["[Event happened on 2024-01-01 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Up at the League, says a friend, there had been one night a brisk\nconversational discussion, as to what would happen on the Morrow of the\nRevolution, finally shading off into a vigorous statement by various\nfriends of their views on the future of the fully-developed new society. Says our friend: Considering the subject, the discussion was\ngood-tempered; for those present being used to public meetings and after-\nlecture debates, if they did not listen to each others' opinions (which\ncould scarcely be expected of them), at all events did not always attempt\nto speak all together, as is the custom of people in ordinary polite\nsociety when conversing on a subject which interests them. For the rest,\nthere were six persons present, and consequently six sections of the\nparty were represented, four of which had strong but divergent Anarchist\nopinions. One of the sections, says our friend, a man whom he knows very\nwell indeed, sat almost silent at the beginning of the discussion, but at\nlast got drawn into it, and finished by roaring out very loud, and\ndamning all the rest for fools; after which befel a period of noise, and\nthen a lull, during which the aforesaid section, having said good-night\nvery amicably, took his way home by himself to a western suburb, using\nthe means of travelling which civilisation has forced upon us like a\nhabit. As he sat in that vapour-bath of hurried and discontented\nhumanity, a carriage of the underground railway, he, like others, stewed\ndiscontentedly, while in self-reproachful mood he turned over the many\nexcellent and conclusive arguments which, though they lay at his fingers'\nends, he had forgotten in the just past discussion. But this frame of\nmind he was so used to, that it didn't last him long, and after a brief\ndiscomfort, caused by disgust with himself for having lost his temper\n(which he was also well used to), he found himself musing on the subject-\nmatter of discussion, but still discontentedly and unhappily. \"If I\ncould but see a day of it,\" he said to himself; \"if I could but see it!\" As he formed the words, the train stopped at his station, five minutes'\nwalk from his own house, which stood on the banks of the Thames, a little\nway above an ugly suspension bridge. He went out of the station, still\ndiscontented and unhappy, muttering \"If I could but see it! if I could\nbut see it!\" but had not gone many steps towards the river before (says\nour friend who tells the story) all that discontent and trouble seemed to\nslip off him. It was a beautiful night of early winter, the air just sharp enough to be\nrefreshing after the hot room and the stinking railway carriage. The\nwind, which had lately turned a point or two north of west, had blown the\nsky clear of all cloud save a light fleck or two which went swiftly down\nthe heavens. There was a young moon halfway up the sky, and as the home-\nfarer caught sight of it, tangled in the branches of a tall old elm, he\ncould scarce bring to his mind the shabby London suburb where he was, and\nhe felt as if he were in a pleasant country place--pleasanter, indeed,\nthan the deep country was as he had known it. He came right down to the river-side, and lingered a little, looking over\nthe low wall to note the moonlit river, near upon high water, go swirling\nand glittering up to Chiswick Eyot: as for the ugly bridge below, he did\nnot notice it or think of it, except when for a moment (says our friend)\nit struck him that he missed the row of lights down stream. Then he\nturned to his house door and let himself in; and even as he shut the door\nto, disappeared all remembrance of that brilliant logic and foresight\nwhich had so illuminated the recent discussion; and of the discussion\nitself there remained no trace, save a vague hope, that was now become a\npleasure, for days of peace and rest, and cleanness and smiling goodwill. In this mood he tumbled into bed, and fell asleep after his wont, in two\nminutes' time; but (contrary to his wont) woke up again not long after in\nthat curiously wide-awake condition which sometimes surprises even good\nsleepers; a condition under which we feel all our wits preternaturally\nsharpened, while all the miserable muddles we have ever got into, all the\ndisgraces and losses of our lives, will insist on thrusting themselves\nforward for the consideration of those sharpened wits. In this state he lay (says our friend) till he had almost begun to enjoy\nit: till the tale of his stupidities amused him, and the entanglements\nbefore him, which he saw so clearly, began to shape themselves into an\namusing story for him. He heard one o'clock strike, then two and then three; after which he fell\nasleep again. Our friend says that from that sleep he awoke once more,\nand afterwards went through such surprising adventures that he thinks\nthat they should be told to our comrades, and indeed the public in\ngeneral, and therefore proposes to tell them now. But, says he, I think\nit would be better if I told them in the first person, as if it were\nmyself who had gone through them; which, indeed, will be the easier and\nmore natural to me, since I understand the feelings and desires of the\ncomrade of whom I am telling better than any one else in the world does. Well, I awoke, and found that I had kicked my bedclothes off; and no\nwonder, for it was hot and the sun shining brightly. I jumped up and\nwashed and hurried on my clothes, but in a hazy and half-awake condition,\nas if I had slept for a long, long while, and could not shake off the\nweight of slumber. In fact, I rather took it for granted that I was at\nhome in my own room than saw that it was so. When I was dressed, I felt the place so hot that I made haste to get out\nof the room and out of the house; and my first feeling was a delicious\nrelief caused by the fresh air and pleasant breeze; my second, as I began\nto gather my wits together, mere measureless wonder: for it was winter\nwhen I went to bed the last night, and now, by witness of the river-side\ntrees, it was summer, a beautiful bright morning seemingly of early June. However, there was still the Thames sparkling under the sun, and near\nhigh water, as last night I had seen it gleaming under the moon. I had by no means shaken off the feeling of oppression, and wherever I\nmight have been should scarce have been quite conscious of the place; so\nit was no wonder that I felt rather puzzled in despite of the familiar\nface of the Thames. Withal I felt dizzy and queer; and remembering that\npeople often got a boat and had a swim in mid-stream, I thought I would\ndo no less. It seems very early, quoth I to myself, but I daresay I\nshall find someone at Biffin's to take me. However, I didn't get as far\nas Biffin's, or even turn to my left thitherward, because just then I\nbegan to see that there was a landing-stage right before me in front of\nmy house: in fact, on the place where my next-door neighbour had rigged\none up, though somehow it didn't look like that either. Down I went on\nto it, and sure enough among the empty boats moored to it lay a man on\nhis sculls in a solid-looking tub of a boat clearly meant for bathers. He\nnodded to me, and bade me good-morning as if he expected me, so I jumped\nin without any words, and he paddled away quietly as I peeled for my\nswim. As we went, I looked down on the water, and couldn't help saying--\n\n\"How clear the water is this morning!\" \"Is it?\" said he; \"I didn't notice it. You know the flood-tide always\nthickens it a bit.\" \"H'm,\" said I, \"I have seen it pretty muddy even at half-ebb.\" He said nothing in answer, but seemed rather astonished; and as he now\nlay just stemming the tide, and I had my clothes off, I jumped in without\nmore ado. Of course when I had my head above water again I turned\ntowards the tide, and my eyes naturally sought for the bridge, and so\nutterly astonished was I by what I saw, that I forgot to strike out, and\nwent spluttering under water again, and when I came up made straight for\nthe boat; for I felt that I must ask some questions of my waterman, so\nbewildering had been the half-sight I had seen from the face of the river\nwith the water hardly out of my eyes; though by this time I was quit of\nthe slumbrous and dizzy feeling, and was wide-awake and clear-headed.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-01, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-02 The user is reading a book]\n<User> As I got in up the steps which he had lowered, and he held out his hand\nto help me, we went drifting speedily up towards Chiswick; but now he\ncaught up the sculls and brought her head round again, and said--\"A short\nswim, neighbour; but perhaps you find the water cold this morning, after\nyour journey. Shall I put you ashore at once, or would you like to go\ndown to Putney before breakfast?\" He spoke in a way so unlike what I should have expected from a\nHammersmith waterman, that I stared at him, as I answered, \"Please to\nhold her a little; I want to look about me a bit.\" \"All right,\" he said; \"it's no less pretty in its way here than it is off\nBarn Elms; it's jolly everywhere this time in the morning. I'm glad you\ngot up early; it's barely five o'clock yet.