A "slight incident" and a beautiful thought. But all I have
so far said about the little book is preliminary to what I
wish to say about another sonnet which must also be quoted.
It is perhaps, as a sonnet, as ill done as the others, but the
subject of it specially attracted me, as it happened to be one
which was much in my mind during my week's stay at Norton.
That remote little village without a squire or any person of
means or education in or near it capable of feeling the
slightest interest in the people, except the parson, an old
infirm man who was never seen but once a week--how wanting in
some essential thing it appeared! It seemed to me that the
one thing which might be done in these small centres of rural
life to brighten and beautify existence is precisely the thing
which is never done, also that what really is being done is of
doubtful value and sometimes actually harmful.
Leaving Norton one day I visited other small villages in the
neighbourhood and found they were no better off. I had heard
of the rector of one of these villages as a rather original
man, and went and discussed the subject with him. "It is
quite useless thinking about it," he said. "The people here
are clods, and will not respond to any effort you can make to
introduce a little light and sweetness into their lives."
There was no more to be said to him, but I knew he was wrong.
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