I
remember once being told of a record in a manor, which held of the
Church and which lay upon the southern slope of the Downs, that so much
was entered for "straw from the Lowlands": then, years afterwards, when
I had to thatch a Bethlehem in an orchard underneath tall elms--a
pleasant place to write in, with the noise of bees in the air--the man
who came to thatch said to me: "We must have straw from the Lowlands;
this upland straw is no good for thatching." Immediately when I heard
him say this there was added to me ten thousand years. And I know
another place in England, far distant from this, where a man said to me
that if I wished to cross in a winter mist, as I had determined to do,
Cross-Fell, that great summit of the Pennines, I must watch the drift of
the snow, for there was no other guide to one's direction in such
weather. And I remember another man in a little boat in the North Sea,
as we came towards the Foreland, talking to me of the two tides, and
telling me how if one caught the tide all the way up to Long Nose and
then went round it on the end of the flood, one caught a new tide up
London river, and so made two tides in one day. He spoke with the same
pleasure that silly men show when they talk about an accumulation of
money. He felt wealthy and proud from the knowledge, for by this
knowledge he had two tides in one day. Now knowledge of this sort is
older than ten thousand years; and so is the knowledge of how birds fly,
and of how they call, and of how the weather changes with the moon.
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