\" If I was astonished with my sight of the river banks, I was no less\nastonished at my waterman, now that I had time to look at him and see him\nwith my head and eyes clear. He was a handsome young fellow, with a peculiarly pleasant and friendly\nlook about his eyes,--an expression which was quite new to me then,\nthough I soon became familiar with it. For the rest, he was dark-haired\nand berry-brown of skin, well-knit and strong, and obviously used to\nexercising his muscles, but with nothing rough or coarse about him, and\nclean as might be. His dress was not like any modern work-a-day clothes\nI had seen, but would have served very well as a costume for a picture of\nfourteenth century life: it was of dark blue cloth, simple enough, but of\nfine web, and without a stain on it. He had a brown leather belt round\nhis waist, and I noticed that its clasp was of damascened steel\nbeautifully wrought. In short, he seemed to be like some specially manly\nand refined young gentleman, playing waterman for a spree, and I\nconcluded that this was the case. I felt that I must make some conversation; so I pointed to the Surrey\nbank, where I noticed some light plank stages running down the foreshore,\nwith windlasses at the landward end of them, and said, \"What are they\ndoing with those things here? If we were on the Tay, I should have said\nthat they were for drawing the salmon nets; but here--\"\n\n\"Well,\" said he, smiling, \"of course that is what they _are_ for. Where\nthere are salmon, there are likely to be salmon-nets, Tay or Thames; but\nof course they are not always in use; we don't want salmon _every_ day of\nthe season.\" I was going to say, \"But is this the Thames?\" but held my peace in my\nwonder, and turned my bewildered eyes eastward to look at the bridge\nagain, and thence to the shores of the London river; and surely there was\nenough to astonish me. For though there was a bridge across the stream\nand houses on its banks, how all was changed from last night! The soap-\nworks with their smoke-vomiting chimneys were gone; the engineer's works\ngone; the lead-works gone; and no sound of rivetting and hammering came\ndown the west wind from Thorneycroft's. Then the bridge! I had perhaps\ndreamed of such a bridge, but never seen such an one out of an\nilluminated manuscript; for not even the Ponte Vecchio at Florence came\nanywhere near it. It was of stone arches, splendidly solid, and as\ngraceful as they were strong; high enough also to let ordinary river\ntraffic through easily. Over the parapet showed quaint and fanciful\nlittle buildings, which I supposed to be booths or shops, beset with\npainted and gilded vanes and spirelets. The stone was a little\nweathered, but showed no marks of the grimy sootiness which I was used to\non every London building more than a year old. In short, to me a wonder\nof a bridge. The sculler noted my eager astonished look, and said, as if in answer to\nmy thoughts--\n\n\"Yes, it _is_ a pretty bridge, isn't it? Even the up-stream bridges,\nwhich are so much smaller, are scarcely daintier, and the down-stream\nones are scarcely more dignified and stately.\" I found myself saying, almost against my will, \"How old is it?\" \"Oh, not very old,\" he said; \"it was built or at least opened, in 2003. There used to be a rather plain timber bridge before then.\" The date shut my mouth as if a key had been turned in a padlock fixed to\nmy lips; for I saw that something inexplicable had happened, and that if\nI said much, I should be mixed up in a game of cross questions and\ncrooked answers. So I tried to look unconcerned, and to glance in a\nmatter-of-course way at the banks of the river, though this is what I saw\nup to the bridge and a little beyond; say as far as the site of the soap-\nworks. Both shores had a line of very pretty houses, low and not large,\nstanding back a little way from the river; they were mostly built of red\nbrick and roofed with tiles, and looked, above all, comfortable, and as\nif they were, so to say, alive, and sympathetic with the life of the\ndwellers in them. There was a continuous garden in front of them, going\ndown to the water's edge, in which the flowers were now blooming\nluxuriantly, and sending delicious waves of summer scent over the eddying\nstream. Behind the houses, I could see great trees rising, mostly\nplanes, and looking down the water there were the reaches towards Putney\nalmost as if they were a lake with a forest shore, so thick were the big\ntrees; and I said aloud, but as if to myself--\n\n\"Well, I'm glad that they have not built over Barn Elms.\" I blushed for my fatuity as the words slipped out of my mouth, and my\ncompanion looked at me with a half smile which I thought I understood; so\nto hide my confusion I said, \"Please take me ashore now: I want to get my\nbreakfast.\" He nodded, and brought her head round with a sharp stroke, and in a trice\nwe were at the landing-stage again. He jumped out and I followed him;\nand of course I was not surprised to see him wait, as if for the\ninevitable after-piece that follows the doing of a service to a fellow-\ncitizen. So I put my hand into my waistcoat-pocket, and said, \"How\nmuch?\" though still with the uncomfortable feeling that perhaps I was\noffering money to a gentleman. He looked puzzled, and said, \"How much? I don't quite understand what\nyou are asking about. Do you mean the tide? If so, it is close on the\nturn now.\" I blushed, and said, stammering, \"Please don't take it amiss if I ask\nyou; I mean no offence: but what ought I to pay you? You see I am a\nstranger, and don't know your customs--or your coins.\" And therewith I took a handful of money out of my pocket, as one does in\na foreign country. And by the way, I saw that the silver had oxydised,\nand was like a blackleaded stove in colour. He still seemed puzzled, but not at all offended; and he looked at the\ncoins with some curiosity. I thought, Well after all, he _is_ a\nwaterman, and is considering what he may venture to take. He seems such\na nice fellow that I'm sure I don't grudge him a little over-payment. I\nwonder, by the way, whether I couldn't hire him as a guide for a day or\ntwo, since he is so intelligent. Therewith my new friend said thoughtfully:\n\n\"I think I know what you mean. You think that I have done you a service;\nso you feel yourself bound to give me something which I am not to give to\na neighbour, unless he has done something special for me. I have heard\nof this kind of thing; but pardon me for saying, that it seems to us a\ntroublesome and roundabout custom; and we don't know how to manage it. And you see this ferrying and giving people casts about the water is my\n_business_, which I would do for anybody; so to take gifts in connection\nwith it would look very queer. Besides, if one person gave me something,\nthen another might, and another, and so on; and I hope you won't think me\nrude if I say that I shouldn't know where to stow away so many mementos\nof friendship.\" And he laughed loud and merrily, as if the idea of being paid for his\nwork was a very funny joke. I confess I began to be afraid that the man\nwas mad, though he looked sane enough; and I was rather glad to think\nthat I was a good swimmer, since we were so close to a deep swift stream.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-02, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-04 The user is reading a book]\n<User> However, he went on by no means like a madman:\n\n\"As to your coins, they are curious, but not very old; they seem to be\nall of the reign of Victoria; you might give them to some\nscantily-furnished museum. Ours has enough of such coins, besides a fair\nnumber of earlier ones, many of which are beautiful, whereas these\nnineteenth century ones are so beastly ugly, ain't they? We have a piece\nof Edward III., with the king in a ship, and little leopards and fleurs-\nde-lys all along the gunwale, so delicately worked. You see,\" he said,\nwith something of a smirk, \"I am fond of working in gold and fine metals;\nthis buckle here is an early piece of mine.\" No doubt I looked a little shy of him under the influence of that doubt\nas to his sanity. So he broke off short, and said in a kind voice:\n\n\"But I see that I am boring you, and I ask your pardon. For, not to\nmince matters, I can tell that you _are_ a stranger, and must come from a\nplace very unlike England. But also it is clear that it won't do to\noverdose you with information about this place, and that you had best\nsuck it in little by little. Further, I should take it as very kind in\nyou if you would allow me to be the showman of our new world to you,\nsince you have stumbled on me first. Though indeed it will be a mere\nkindness on your part, for almost anybody would make as good a guide, and\nmany much better.\" There certainly seemed no flavour in him of Colney Hatch; and besides I\nthought I could easily shake him off if it turned out that he really was\nmad; so I said:\n\n\"It is a very kind offer, but it is difficult for me to accept it,\nunless--\"  I was going to say, Unless you will let me pay you properly;\nbut fearing to stir up Colney Hatch again, I changed the sentence into,\n\"I fear I shall be taking you away from your work--or your amusement.