There is something in the stress and struggle of tumultuous life in a vast city like London that to me is almost unbearable. Accustomed from a very early age to the illimitable peace of the ocean, to the untainted air of its changeless circle of waves and roofless dome of sky, I have never been able to endure satisfactorily the unceasing roar of traffic in crowded streets, the relentless rush of mankind in the race for life which is the normal condition of our great centres of civilization. Yet, for many years, being condemned by circumstances to abide in the midst of urban strife and noise without a break from one weary year to another, I lived to mourn departed peace, and feed my longing for it on memory alone, without a hope that its enjoyments would ever again be mine. Then came unexpected relief, an opportunity to visit a secluded corner of Wiltshire, that inland division of England which is richer, perhaps, in memorials of our wonderful history than any other part of these little islands, crowded as they are with reminiscences of bygone glorious days.  
I took up my quarters in a hamlet on the banks of the Wylye, a delightful little river, taking its rise near the Somersetshire border, and wandering with innumerable windings through the heart of Wiltshire, associating itself with the Bourne and the Nadder, until at Salisbury it is lost in that most puzzling of all streams, the Avon. I said puzzling, for I believe there are but a handful of people out of the great host to whom the Avon is one of the best-known streams in the world from its associations, who know that there is one Avon feeding the Severn near Tewkesbury, which is Shakespeare’s Avon; there is another, upon which Bristol has founded her prosperity, and there is yet another, the Avon of my first mention, which, accumulated from numberless rivulets in the Vale of Pewsey, floweth through Salisbury, and loses itself finally in the waters of the English Channel at Christchurch in Hampshire. But I must ask forgiveness for allowing the wily Avon to lure me away thus far.
 
One of the chief charms of Wiltshire is its rolling downs rising upon either side of the valley, which in the course of ages the busy little Wylye has scooped out between them in gentle undulations, a short, sweet herbage for the most part covering their masses of solid chalk, coming to within a foot or two of those emerald surfaces. This is the place to come and ponder over the rubbish that is talked about the over-crowding of England. Here you shall wander for a whole day if you will, neither meeting or seeing a human being unless you follow the road that winds through the Deverills, five villages of the valley, all, alas, in swift process of decay. Even there the simple19 folk will stare long and earnestly at a stranger as he passes, before turning to resume their leisurely tasks, the uneventful, slumberous round of English village life. To me it was idyllic. A great peace came over me, and I felt that it was a sinful waste of nature to shut myself within four walls even at night. Long after the thirty souls peopling our hamlet had gone to bed I would sit out on the hillside behind the cottage, steeping my heart in the warm silence, only manifested—not broken—by the queer wailing cry of an uneasy plover as it fluttered overhead. And when, reluctantly, I did go to bed, I was careful to prop the windows wide open, even though I was occasionally awakened by the soft “flip-flip” of bats flying across my chamber, dazzled by the small light of my reading lamp.
 
