Gilbert White

There was no doubt about it.

I was back in Selborne, the Selborne of Gilbert White, after an absence of twenty years.

I parted company with Bylett then, and let him go on ahead.

When the grating of his wagon wheels had died away at the bottom of the hill, I set about making my own breath-bated entry into the place alone.

I raised the latch of the churchyard gate and passed in.

That is a hard word I have just written, but I suppose a true one.

Looking back on it now, through the vista of twenty sane and sobering years, the pilgrimage I then made to the shrine of Gilbert White stands out as nothing less than an orgy of sentimentalism.

That it was so, sincerely and unconsciously, that my every thought and act at the time was a pure, unforced affair of the heart and no designed conceit, only aggravates the case.

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sounds of human life broke out on every side lumbering wheels came echoing up the long vista of the high street from porch to porch rang out clear voices in early greeting and window lattices swung open with jingling clatter there was sudden commotion in the farmyards where the poultry were crowding out blinking and clamouring from their dark roosting places selborne was awake again and setting about another day's business in the old cheery red-cheeked burly hampshire way in the misty blue sky overhead there was no cloud to break the formless span yet as we wandered through the sun-bathed silence of the little churchyard a constant rain was falling a rain of dropping leaves for ever slanting and twirling down alike on mantling grass and lichen gilded tomb yellow from the elm trees amber from the chestnuts grey from the spreading poplars russet from flaming beech and bough red and russet gold and grey turning and pirouetting down through the dew moist hazy sunlight in a never-ending cascade of changing colour long ago the falling leaves had hidden the old grey cobbles of the church path so that the heaviest footstep was silenced in them and in the angle of the porch the vanished wind of yesterday had blown them up into a great brown heap that rose nearly to the sill of the little lance windows hard by every green mossy stone around us had formed a barrier for the drifting leaf harvest and the wind had piled up its ruddy treasure behind and left it there for the thrushes to scatter when we should have gone on our way eastward in the little churchyard beyond the reach of the falling autumn leaves there was open land as yet untenanted by the ever-gathering throng of quiet sleepers and here in a spreading plain of silver the dew lay white and glistening under the still strong radiance of the morning light only where the blackbird had left his track in it sweeping away the white dew gossamer as he went was the green of the grass visible crossing and recrossing and winding in and out the pathway of his journeyings had chiselled out a pattern intricately through the due veneer quaint curves and parallels traversed the bright sward everywhere and knots and ribbons and rosettes of velvet green made a soft glowing backdrop for the rich impasto of the water-drops to sunward the glittering plains seemed colourless save for a dusky golden sparkle here and there but seen obliquely the surface broke up into a maze of gem-like gleamings changing every moment into some new shade of iridescence yet giving to the eye the general effect of silver molten white and with the strengthening sun-glow the tiny drops were every moment drawn together on the swaying tips of the grass blades where gathering large to a fall they seemed like gorgeous butterflies fanning their wings of amber and green and blue as the sunshine broke the fluttering light points up into a tangle of ray ribbons to the dazzled eye everywhere out on the sunny breadth of grassland with the increasing heat of the morning these hovering bright-veined creatures were born into a moment's glory trembling vividly through the whole gamut of rainbow colour until presently with one last burning flash of crimson they dropped and vanished into the white due ocean below through the long dark hours of the night we had journeyed towards the shrine we knew so well in fancy yet in truth had never seen with the chimes of midnight london already lay behind us twinkling in the darkness at silent slumbering kingston we had parted with the river lapping by forlornly in its moonlit gulf below then surrey hill and dale trooped by like dim shadows ever changing yet ever the same beneath the quiet night mile after mile and hour by hour we journeyed under the misty moonlight with the faint autumn breeze creeping chillily in every hedgerow and singing inconstantly in the dark waving tree-tops that blotted out the star-shine overhead and when at length the laggard day