy　Land；　but　the　articles　were　never　written。　For　this　reason：　I　took　with　me　a　nephew；　now　a　respected　lawyer　verging　on　middle　age　and；　I　may　say；　a　relative　for　whom　I　have　the　greatest　regard　and　the　warmest　affection；　who　was　to　act　as　my　secretary。　But　if　ever　his　eye　should　fall　upon　these　lines　I　hope　he　will　not　be　offended　if　I　add　that　then；　in　the　heyday　of　his　very　fascinating　and　festive　youth；　he　proved　the　most　erratic　secretary　with　whom　I　have　ever　e　in　contact。　I　could　never　find　him　when　I　wanted　him；　and　as　for　the　heavy　typewriter　which　we　dragged　about　with　us；　all　he　did　with　it　was　to　drop　it　on　my　toes　out　of　the　rack　of　a　railway　train。　At　last　I　got　sick　of　the　article；　which　alone　clung　to　us　after　he　had　lost　all　the　luggage　on　the　Italian　railways；　causing　us　to　proceed　to　Cyprus　with　practically　nothing　but　the　clothes　in　which　we　stood；　and　sent　it　home　from　that　romantic　isle　packed　in　the　remains　of　a　mule…saddle；　or　something　of　the　sort。
After　this　there　was　for　a　year　or　two　a　certain　coolness　between　me　and　The　Times；　which　had　never　received　the　promised　articles；　for　of　course　I　was　unable　to　explain　the　real　reason　of　my　delinquencies。　However；　my　affectionate　nephew　enjoyed　himself　enormously；　both　in　Cyprus　and　the　Holy　Land；　whither　I　had　taken　him　because　I　understood　that　he　intended　to　enter　the　Church。　As　we　sailed　from　Limasol　for　Beyrout　he　said；　in　a　hushed　voice；　that　he　had　something　to　tell　me。
“Speak　up；”　I　answered；　wondering；　with　an　inward　groan；　whether　he　had　engaged　himself　in　marriage　to　the　barmaid　of　the　Nicosia　Club。
It　turned　out；　however；　that　what　he　had　to　confide　was　that　he　had　changed　his　views　about　entering　the　Church；　and　up　to　this　point　had　concealed　the　matter　for　fear　lest　I　should　refuse　to　take　him　on　to　the　Holy　Land；　but　spoke　now；　perhaps　because　he　did　not　wish　to　make　the　visit　sailing　under　false　colours。　I　reflected　to　myself　that　this　bouleversement　would　be　attributed　to　my　evil　influence；　but　said　nothing。　It　all　came　right　in　the　end；　as　such　things　do；　and　I　am　bound　to　add　that；　although　he　did　not　shine　as　a　secretary；　a　trade　for　which　Nature　never　fashioned　him；　this　dear　nephew　of　mine　was　perhaps　the　pleasantest　panion　with　whom　I　ever　travelled。
In　the　intervals　of　getting　him　up　in　the　morning　and　generally　attending　to　his　wants　and　my　own；　I　managed　to　make　some　notes；　out　of　y　book；　“A　Winter　Pilgrimage。”
The　Holy　Land　impressed　me　enormously；　although　it　is　the　fashion　of　many　travellers　to　say　that　there　they　find　nothing　but　disappointment。　But　of　all　these　matters　I　have　written　in　the　“Winter　Pilgrimage；”　so　I　will　say　no　more　about　them。
By　the　way；　this　“Winter　Pilgrimage”　is；　I　think；　unique　in　one　respect：　the　first　half　of　it　was　published　serially　after　the　last　had　already　appeared。　The　managers　of　the　Queen　newspaper；　who　ha