\" \"O,\" he said, \"don't trouble about that, because it will give me an\nopportunity of doing a good turn to a friend of mine, who wants to take\nmy work here. He is a weaver from Yorkshire, who has rather overdone\nhimself between his weaving and his mathematics, both indoor work, you\nsee; and being a great friend of mine, he naturally came to me to get him\nsome outdoor work. If you think you can put up with me, pray take me as\nyour guide.\" He added presently: \"It is true that I have promised to go up-stream to\nsome special friends of mine, for the hay-harvest; but they won't be\nready for us for more than a week: and besides, you might go with me, you\nknow, and see some very nice people, besides making notes of our ways in\nOxfordshire. You could hardly do better if you want to see the country.\" I felt myself obliged to thank him, whatever might come of it; and he\nadded eagerly:\n\n\"Well, then, that's settled. I will give my friend a call; he is living in\nthe Guest House like you, and if he isn't up yet, he ought to be this\nfine summer morning.\" Therewith he took a little silver bugle-horn from his girdle and blew two\nor three sharp but agreeable notes on it; and presently from the house\nwhich stood on the site of my old dwelling (of which more hereafter)\nanother young man came sauntering towards us. He was not so well-looking\nor so strongly made as my sculler friend, being sandy-haired, rather\npale, and not stout-built; but his face was not wanting in that happy and\nfriendly expression which I had noticed in his friend. As he came up\nsmiling towards us, I saw with pleasure that I must give up the Colney\nHatch theory as to the waterman, for no two madmen ever behaved as they\ndid before a sane man. His dress also was of the same cut as the first\nman's, though somewhat gayer, the surcoat being light green with a golden\nspray embroidered on the breast, and his belt being of filagree silver-\nwork. He gave me good-day very civilly, and greeting his friend joyously, said:\n\n\"Well, Dick, what is it this morning? Am I to have my work, or rather\nyour work? I dreamed last night that we were off up the river fishing.\" \"All right, Bob,\" said my sculler; \"you will drop into my place, and if\nyou find it too much, there is George Brightling on the look out for a\nstroke of work, and he lives close handy to you. But see, here is a\nstranger who is willing to amuse me to-day by taking me as his guide\nabout our country-side, and you may imagine I don't want to lose the\nopportunity; so you had better take to the boat at once. But in any case\nI shouldn't have kept you out of it for long, since I am due in the hay-\nfields in a few days.\" The newcomer rubbed his hands with glee, but turning to me, said in a\nfriendly voice:\n\n\"Neighbour, both you and friend Dick are lucky, and will have a good time\nto-day, as indeed I shall too. But you had better both come in with me\nat once and get something to eat, lest you should forget your dinner in\nyour amusement. I suppose you came into the Guest House after I had gone\nto bed last night?\" I nodded, not caring to enter into a long explanation which would have\nled to nothing, and which in truth by this time I should have begun to\ndoubt myself. And we all three turned toward the door of the Guest\nHouse. I lingered a little behind the others to have a stare at this house,\nwhich, as I have told you, stood on the site of my old dwelling. It was a longish building with its gable ends turned away from the road,\nand long traceried windows coming rather low down set in the wall that\nfaced us. It was very handsomely built of red brick with a lead roof;\nand high up above the windows there ran a frieze of figure subjects in\nbaked clay, very well executed, and designed with a force and directness\nwhich I had never noticed in modern work before. The subjects I\nrecognised at once, and indeed was very particularly familiar with them. However, all this I took in in a minute; for we were presently within\ndoors, and standing in a hall with a floor of marble mosaic and an open\ntimber roof. There were no windows on the side opposite to the river,\nbut arches below leading into chambers, one of which showed a glimpse of\na garden beyond, and above them a long space of wall gaily painted (in\nfresco, I thought) with similar subjects to those of the frieze outside;\neverything about the place was handsome and generously solid as to\nmaterial; and though it was not very large (somewhat smaller than Crosby\nHall perhaps), one felt in it that exhilarating sense of space and\nfreedom which satisfactory architecture always gives to an unanxious man\nwho is in the habit of using his eyes. In this pleasant place, which of course I knew to be the hall of the\nGuest House, three young women were flitting to and fro. As they were\nthe first of the sex I had seen on this eventful morning, I naturally\nlooked at them very attentively, and found them at least as good as the\ngardens, the architecture, and the male men. As to their dress, which of\ncourse I took note of, I should say that they were decently veiled with\ndrapery, and not bundled up with millinery; that they were clothed like\nwomen, not upholstered like armchairs, as most women of our time are. In\nshort, their dress was somewhat between that of the ancient classical\ncostume and the simpler forms of the fourteenth century garments, though\nit was clearly not an imitation of either: the materials were light and\ngay to suit the season. As to the women themselves, it was pleasant\nindeed to see them, they were so kind and happy-looking in expression of\nface, so shapely and well-knit of body, and thoroughly healthy-looking\nand strong. All were at least comely, and one of them very handsome and\nregular of feature. They came up to us at once merrily and without the\nleast affectation of shyness, and all three shook hands with me as if I\nwere a friend newly come back from a long journey: though I could not\nhelp noticing that they looked askance at my garments; for I had on my\nclothes of last night, and at the best was never a dressy person.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-04, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-07 The user is reading a book]\n<User> A word or two from Robert the weaver, and they bustled about on our\nbehoof, and presently came and took us by the hands and led us to a table\nin the pleasantest corner of the hall, where our breakfast was spread for\nus; and, as we sat down, one of them hurried out by the chambers\naforesaid, and came back again in a little while with a great bunch of\nroses, very different in size and quality to what Hammersmith had been\nwont to grow, but very like the produce of an old country garden. She\nhurried back thence into the buttery, and came back once more with a\ndelicately made glass, into which she put the flowers and set them down\nin the midst of our table. One of the others, who had run off also, then\ncame back with a big cabbage-leaf filled with strawberries, some of them\nbarely ripe, and said as she set them on the table, \"There, now; I\nthought of that before I got up this morning; but looking at the stranger\nhere getting into your boat, Dick, put it out of my head; so that I was\nnot before _all_ the blackbirds: however, there are a few about as good\nas you will get them anywhere in Hammersmith this morning.\" Robert patted her on the head in a friendly manner; and we fell to on our\nbreakfast, which was simple enough, but most delicately cooked, and set\non the table with much daintiness. The bread was particularly good, and\nwas of several different kinds, from the big, rather close,\ndark-coloured, sweet-tasting farmhouse loaf, which was most to my liking,\nto the thin pipe-stems of wheaten crust, such as I have eaten in Turin. As I was putting the first mouthfuls into my mouth my eye caught a carved\nand gilded inscription on the panelling, behind what we should have\ncalled the High Table in an Oxford college hall, and a familiar name in\nit forced me to read it through. Thus it ran:\n\n   \"_Guests and neighbours_, _on the site of this Guest-hall once stood\n   the lecture-room of the Hammersmith Socialists_. _Drink a glass to\n   the memory_! _May 1962_.\" It is difficult to tell you how I felt as I read these words, and I\nsuppose my face showed how much I was moved, for both my friends looked\ncuriously at me, and there was silence between us for a little while. Presently the weaver, who was scarcely so well mannered a man as the\nferryman, said to me rather awkwardly:\n\n\"Guest, we don't know what to call you: is there any indiscretion in\nasking you your name?\" \"Well,\" said I, \"I have some doubts about it myself; so suppose you call\nme Guest, which is a family name, you know, and add William to it if you\nplease.\" Dick nodded kindly to me; but a shade of anxiousness passed over the\nweaver's face, and he said--\"I hope you don't mind my asking, but would\nyou tell me where you come from? I am curious about such things for good\nreasons, literary reasons.\" Dick was clearly kicking him underneath the table; but he was not much\nabashed, and awaited my answer somewhat eagerly. As for me, I was just\ngoing to blurt out \"Hammersmith,\" when I bethought me what an\nentanglement of cross purposes that would lead us into; so I took time to\ninvent a lie with circumstance, guarded by a little truth, and said:\n\n\"You see, I have been such a long time away from Europe that things seem\nstrange to me now; but I was born and bred on the edge of Epping Forest;\nWalthamstow and Woodford, to wit.