began to fret the steep sky with its dawning and the rich autumnal tints gloomed out once more from every hill wondering thoughts began to stir within us as the callow moon waxed dimmer and more golden and the weary way ahead grew less and less whether we should find some stately marble in the public place raised by selborneans reverently in the master's undying honour or whether the people's tribute would rest over his grave perchance within the quiet sanctuary where he stood and taught so many busy peaceful years yet this would be unmeet for then the swallows that he held so dearly could not circle round his resting-place as they must love to do on every shimmering breathless summer day and some at least must linger all the winter through as he believed they did to tend his grave he could be lying nowhere but out under the blue heaven free to the winds and the sunshine with all the sights and sounds of furred and feathered life and every bright-hued blossom of the seasons ready in wood and meadow-land against the time of his awakening and when at last the golden chanticleer of selborne gleamed out star-like ahead through the autumn mists shining like another star of olden time and when we stood at length within the precincts of the little god's acre with the busy murmur of the village behind us and the dreamy sun-barred stillness of the churchyard stretched before even then no inkling of the truth about him was revealed to us we had seen no monument in the village way nor on the broad pleister where the stones of the pathway might well have been hollowed by his footsteps nor was there tablet or inscription of any kind on the old house where he dwelt and laboured for so long though some one had newly fixed a little brown shining angel over the portal with an open volume in its arms yet a passing waggoner had told us that he lay in the westward shadow of the church and thither we went expectantly to see what selborne had done there in his honour through the little wicket-gate and past the roses swaying so indolently on their long green stems under the wide dark yew-tree where the starlings were calling onward down the leaf-strewn pathway through the never-ending torrent of chestnut amber and gold and round by the graveyard fallows with their glistening dew brocade and then we deemed our quest an easy one he must lie there under the distant tall grey monolith with the white medallion on its face selborne we thought had done him indeed some measure of honour withal sparingly nay almost ungenerously yet drawing near to read what compensation of glowing words were graven to his memory we found an unfamiliar name upon the stone and thus it was with every grave we visited the carefully tended monument with the asters blooming round it was not his the iron-railed marble wreathed in pale everlastings sheltered a stranger the white stone cross glimmering through the distant barricade of green carried a gilded epitaph to some unknown every stone we visited told the same blank story bewildered we journeyed on from place to place threading our way reverently between the crowding tombs bright with their garniture of lichen gold at last we began to search among the lowliest graves that hid themselves uncared for amidst the couch grass and the daisies and then at length we found it half hidden under the thronging verdure a little mean crumbling stone moss-eaten neglected and almost illegible but that some kindly soul had scraped the long accumulations of grime from the simple lettering g w twenty sixth of june seventeen ninety three thus to our shame be it written is the grave of gilbert white the father and founder of english practical natural history edition after edition of his work appears each outvying the other in its gold and purple yet his grave remains neglected uncared for down in the little sleepy hampshire village it is in vain to leave the matter to selborne there is an inconspicuous tablet to his memory within the church and the inhabitants have given unto themselves a water supply and labelled it with his name more they will never do it is for the people of england for every one who loves the green country and the song of birds to join in raising a fitting monument to the man who has done more than any other to help on our knowledge of god's creatures that move and have their being under the blue english sky and if we of the motherland do not our duty speedily to gilbert white a great ignominy awaits us for the americans will step in and do our duty for us a magnificent edition of his work will soon be issued overseas already selborne is becoming the stratford-on-avon of the american naturalist Let us, then, be up and doing what remains to be done, before the eleventh hour shall have passed irrevocably by.

That concludes Chapter 18, and is the end of Section 8.