The grey of the dawn, no matter how few had been my hours of sleep, never failed to awaken me, and, hurrying through my bath and dressing, I gat me out into the sweet breath of morning twilight while Nature was taking her beauty sleep and the dewdrops were waiting to welcome with their myriad smiles the first peep of the sun. And so it came to pass that one morning, just as the eastern horizon was being flooded with a marvellous series of colour-blends in mysterious and ever-changing sequence, that I mounted the swell of the down opposite to the village of Brixton Deverill, with every sense quickened to fullest appreciation of the lovely scene. Hosts of rabbits, quaint wee bunches of grey fur, each with a white blaze in the centre, scuttled from beneath my feet, and every little while, their curiosity overpowering natural fear, sat up with20 long ears erect and big black eyes devouring the uncouth intruder on their happy feeding grounds. Great flocks of partridges, almost as tame as domestic fowls (for it was July), ran merrily in and out among the furze clumps, or rose with a noisy whir of many wings when I came too close; aristocratic cock pheasants strolled by superciliously with a sidelong glance to see that the erect biped carried no gun, and an occasional lark gyrated to the swell of his own heart-lifting song as he rose in successive leaps to his proper sphere. I felt like singing myself, but Nature’s music was too sweet to be disturbed by my quavering voice, so I climbed on, all eyes and ears, and nerves a-tingle with receptivity of keenest enjoyment. Reaching the summit, I paused and surveyed the peaceful scene. Far to the left lay Longleat, its dense woods shimmering in a blue haze; to the right, Heytesbury Wood, in sombre shadow; and behind, the forest-like ridge of Chicklade. But near me, just peeping over the bare crest of an adjoining down, were the tops of a clump of firs, and, curious to know what that coppice might contain (I always have had a desire to explore the recesses of a lonely clump of trees), I turned my steps towards it, only stopping at short intervals to admire the gracefulness of the purple, blue, and yellow wild flowers with which the short, fine rabbit-grass was profusely besprent. Meanwhile the sun appeared in cloudless splendour, his powerful rays dissipating the spring-like freshness of the morning and promising a most sultry day. Yet as I drew nearer the dark fastness of the coppice I felt a chill, an actual physical sensation21 of cold. At the same time there arose within me a positive repugnance to draw any closer to that deep shade. This unaccountable change only made me angry with myself for being capable of feeling such a nonsensical, unexplainable hindrance to my purpose. So I took hold of it with both hands, and cast it from me, striding onward with quickened step until I really seemed to be breasting a strong tide. Panting with the intensity of my inward struggle, I reached the shadow cast by that solemn clump of pines, and saw the pale outlines of a wall in their midst. Now curiosity became paramount, and, actually shivering with cold, I pressed on until I stood in front of a fairly large house, surrounded by a flint wall on all sides, but at some yards distance from it. Through large holes in the encircling wall the wood-folk scampered or fluttered merrily but noiselessly; rabbits, hares, squirrels, and birds, and as I drew nearer there was a sudden whiff of strong animal scent, and a long red body launched itself through one of the openings, flitting past me like a flash of red-brown light. Although I had never seen an English fox before on his native heath, I recognized him from his pictures, and forgave him for startling me. Skirting the wall, I came to a huge gap with crumbling sides, where once had been a gate, I suppose. It commanded a view of the front of the house, which I now saw was a mere shell, its walls perforated in many places by the busy rabbits, which swarmed in and out like bees upon a hive. No windows remained, but the front door was fast closed and barred by a thick trunk of ivy, which had once overspread the whole building, but was now quite in keeping with it, for it was dead. The space between the wall and the house was thickly overgrown with nettles to nearly the height of a man, but there was no sign of any useful plant, and even the roof of the building, which was of red tiles and intact, had none of that kindly covering of house-leek, stone-crop, and moss, which always decks such spaces with beauty in the country. Upon a sudden impulse I turned, and behind me I saw with a shudder that only a few feet from where I stood there was a sheer descent of some thirty feet, a veritable pit some ten yards wide, but with its farther margin only a few feet high. Tall trees sprang from its bottom and sides, their roots surrounding a pool of black-looking water that seemed a receptacle for all manner of hideous mysteries. Involuntarily I shrank into myself, and looked up for a glint of blue sunlit sky, but it was like being in a vault, dark and dank and cold. Still, the idea never entered my head to get out until I had seen all that might be there to be seen, although I confess to comforting myself, as I have often done on a dull and gloomy day, with the reminder that just outside the sun was shining steadily.
 
Turning away from that grim-looking pit, I thrust myself through the savage nettle-bed, my hands held high so that I could guard my face with my arms, until I reached the first opening in the house wall that offered admission. With just one moment’s hesitation I stepped within, and stood on the decayed floor of what had once been the best room. And then23 I had need of all my disbelief in ghosts, for around me and beneath me and above were a congeries of all the queer noises one could conjure up. Soft pattering of feet, hollow murmurings as of voices, the indefinite sound of brushing past that always makes one turn sharply to see who is near. I found my mouth getting dry and my hands burning, in spite of the chill that still clung to me; but still I went on and explored every room in the eerie place, noting a colony of bats that huddled together among the bare roof-beams, prying into the numerous cavities in floors and walls made by the rabbits and the rats, but seeing nothing worthy of note until I reached a sort of cellar which looked as if it had been used as a bakehouse. Upon stepping down the decrepit ladder which led to it, I startled a great colony of rats, that fled in all directions with shrill notes of affright, hardly more scared than myself. The place was so dark that I thankfully remembered my box of wax matches, and, twisting two or three torches out of a newspaper I found in my jacket pocket, I soon had a good light.
 
It revealed a cavity in the floor just in front of a huge baker’s oven, into the dim recesses of which I peered, finding that it extended for some distance on either side of the opening. Lighting another torch, I jumped down and found—three oblong boxes of rude construction, and across them the mouldering frame of what had once been a man. At last I had seen enough, and with something tap-tapping inside my head, I scrambled hastily out of the hole, my body shaking as if with ague, and my lungs aching for air. I looked24 neither to the right nor the left as I went, nor paused, regardless of the nettle grove, until I emerged upon the bright hilltop, where I flung myself down and drank in great gulps of sweet air until my tremors passed away and the tumult of my mind became appeased.
 
Without casting another look back at that lonely place, or attempting to speculate upon what I had seen, I departed for home, and, after a hasty breakfast, sought out a friend in the next village, Longbridge Deverill, who had already given me many pleasant hours by retailing scraps of local history reaching back for hundreds of years. I found him in his pretty garden enjoying the bright day, with a look of deep content upon his worn old face—the afterglow of a well-spent life. Staying his rising to greet me, I flung myself down on the springy turf by his side, and almost without a word of preface, gave him a hurried account of my morning’s adventure. He listened in grave silence until I had finished, and then began as follows.