\" \"A pretty place, too,\" broke in Dick; \"a very jolly place, now that the\ntrees have had time to grow again since the great clearing of houses in\n1955.\" Quoth the irrepressible weaver: \"Dear neighbour, since you knew the\nForest some time ago, could you tell me what truth there is in the rumour\nthat in the nineteenth century the trees were all pollards?\" This was catching me on my archaeological natural-history side, and I\nfell into the trap without any thought of where and when I was; so I\nbegan on it, while one of the girls, the handsome one, who had been\nscattering little twigs of lavender and other sweet-smelling herbs about\nthe floor, came near to listen, and stood behind me with her hand on my\nshoulder, in which she held some of the plant that I used to call balm:\nits strong sweet smell brought back to my mind my very early days in the\nkitchen-garden at Woodford, and the large blue plums which grew on the\nwall beyond the sweet-herb patch,--a connection of memories which all\nboys will see at once. I started off: \"When I was a boy, and for long after, except for a piece\nabout Queen Elizabeth's Lodge, and for the part about High Beech, the\nForest was almost wholly made up of pollard hornbeams mixed with holly\nthickets. But when the Corporation of London took it over about twenty-\nfive years ago, the topping and lopping, which was a part of the old\ncommoners' rights, came to an end, and the trees were let to grow. But I\nhave not seen the place now for many years, except once, when we Leaguers\nwent a pleasuring to High Beech. I was very much shocked then to see how\nit was built-over and altered; and the other day we heard that the\nphilistines were going to landscape-garden it. But what you were saying\nabout the building being stopped and the trees growing is only too good\nnews;--only you know--\"\n\nAt that point I suddenly remembered Dick's date, and stopped short rather\nconfused. The eager weaver didn't notice my confusion, but said hastily,\nas if he were almost aware of his breach of good manners, \"But, I say,\nhow old are you?\" Dick and the pretty girl both burst out laughing, as if Robert's conduct\nwere excusable on the grounds of eccentricity; and Dick said amidst his\nlaughter:\n\n\"Hold hard, Bob; this questioning of guests won't do. Why, much learning\nis spoiling you. You remind me of the radical cobblers in the silly old\nnovels, who, according to the authors, were prepared to trample down all\ngood manners in the pursuit of utilitarian knowledge. The fact is, I\nbegin to think that you have so muddled your head with mathematics, and\nwith grubbing into those idiotic old books about political economy (he\nhe! ), that you scarcely know how to behave. Really, it is about time for\nyou to take to some open-air work, so that you may clear away the cobwebs\nfrom your brain.\" The weaver only laughed good-humouredly; and the girl went up to him and\npatted his cheek and said laughingly, \"Poor fellow! he was born so.\" As for me, I was a little puzzled, but I laughed also, partly for\ncompany's sake, and partly with pleasure at their unanxious happiness and\ngood temper; and before Robert could make the excuse to me which he was\ngetting ready, I said:\n\n\"But neighbours\" (I had caught up that word), \"I don't in the least mind\nanswering questions, when I can do so: ask me as many as you please; it's\nfun for me. I will tell you all about Epping Forest when I was a boy, if\nyou please; and as to my age, I'm not a fine lady, you know, so why\nshouldn't I tell you? I'm hard on fifty-six.\" In spite of the recent lecture on good manners, the weaver could not help\ngiving a long \"whew\" of astonishment, and the others were so amused by\nhis _naivete_ that the merriment flitted all over their faces, though for\ncourtesy's sake they forbore actual laughter; while I looked from one to\nthe other in a puzzled manner, and at last said:\n\n\"Tell me, please, what is amiss: you know I want to learn from you. And\nplease laugh; only tell me.\" Well, they _did_ laugh, and I joined them again, for the above-stated\nreasons. But at last the pretty woman said coaxingly--\n\n\"Well, well, he _is_ rude, poor fellow! but you see I may as well tell\nyou what he is thinking about: he means that you look rather old for your\nage. But surely there need be no wonder in that, since you have been\ntravelling; and clearly from all you have been saying, in unsocial\ncountries. It has often been said, and no doubt truly, that one ages\nvery quickly if one lives amongst unhappy people. Also they say that\nsouthern England is a good place for keeping good looks.\" She blushed\nand said: \"How old am I, do you think?\"\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-07, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-09 The user is reading a book]\n<User> \"Well,\" quoth I, \"I have always been told that a woman is as old as she\nlooks, so without offence or flattery, I should say that you were\ntwenty.\" She laughed merrily, and said, \"I am well served out for fishing for\ncompliments, since I have to tell you the truth, to wit, that I am forty-\ntwo.\" I stared at her, and drew musical laughter from her again; but I might\nwell stare, for there was not a careful line on her face; her skin was as\nsmooth as ivory, her cheeks full and round, her lips as red as the roses\nshe had brought in; her beautiful arms, which she had bared for her work,\nfirm and well-knit from shoulder to wrist. She blushed a little under my\ngaze, though it was clear that she had taken me for a man of eighty; so\nto pass it off I said--\n\n\"Well, you see, the old saw is proved right again, and I ought not to\nhave let you tempt me into asking you a rude question.\" She laughed again, and said: \"Well, lads, old and young, I must get to my\nwork now. We shall be rather busy here presently; and I want to clear it\noff soon, for I began to read a pretty old book yesterday, and I want to\nget on with it this morning: so good-bye for the present.\" She waved a hand to us, and stepped lightly down the hall, taking (as\nScott says) at least part of the sun from our table as she went. When she was gone, Dick said \"Now guest, won't you ask a question or two\nof our friend here? It is only fair that you should have your turn.\" \"I shall be very glad to answer them,\" said the weaver. \"If I ask you any questions, sir,\" said I, \"they will not be very severe;\nbut since I hear that you are a weaver, I should like to ask you\nsomething about that craft, as I am--or was--interested in it.\" \"Oh,\" said he, \"I shall not be of much use to you there, I'm afraid. I\nonly do the most mechanical kind of weaving, and am in fact but a poor\ncraftsman, unlike Dick here. Then besides the weaving, I do a little\nwith machine printing and composing, though I am little use at the finer\nkinds of printing; and moreover machine printing is beginning to die out,\nalong with the waning of the plague of book-making, so I have had to turn\nto other things that I have a taste for, and have taken to mathematics;\nand also I am writing a sort of antiquarian book about the peaceable and\nprivate history, so to say, of the end of the nineteenth century,--more\nfor the sake of giving a picture of the country before the fighting began\nthan for anything else. That was why I asked you those questions about\nEpping Forest. You have rather puzzled me, I confess, though your\ninformation was so interesting. But later on, I hope, we may have some\nmore talk together, when our friend Dick isn't here. I know he thinks me\nrather a grinder, and despises me for not being very deft with my hands:\nthat's the way nowadays. From what I have read of the nineteenth century\nliterature (and I have read a good deal), it is clear to me that this is\na kind of revenge for the stupidity of that day, which despised everybody\nwho _could_ use his hands. But Dick, old fellow, _Ne quid nimis_! Don't\noverdo it!\" \"Come now,\" said Dick, \"am I likely to? Am I not the most tolerant man\nin the world? Am I not quite contented so long as you don't make me\nlearn mathematics, or go into your new science of aesthetics, and let me\ndo a little practical aesthetics with my gold and steel, and the blowpipe\nand the nice little hammer? But, hillo! here comes another questioner\nfor you, my poor guest. I say, Bob, you must help me to defend him now.\" \"Here, Boffin,\" he cried out, after a pause; \"here we are, if you must\nhave it!