End of Sidelights of Nature in Quill and Crayon by Tickner Edwards

From porch to porch rang out clear voices in early greeting, and window lattices swung open with jingling clatter.

there was sudden commotion in the farmyards where the poultry were crowding out blinking and clamouring from their dark roosting places selborne was awake again and setting about another day's business in the old cheery red-cheeked burly hampshire way in the misty blue sky overhead there was no cloud to break the formless span yet as we wandered through the sun-bathed silence of the little churchyard a constant rain was falling a rain of dropping leaves for ever slanting and twirling down alike on mantling grass and lichen gilded tomb yellow from the elm trees amber from the chestnuts grey from the spreading poplars russet from flaming beech and bough red and russet gold and grey turning and pirouetting down through the dew moist hazy sunlight in a never-ending cascade of changing colour long ago the falling leaves had hidden the old grey cobbles of the church path so that the heaviest footstep was silenced in them and in the angle of the porch the vanished wind of yesterday had blown them up into a great brown heap that rose nearly to the sill of the little lance windows hard by every green mossy stone around us had formed a barrier for the drifting leaf harvest and the wind had piled up its ruddy treasure behind and left it there for the thrushes to scatter when we should have gone on our way eastward in the little churchyard beyond the reach of the falling autumn leaves there was open land as yet untenanted by the ever-gathering throng of quiet sleepers and here in a spreading plain of silver the dew lay white and glistening under the still strong radiance of the morning light only where the blackbird had left his track in it sweeping away the white dew gossamer as he went was the green of the grass visible crossing and recrossing and winding in and out the pathway of his journeyings had chiselled out a pattern intricately through the due veneer quaint curves and parallels traversed the bright sward everywhere and knots and ribbons and rosettes of velvet green made a soft glowing backdrop for the rich impasto of the water-drops to sunwood the glittering plains seemed colourless save for a dusky golden sparkle here and there but seen obliquely the surface broke up into a maze of gem-like gleamings changing every moment into some new shade of iridescence yet giving to the eye the general effect of silver molten white and with the strengthening sun-glow the tiny drops were every moment drawn together on the swaying tips of the grass blades where gathering large to a fall they seemed like gorgeous butterflies fanning their wings of amber and green and blue as the sunshine broke the fluttering light points up into a tangle of ray ribbons to the dazzled eye everywhere out on the sunny breadth of grassland with the increasing heat of the morning these hovering bright-veined creatures were born into a moment's glory trembling vividly through the whole gamut of rainbow colour until presently with one last burning flash of crimson they dropped and vanished into the white due ocean below through the long dark hours of the night we had journeyed towards the shrine we knew so well in fancy yet in truth had never seen with the chimes of midnight london already lay behind us twinkling in the darkness at silent slumbering kingston we had parted with the river lapping by forlornly in its moonlit gulf below then surrey hill and dale trooped by like dim shadows ever changing yet ever the same beneath the quiet night mile after mile and hour by hour we journeyed under the misty moonlight with the faint autumn breeze creeping chillily in every hedgerow and singing inconstantly in the dark waving tree-tops that blotted out the star-shine overhead and when at length the laggard day began to fret the steep sky with its dawning and the rich autumnal tints gloomed out once more from every hill wondering thoughts began to stir within us as the callow moon waxed dimmer and more golden and the weary way ahead grew less and less whether we should find some stately marble in the public place raised by selborneans reverently in the master's undying honour or whether the people's tribute would rest over his grave perchance within the quiet sanctuary where he stood and taught so many busy peaceful years yet this would be unmeet for then the swallows that he held so dearly could not circle round his resting-place as they must love to do on every shimmering breathless summer day and some at least must linger all the winter through as he believed they did to tend his grave he could be lying nowhere but out under the blue heaven free to the winds and the sunshine with all the sights and sounds of furred and feathered life and every bright-hued blossom of the seasons ready in wood and meadow-land against the time of his awakening and when at last the golden chanticleer of selborne gleamed out star-like ahead through the autumn mists shining like another star of olden time and when we stood at length within the precincts of the little god's acre with the busy murmur of the village behind us and the dreamy sun-barred stillness of the churchyard stretched before even then no inkling of the truth about him was revealed to us we had seen no monument in the village way nor on the broad pleister where the stones of the pathway might well have been hollowed by his footsteps nor was there tablet or inscription of any kind on the old house where he dwelt and laboured for so long though some one had newly fixed a little brown shining angel over the portal with an open volume in its arms yet a passing waggoner had told us that he lay in the westward shadow of the church and thither we went expectantly to see what selborne had done there in his honour through the little wicket gate and past the roses swaying so indolently on their long green stems under the wide dark yew-tree where the starlings were calling onward down the leaf-strewn pathway through the never-ending torrent of chestnut amber and gold and round by the graveyard fallows with their glistening dew brocade and then we deemed our quest an easy one he must lie there under the distant tall grey monolith with the white medallion on its face selborne we thought had done him indeed some measure of honour withal sparingly nay almost ungenerously yet drawing near to read what compensation of glowing words were graven to his memory we found an unfamiliar name upon the stone and thus it was with every grave we visited the carefully tended monument with the asters blooming round it was not his the iron-railed marble wreathed in pale everlastings sheltered a stranger the white stone cross glimmering through the distant barricade of green carried a gilded epitaph to some unknown every stone we visited told the same blank story bewildered we journeyed on from place to place threading our way reverently between the crowding tombs bright with their garniture of lichen gold at last we began to search among the lowliest graves that hid themselves uncared for amidst the couch grass and the daisies and then at length we found it half hidden under the thronging verdure a little mean crumbling stone moss-eaten neglected and almost illegible but that some kindly soul had scraped the long accumulations of grime from the simple lettering g w twenty sixth of june seventeen ninety three thus to our shame be it written is the grave of gilbert white the father and founder of english practical natural history edition after edition of his work appears each outvying the other in its gold and purple yet his grave remains neglected uncared for down in the little sleepy hampshire village it is in vain to leave the matter to selborne there is an inconspicuous tablet to his memory within the church and the inhabitants have given unto themselves a water supply and labelled it with his name more they will never do it is for the people of england for every one who loves the green country and the song of birds to join in raising a fitting monument to the man who has done more than any other to help on our knowledge of god's creatures that move and have their being under the blue english sky and if we of the motherland do not our duty speedily to gilbert white a great ignominy awaits us for the americans will step in and do our duty for us a magnificent edition of his work will soon be issued overseas already selborne is becoming the stratford-on-avon of the american naturalist Let us, then, be up and doing what remains to be done, before the eleventh hour shall have passed irrevocably by.