\" I looked over my shoulder, and saw something flash and gleam in the\nsunlight that lay across the hall; so I turned round, and at my ease saw\na splendid figure slowly sauntering over the pavement; a man whose\nsurcoat was embroidered most copiously as well as elegantly, so that the\nsun flashed back from him as if he had been clad in golden armour. The\nman himself was tall, dark-haired, and exceedingly handsome, and though\nhis face was no less kindly in expression than that of the others, he\nmoved with that somewhat haughty mien which great beauty is apt to give\nto both men and women. He came and sat down at our table with a smiling\nface, stretching out his long legs and hanging his arm over the chair in\nthe slowly graceful way which tall and well-built people may use without\naffectation. He was a man in the prime of life, but looked as happy as a\nchild who has just got a new toy. He bowed gracefully to me and said--\n\n\"I see clearly that you are the guest, of whom Annie has just told me,\nwho have come from some distant country that does not know of us, or our\nways of life. So I daresay you would not mind answering me a few\nquestions; for you see--\"\n\nHere Dick broke in: \"No, please, Boffin! let it alone for the present. Of\ncourse you want the guest to be happy and comfortable; and how can that\nbe if he has to trouble himself with answering all sorts of questions\nwhile he is still confused with the new customs and people about him? No,\nno: I am going to take him where he can ask questions himself, and have\nthem answered; that is, to my great-grandfather in Bloomsbury: and I am\nsure you can't have anything to say against that. So instead of\nbothering, you had much better go out to James Allen's and get a carriage\nfor me, as I shall drive him up myself; and please tell Jim to let me\nhave the old grey, for I can drive a wherry much better than a carriage. Jump up, old fellow, and don't be disappointed; our guest will keep\nhimself for you and your stories.\" I stared at Dick; for I wondered at his speaking to such a\ndignified-looking personage so familiarly, not to say curtly; for I\nthought that this Mr. Boffin, in spite of his well-known name out of\nDickens, must be at the least a senator of these strange people. However,\nhe got up and said, \"All right, old oar-wearer, whatever you like; this\nis not one of my busy days; and though\" (with a condescending bow to me)\n\"my pleasure of a talk with this learned guest is put off, I admit that\nhe ought to see your worthy kinsman as soon as possible. Besides,\nperhaps he will be the better able to answer _my_ questions after his own\nhave been answered.\" And therewith he turned and swung himself out of the hall. When he was well gone, I said: \"Is it wrong to ask what Mr. Boffin is? whose name, by the way, reminds me of many pleasant hours passed in\nreading Dickens.\" Dick laughed. \"Yes, yes,\" said he, \"as it does us. I see you take the\nallusion. Of course his real name is not Boffin, but Henry Johnson; we\nonly call him Boffin as a joke, partly because he is a dustman, and\npartly because he will dress so showily, and get as much gold on him as a\nbaron of the Middle Ages. As why should he not if he likes? only we are\nhis special friends, you know, so of course we jest with him.\" I held my tongue for some time after that; but Dick went on:\n\n\"He is a capital fellow, and you can't help liking him; but he has a\nweakness: he will spend his time in writing reactionary novels, and is\nvery proud of getting the local colour right, as he calls it; and as he\nthinks you come from some forgotten corner of the earth, where people are\nunhappy, and consequently interesting to a story-teller, he thinks he\nmight get some information out of you. O, he will be quite\nstraightforward with you, for that matter. Only for your own comfort\nbeware of him!\" \"Well, Dick,\" said the weaver, doggedly, \"I think his novels are very\ngood.\" \"Of course you do,\" said Dick; \"birds of a feather flock together;\nmathematics and antiquarian novels stand on much the same footing. But\nhere he comes again.\" And in effect the Golden Dustman hailed us from the hall-door; so we all\ngot up and went into the porch, before which, with a strong grey horse in\nthe shafts, stood a carriage ready for us which I could not help\nnoticing.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-09, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-10 The user is reading a book]\n<User> It was light and handy, but had none of that sickening\nvulgarity which I had known as inseparable from the carriages of our\ntime, especially the \"elegant\" ones, but was as graceful and pleasant in\nline as a Wessex waggon. We got in, Dick and I. The girls, who had come\ninto the porch to see us off, waved their hands to us; the weaver nodded\nkindly; the dustman bowed as gracefully as a troubadour; Dick shook the\nreins, and we were off. We turned away from the river at once, and were soon in the main road\nthat runs through Hammersmith. But I should have had no guess as to\nwhere I was, if I had not started from the waterside; for King Street was\ngone, and the highway ran through wide sunny meadows and garden-like\ntillage. The Creek, which we crossed at once, had been rescued from its\nculvert, and as we went over its pretty bridge we saw its waters, yet\nswollen by the tide, covered with gay boats of different sizes. There\nwere houses about, some on the road, some amongst the fields with\npleasant lanes leading down to them, and each surrounded by a teeming\ngarden. They were all pretty in design, and as solid as might be, but\ncountryfied in appearance, like yeomen's dwellings; some of them of red\nbrick like those by the river, but more of timber and plaster, which were\nby the necessity of their construction so like mediaeval houses of the\nsame materials that I fairly felt as if I were alive in the fourteenth\ncentury; a sensation helped out by the costume of the people that we met\nor passed, in whose dress there was nothing \"modern.\" Almost everybody\nwas gaily dressed, but especially the women, who were so well-looking, or\neven so handsome, that I could scarcely refrain my tongue from calling my\ncompanion's attention to the fact. Some faces I saw that were\nthoughtful, and in these I noticed great nobility of expression, but none\nthat had a glimmer of unhappiness, and the greater part (we came upon a\ngood many people) were frankly and openly joyous. I thought I knew the Broadway by the lie of the roads that still met\nthere. On the north side of the road was a range of buildings and\ncourts, low, but very handsomely built and ornamented, and in that way\nforming a great contrast to the unpretentiousness of the houses round\nabout; while above this lower building rose the steep lead-covered roof\nand the buttresses and higher part of the wall of a great hall, of a\nsplendid and exuberant style of architecture, of which one can say little\nmore than that it seemed to me to embrace the best qualities of the\nGothic of northern Europe with those of the Saracenic and Byzantine,\nthough there was no copying of any one of these styles. On the other,\nthe south side, of the road was an octagonal building with a high roof,\nnot unlike the Baptistry at Florence in outline, except that it was\nsurrounded by a lean-to that clearly made an arcade or cloisters to it:\nit also was most delicately ornamented. This whole mass of architecture which we had come upon so suddenly from\namidst the pleasant fields was not only exquisitely beautiful in itself,\nbut it bore upon it the expression of such generosity and abundance of\nlife that I was exhilarated to a pitch that I had never yet reached. I\nfairly chuckled for pleasure. My friend seemed to understand it, and sat\nlooking on me with a pleased and affectionate interest. We had pulled up\namongst a crowd of carts, wherein sat handsome healthy-looking people,\nmen, women, and children very gaily dressed, and which were clearly\nmarket carts, as they were full of very tempting-looking country produce. I said, \"I need not ask if this is a market, for I see clearly that it\nis; but what market is it that it is so splendid? And what is the\nglorious hall there, and what is the building on the south side?\" \"O,\" said he, \"it is just our Hammersmith market; and I am glad you like\nit so much, for we are really proud of it. Of course the hall inside is\nour winter Mote-House; for in summer we mostly meet in the fields down by\nthe river opposite Barn Elms. The building on our right hand is our\ntheatre: I hope you like it.\" \"I should be a fool if I didn't,\" said I. He blushed a little as he said: \"I am glad of that, too, because I had a\nhand in it; I made the great doors, which are of damascened bronze. We\nwill look at them later in the day, perhaps: but we ought to be getting\non now. As to the market, this is not one of our busy days; so we shall\ndo better with it another time, because you will see more people.\" I thanked him, and said: \"Are these the regular country people? What\nvery pretty girls there are amongst them.\" As I spoke, my eye caught the face of a beautiful woman, tall,\ndark-haired, and white-skinned, dressed in a pretty light-green dress in\nhonour of the season and the hot day, who smiled kindly on me, and more\nkindly still, I thought on Dick; so I stopped a minute, but presently\nwent on:\n\n\"I ask because I do not see any of the country-looking people I should\nhave expected to see at a market--I mean selling things there.\" \"I don't understand,\" said he, \"what kind of people you would expect to\nsee; nor quite what you mean by 'country' people. These are the\nneighbours, and that like they run in the Thames valley. There are parts\nof these islands which are rougher and rainier than we are here, and\nthere people are rougher in their dress; and they themselves are tougher\nand more hard-bitten than we are to look at. But some people like their\nlooks better than ours; they say they have more character in them--that's\nthe word. Well, it's a matter of taste.--Anyhow, the cross between us\nand them generally turns out well,\" added he, thoughtfully. I heard him, though my eyes were turned away from him, for that pretty\ngirl was just disappearing through the gate with her big basket of early\npeas, and I felt that disappointed kind of feeling which overtakes one\nwhen one has seen an interesting or lovely face in the streets which one\nis never likely to see again; and I was silent a little. At last I said:\n\"What I mean is, that I haven't seen any poor people about--not one.\" He knit his brows, looked puzzled, and said: \"No, naturally; if anybody\nis poorly, he is likely to be within doors, or at best crawling about the\ngarden: but I don't know of any one sick at present. Why should you\nexpect to see poorly people on the road?\" \"No, no,\" I said; \"I don't mean sick people. I mean poor people, you\nknow; rough people.\" \"No,\" said he, smiling merrily, \"I really do not know. The fact is, you\nmust come along quick to my great-grandfather, who will understand you\nbetter than I do. Come on, Greylocks!\" Therewith he shook the reins,\nand we jogged along merrily eastward. Past the Broadway there were fewer houses on either side. We presently\ncrossed a pretty little brook that ran across a piece of land dotted over\nwith trees, and awhile after came to another market and town-hall, as we\nshould call it. Although there was nothing familiar to me in its\nsurroundings, I knew pretty well where we were, and was not surprised\nwhen my guide said briefly, \"Kensington Market.\" Just after this we came into a short street of houses: or rather, one\nlong house on either side of the way, built of timber and plaster, and\nwith a pretty arcade over the footway before it. Quoth Dick: \"This is Kensington proper. People are apt to gather here\nrather thick, for they like the romance of the wood; and naturalists\nhaunt it, too; for it is a wild spot even here, what there is of it; for\nit does not go far to the south: it goes from here northward and west\nright over Paddington and a little way down Notting Hill: thence it runs\nnorth-east to Primrose Hill, and so on; rather a narrow strip of it gets\nthrough Kingsland to Stoke-Newington and Clapton, where it spreads out\nalong the heights above the Lea marshes; on the other side of which, as\nyou know, is Epping Forest holding out a hand to it. This part we are\njust coming to is called Kensington Gardens; though why 'gardens' I don't\nknow.\" I rather longed to say, \"Well, _I_ know\"; but there were so many things\nabout me which I did _not_ know, in spite of his assumptions, that I\nthought it better to hold my tongue.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-10, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-11 The user is reading a book]\n<User> The road plunged at once into a beautiful wood spreading out on either\nside, but obviously much further on the north side, where even the oaks\nand sweet chestnuts were of a good growth; while the quicker-growing\ntrees (amongst which I thought the planes and sycamores too numerous)\nwere very big and fine-grown. It was exceedingly pleasant in the dappled shadow, for the day was\ngrowing as hot as need be, and the coolness and shade soothed my excited\nmind into a condition of dreamy pleasure, so that I felt as if I should\nlike to go on for ever through that balmy freshness. My companion seemed\nto share in my feelings, and let the horse go slower and slower as he sat\ninhaling the green forest scents, chief amongst which was the smell of\nthe trodden bracken near the wayside. Romantic as this Kensington wood was, however, it was not lonely. We\ncame on many groups both coming and going, or wandering in the edges of\nthe wood. Amongst these were many children from six or eight years old\nup to sixteen or seventeen. They seemed to me to be especially fine\nspecimens of their race, and enjoying themselves to the utmost; some of\nthem were hanging about little tents pitched on the greensward, and by\nsome of these fires were burning, with pots hanging over them gipsy\nfashion. Dick explained to me that there were scattered houses in the\nforest, and indeed we caught a glimpse of one or two. He said they were\nmostly quite small, such as used to be called cottages when there were\nslaves in the land, but they were pleasant enough and fitting for the\nwood. \"They must be pretty well stocked with children,\" said I, pointing to the\nmany youngsters about the way. \"O,\" said he, \"these children do not all come from the near houses, the\nwoodland houses, but from the country-side generally. They often make up\nparties, and come to play in the woods for weeks together in summer-time,\nliving in tents, as you see. We rather encourage them to it; they learn\nto do things for themselves, and get to notice the wild creatures; and,\nyou see, the less they stew inside houses the better for them. Indeed, I\nmust tell you that many grown people will go to live in the forests\nthrough the summer; though they for the most part go to the bigger ones,\nlike Windsor, or the Forest of Dean, or the northern wastes. Apart from\nthe other pleasures of it, it gives them a little rough work, which I am\nsorry to say is getting somewhat scarce for these last fifty years.\" He broke off, and then said, \"I tell you all this, because I see that if\nI talk I must be answering questions, which you are thinking, even if you\nare not speaking them out; but my kinsman will tell you more about it.\" I saw that I was likely to get out of my depth again, and so merely for\nthe sake of tiding over an awkwardness and to say something, I said--\n\n\"Well, the youngsters here will be all the fresher for school when the\nsummer gets over and they have to go back again.\" \"School?\" he said; \"yes, what do you mean by that word? I don't see how\nit can have anything to do with children. We talk, indeed, of a school\nof herring, and a school of painting, and in the former sense we might\ntalk of a school of children--but otherwise,\" said he, laughing, \"I must\nown myself beaten.\" Hang it! thought I, I can't open my mouth without digging up some new\ncomplexity. I wouldn't try to set my friend right in his etymology; and\nI thought I had best say nothing about the boy-farms which I had been\nused to call schools, as I saw pretty clearly that they had disappeared;\nso I said after a little fumbling, \"I was using the word in the sense of\na system of education.\" \"Education?\" said he, meditatively, \"I know enough Latin to know that the\nword must come from _educere_, to lead out; and I have heard it used; but\nI have never met anybody who could give me a clear explanation of what it\nmeans.\" You may imagine how my new friends fell in my esteem when I heard this\nfrank avowal; and I said, rather contemptuously, \"Well, education means a\nsystem of teaching young people.\" \"Why not old people also?\" said he with a twinkle in his eye. \"But,\" he\nwent on, \"I can assure you our children learn, whether they go through a\n'system of teaching' or not. Why, you will not find one of these\nchildren about here, boy or girl, who cannot swim; and every one of them\nhas been used to tumbling about the little forest ponies--there's one of\nthem now! They all of them know how to cook; the bigger lads can mow;\nmany can thatch and do odd jobs at carpentering; or they know how to keep\nshop. I can tell you they know plenty of things.\" \"Yes, but their mental education, the teaching of their minds,\" said I,\nkindly translating my phrase. \"Guest,\" said he, \"perhaps you have not learned to do these things I have\nbeen speaking about; and if that's the case, don't you run away with the\nidea that it doesn't take some skill to do them, and doesn't give plenty\nof work for one's mind: you would change your opinion if you saw a\nDorsetshire lad thatching, for instance. But, however, I understand you\nto be speaking of book-learning; and as to that, it is a simple affair. Most children, seeing books lying about, manage to read by the time they\nare four years old; though I am told it has not always been so. As to\nwriting, we do not encourage them to scrawl too early (though scrawl a\nlittle they will), because it gets them into a habit of ugly writing; and\nwhat's the use of a lot of ugly writing being done, when rough printing\ncan be done so easily. You understand that handsome writing we like, and\nmany people will write their books out when they make them, or get them\nwritten; I mean books of which only a few copies are needed--poems, and\nsuch like, you know. However, I am wandering from my lambs; but you must\nexcuse me, for I am interested in this matter of writing, being myself a\nfair-writer.\" \"Well,\" said I, \"about the children; when they know how to read and\nwrite, don't they learn something else--languages, for instance?\" \"Of course,\" he said; \"sometimes even before they can read, they can talk\nFrench, which is the nearest language talked on the other side of the\nwater; and they soon get to know German also, which is talked by a huge\nnumber of communes and colleges on the mainland. These are the principal\nlanguages we speak in these islands, along with English or Welsh, or\nIrish, which is another form of Welsh; and children pick them up very\nquickly, because their elders all know them; and besides our guests from\nover sea often bring their children with them, and the little ones get\ntogether, and rub their speech into one another.