That concludes Chapter 18, and is the end of Section 8.

End of Sidelights of Nature in Quill and Crayon by Tickner Edwards

But heaven knows how many sermons I've written down there in my folder.

And to a degree, I want to share this with you, to a degree, I've managed to assuage my feelings of guilt and cheapness by discovering recently that the Reverend Gilbert White, 1720 to 1793, famous for his natural history of Selborne, left behind after his death only 36 sermons.

Now it's possible these are White's only surviving sermons because they are in fact the only sermons he ever wrote.

In a fluent copper plate hand with remarkably few corrections or deletions.

Eternity is, Kierkegaard says, the true repetition.

And he goes on, repetition begins in faith.

And while Gilbert White stands in the pulpit and repeats verbatim the same sermon we heard last Easter, we are different.

We have changed over the course of the intervening year.

It is the work of art nearest to life itself.

Crusoe, then, and Gilbert White, and Thomas Edward, the shoemaker-naturalist of Banff, and Lubbock of Norfolk Fauna fame, have influenced and moulded one boy's life; and Christopher Davies, Swan and her crew, confirmed it.

My designs have never been towards owning a bona-fide yacht, but rather to small craft that take up scant sea-room with a minimum of raffle and trouble.

The Moor's long-boat, with the shoulder-of-mutton sail and the cabin amidships, was my ideal.

It is the work of art nearest to life itself.

Crusoe, then, and Gilbert White, and Thomas Edward, the shoemaker-naturalist of Banff, and Lubbock of Norfolk Fauna fame, have influenced and molded one boy's life; and Christopher Davies, Swan and her Crew, confirmed it.

My designs have never been towards owning a bona-fide yacht, but rather to small craft that take up scant sea-room with a minimum of raffle and trouble.

The Moor's long-boat, with the shoulder-of-mutton sail and the cabin amidships, was my ideal.