\" \"And the older languages?\" said I. \"O, yes,\" said he, \"they mostly learn Latin and Greek along with the\nmodern ones, when they do anything more than merely pick up the latter.\" \"And history?\" said I; \"how do you teach history?\" \"Well,\" said he, \"when a person can read, of course he reads what he\nlikes to; and he can easily get someone to tell him what are the best\nbooks to read on such or such a subject, or to explain what he doesn't\nunderstand in the books when he is reading them.\" \"Well,\" said I, \"what else do they learn? I suppose they don't all learn\nhistory?\" \"No, no,\" said he; \"some don't care about it; in fact, I don't think many\ndo. I have heard my great-grandfather say that it is mostly in periods\nof turmoil and strife and confusion that people care much about history;\nand you know,\" said my friend, with an amiable smile, \"we are not like\nthat now. No; many people study facts about the make of things and the\nmatters of cause and effect, so that knowledge increases on us, if that\nbe good; and some, as you heard about friend Bob yonder, will spend time\nover mathematics. 'Tis no use forcing people's tastes.\" Said I: \"But you don't mean that children learn all these things?\" Said he: \"That depends on what you mean by children; and also you must\nremember how much they differ. As a rule, they don't do much reading,\nexcept for a few story-books, till they are about fifteen years old; we\ndon't encourage early bookishness: though you will find some children who\n_will_ take to books very early; which perhaps is not good for them; but\nit's no use thwarting them; and very often it doesn't last long with\nthem, and they find their level before they are twenty years old.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-11, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-12 The user is reading a book]\n<User> You\nsee, children are mostly given to imitating their elders, and when they\nsee most people about them engaged in genuinely amusing work, like house-\nbuilding and street-paving, and gardening, and the like, that is what\nthey want to be doing; so I don't think we need fear having too many book-\nlearned men.\" What could I say? I sat and held my peace, for fear of fresh\nentanglements. Besides, I was using my eyes with all my might, wondering\nas the old horse jogged on, when I should come into London proper, and\nwhat it would be like now. But my companion couldn't let his subject quite drop, and went on\nmeditatively:\n\n\"After all, I don't know that it does them much harm, even if they do\ngrow up book-students. Such people as that, 'tis a great pleasure seeing\nthem so happy over work which is not much sought for. And besides, these\nstudents are generally such pleasant people; so kind and sweet tempered;\nso humble, and at the same time so anxious to teach everybody all that\nthey know. Really, I like those that I have met prodigiously.\" This seemed to me such very queer talk that I was on the point of asking\nhim another question; when just as we came to the top of a rising ground,\ndown a long glade of the wood on my right I caught sight of a stately\nbuilding whose outline was familiar to me, and I cried out, \"Westminster\nAbbey!\" \"Yes,\" said Dick, \"Westminster Abbey--what there is left of it.\" \"Why, what have you done with it?\" quoth I in terror. \"What have _we_ done with it?\" said he; \"nothing much, save clean it. But\nyou know the whole outside was spoiled centuries ago: as to the inside,\nthat remains in its beauty after the great clearance, which took place\nover a hundred years ago, of the beastly monuments to fools and knaves,\nwhich once blocked it up, as great-grandfather says.\" We went on a little further, and I looked to the right again, and said,\nin rather a doubtful tone of voice, \"Why, there are the Houses of\nParliament! Do you still use them?\" He burst out laughing, and was some time before he could control himself;\nthen he clapped me on the back and said:\n\n\"I take you, neighbour; you may well wonder at our keeping them standing,\nand I know something about that, and my old kinsman has given me books to\nread about the strange game that they played there. Use them! Well,\nyes, they are used for a sort of subsidiary market, and a storage place\nfor manure, and they are handy for that, being on the waterside. I\nbelieve it was intended to pull them down quite at the beginning of our\ndays; but there was, I am told, a queer antiquarian society, which had\ndone some service in past times, and which straightway set up its pipe\nagainst their destruction, as it has done with many other buildings,\nwhich most people looked upon as worthless, and public nuisances; and it\nwas so energetic, and had such good reasons to give, that it generally\ngained its point; and I must say that when all is said I am glad of it:\nbecause you know at the worst these silly old buildings serve as a kind\nof foil to the beautiful ones which we build now. You will see several\nothers in these parts; the place my great-grandfather lives in, for\ninstance, and a big building called St. Paul's. And you see, in this\nmatter we need not grudge a few poorish buildings standing, because we\ncan always build elsewhere; nor need we be anxious as to the breeding of\npleasant work in such matters, for there is always room for more and more\nwork in a new building, even without making it pretentious. For\ninstance, elbow-room _within_ doors is to me so delightful that if I were\ndriven to it I would most sacrifice outdoor space to it. Then, of\ncourse, there is the ornament, which, as we must all allow, may easily be\noverdone in mere living houses, but can hardly be in mote-halls and\nmarkets, and so forth. I must tell you, though, that my\ngreat-grandfather sometimes tells me I am a little cracked on this\nsubject of fine building; and indeed I _do_ think that the energies of\nmankind are chiefly of use to them for such work; for in that direction I\ncan see no end to the work, while in many others a limit does seem\npossible.\" As he spoke, we came suddenly out of the woodland into a short street of\nhandsomely built houses, which my companion named to me at once as\nPiccadilly: the lower part of these I should have called shops, if it had\nnot been that, as far as I could see, the people were ignorant of the\narts of buying and selling. Wares were displayed in their finely\ndesigned fronts, as if to tempt people in, and people stood and looked at\nthem, or went in and came out with parcels under their arms, just like\nthe real thing. On each side of the street ran an elegant arcade to\nprotect foot-passengers, as in some of the old Italian cities. About\nhalfway down, a huge building of the kind I was now prepared to expect\ntold me that this also was a centre of some kind, and had its special\npublic buildings. Said Dick: \"Here, you see, is another market on a different plan from\nmost others: the upper stories of these houses are used for guest-houses;\nfor people from all about the country are apt to drift up hither from\ntime to time, as folk are very thick upon the ground, which you will see\nevidence of presently, and there are people who are fond of crowds,\nthough I can't say that I am.\" I couldn't help smiling to see how long a tradition would last. Here was\nthe ghost of London still asserting itself as a centre,--an intellectual\ncentre, for aught I knew. However, I said nothing, except that I asked\nhim to drive very slowly, as the things in the booths looked exceedingly\npretty. \"Yes,\" said he, \"this is a very good market for pretty things, and is\nmostly kept for the handsomer goods, as the Houses-of-Parliament market,\nwhere they set out cabbages and turnips and such like things, along with\nbeer and the rougher kind of wine, is so near.\" Then he looked at me curiously, and said, \"Perhaps you would like to do a\nlittle shopping, as 'tis called.\" I looked at what I could see of my rough blue duds, which I had plenty of\nopportunity of contrasting with the gay attire of the citizens we had\ncome across; and I thought that if, as seemed likely, I should presently\nbe shown about as a curiosity for the amusement of this most\nunbusinesslike people, I should like to look a little less like a\ndischarged ship's purser. But in spite of all that had happened, my hand\nwent down into my pocket again, where to my dismay it met nothing\nmetallic except two rusty old keys, and I remembered that amidst our talk\nin the guest-hall at Hammersmith I had taken the cash out of my pocket to\nshow to the pretty Annie, and had left it lying there. My face fell\nfifty per cent., and Dick, beholding me, said rather sharply--\n\n\"Hilloa, Guest! what's the matter now? Is it a wasp?\" \"No,\" said I, \"but I've left it behind.\" \"Well,\" said he, \"whatever you have left behind, you can get in this\nmarket again, so don't trouble yourself about it.\" I had come to my senses by this time, and remembering the astounding\ncustoms of this country, had no mind for another lecture on social\neconomy and the Edwardian coinage; so I said only--\n\n\"My clothes--Couldn't I? You see--What do think could be done about\nthem?\" He didn't seem in the least inclined to laugh, but said quite gravely:\n\n\"O don't get new clothes yet. You see, my great-grandfather is an\nantiquarian, and he will want to see you just as you are. And, you know,\nI mustn't preach to you, but surely it wouldn't be right for you to take\naway people's pleasure of studying your attire, by just going and making\nyourself like everybody else. You feel that, don't you?\" said he,\nearnestly. I did _not_ feel it my duty to set myself up for a scarecrow amidst this\nbeauty-loving people, but I saw I had got across some ineradicable\nprejudice, and that it wouldn't do to quarrel with my new friend. So I\nmerely said, \"O certainly, certainly.\" \"Well,\" said he, pleasantly, \"you may as well see what the inside of\nthese booths is like: think of something you want.\" Said I: \"Could I get some tobacco and a pipe?\" \"Of course,\" said he; \"what was I thinking of, not asking you before?\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-12, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-15 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Well, Bob is always telling me that we non-smokers are a selfish lot, and\nI'm afraid he is right. But come along; here is a place just handy.\" Therewith he drew rein and jumped down, and I followed. A very handsome\nwoman, splendidly clad in figured silk, was slowly passing by, looking\ninto the windows as she went. To her quoth Dick: \"Maiden, would you\nkindly hold our horse while we go in for a little?\" She nodded to us\nwith a kind smile, and fell to patting the horse with her pretty hand. \"What a beautiful creature!\" said I to Dick as we entered. \"What, old Greylocks?\" said he, with a sly grin. \"No, no,\" said I; \"Goldylocks,--the lady.\" \"Well, so she is,\" said he. \"'Tis a good job there are so many of them\nthat every Jack may have his Jill: else I fear that we should get\nfighting for them. Indeed,\" said he, becoming very grave, \"I don't say\nthat it does not happen even now, sometimes. For you know love is not a\nvery reasonable thing, and perversity and self-will are commoner than\nsome of our moralists think.\" He added, in a still more sombre tone:\n\"Yes, only a month ago there was a mishap down by us, that in the end\ncost the lives of two men and a woman, and, as it were, put out the\nsunlight for us for a while. Don't ask me about it just now; I may tell\nyou about it later on.\" By this time we were within the shop or booth, which had a counter, and\nshelves on the walls, all very neat, though without any pretence of\nshowiness, but otherwise not very different to what I had been used to. Within were a couple of children--a brown-skinned boy of about twelve,\nwho sat reading a book, and a pretty little girl of about a year older,\nwho was sitting also reading behind the counter; they were obviously\nbrother and sister. \"Good morning, little neighbours,\" said Dick. \"My friend here wants\ntobacco and a pipe; can you help him?\" \"O yes, certainly,\" said the girl with a sort of demure alertness which\nwas somewhat amusing. The boy looked up, and fell to staring at my\noutlandish attire, but presently reddened and turned his head, as if he\nknew that he was not behaving prettily. \"Dear neighbour,\" said the girl, with the most solemn countenance of a\nchild playing at keeping shop, \"what tobacco is it you would like?\" \"Latakia,\" quoth I, feeling as if I were assisting at a child's game, and\nwondering whether I should get anything but make-believe. But the girl took a dainty little basket from a shelf beside her, went to\na jar, and took out a lot of tobacco and put the filled basket down on\nthe counter before me, where I could both smell and see that it was\nexcellent Latakia. \"But you haven't weighed it,\" said I, \"and--and how much am I to take?\" \"Why,\" she said, \"I advise you to cram your bag, because you may be going\nwhere you can't get Latakia. Where is your bag?\" I fumbled about, and at last pulled out my piece of cotton print which\ndoes duty with me for a tobacco pouch. But the girl looked at it with\nsome disdain, and said--\n\n\"Dear neighbour, I can give you something much better than that cotton\nrag.\" And she tripped up the shop and came back presently, and as she\npassed the boy whispered something in his ear, and he nodded and got up\nand went out. The girl held up in her finger and thumb a red morocco\nbag, gaily embroidered, and said, \"There, I have chosen one for you, and\nyou are to have it: it is pretty, and will hold a lot.\" Therewith she fell to cramming it with the tobacco, and laid it down by\nme and said, \"Now for the pipe: that also you must let me choose for you;\nthere are three pretty ones just come in.\" She disappeared again, and came back with a big-bowled pipe in her hand,\ncarved out of some hard wood very elaborately, and mounted in gold\nsprinkled with little gems. It was, in short, as pretty and gay a toy as\nI had ever seen; something like the best kind of Japanese work, but\nbetter. \"Dear me!\" said I, when I set eyes on it, \"this is altogether too grand\nfor me, or for anybody but the Emperor of the World. Besides, I shall\nlose it: I always lose my pipes.\" The child seemed rather dashed, and said, \"Don't you like it, neighbour?\" \"O yes,\" I said, \"of course I like it.\" \"Well, then, take it,\" said she, \"and don't trouble about losing it. What\nwill it matter if you do? Somebody is sure to find it, and he will use\nit, and you can get another.\" I took it out of her hand to look at it, and while I did so, forgot my\ncaution, and said, \"But however am I to pay for such a thing as this?\" Dick laid his hand on my shoulder as I spoke, and turning I met his eyes\nwith a comical expression in them, which warned me against another\nexhibition of extinct commercial morality; so I reddened and held my\ntongue, while the girl simply looked at me with the deepest gravity, as\nif I were a foreigner blundering in my speech, for she clearly didn't\nunderstand me a bit. \"Thank you so very much,\" I said at last, effusively, as I put the pipe\nin my pocket, not without a qualm of doubt as to whether I shouldn't find\nmyself before a magistrate presently. \"O, you are so very welcome,\" said the little lass, with an affectation\nof grown-up manners at their best which was very quaint. \"It is such a\npleasure to serve dear old gentlemen like you; especially when one can\nsee at once that you have come from far over sea.\" \"Yes, my dear,\" quoth I, \"I have been a great traveller.\" As I told this lie from pure politeness, in came the lad again, with a\ntray in his hands, on which I saw a long flask and two beautiful glasses. \"Neighbours,\" said the girl (who did all the talking, her brother being\nvery shy, clearly) \"please to drink a glass to us before you go, since we\ndo not have guests like this every day.\" Therewith the boy put the tray on the counter and solemnly poured out a\nstraw-coloured wine into the long bowls. Nothing loth, I drank, for I\nwas thirsty with the hot day; and thinks I, I am yet in the world, and\nthe grapes of the Rhine have not yet lost their flavour; for if ever I\ndrank good Steinberg, I drank it that morning; and I made a mental note\nto ask Dick how they managed to make fine wine when there were no longer\nlabourers compelled to drink rot-gut instead of the fine wine which they\nthemselves made. \"Don't you drink a glass to us, dear little neighbours?\" said I. \"I don't drink wine,\" said the lass; \"I like lemonade better: but I wish\nyour health!\" \"And I like ginger-beer better,\" said the little lad. Well, well, thought I, neither have children's tastes changed much. And\ntherewith we gave them good day and went out of the booth. To my disappointment, like a change in a dream, a tall old man was\nholding our horse instead of the beautiful woman. He explained to us\nthat the maiden could not wait, and that he had taken her place; and he\nwinked at us and laughed when he saw how our faces fell, so that we had\nnothing for it but to laugh also--\n\n\"Where are you going?\" said he to Dick. \"To Bloomsbury,\" said Dick. \"If you two don't want to be alone, I'll come with you,\" said the old\nman. \"All right,\" said Dick, \"tell me when you want to get down and I'll stop\nfor you. Let's get on.\" So we got under way again; and I asked if children generally waited on\npeople in the markets. \"Often enough,\" said he, \"when it isn't a matter\nof dealing with heavy weights, but by no means always. The children like\nto amuse themselves with it, and it is good for them, because they handle\na lot of diverse wares and get to learn about them, how they are made,\nand where they come from, and so on. Besides, it is such very easy work\nthat anybody can do it.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-15, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-18 The user is reading a book]\n<User> It is said that in the early days of our epoch\nthere were a good many people who were hereditarily afflicted with a\ndisease called Idleness, because they were the direct descendants of\nthose who in the bad times used to force other people to work for\nthem--the people, you know, who are called slave-holders or employers of\nlabour in the history books. Well, these Idleness-stricken people used\nto serve booths _all_ their time, because they were fit for so little. Indeed, I believe that at one time they were actually _compelled_ to do\nsome such work, because they, especially the women, got so ugly and\nproduced such ugly children if their disease was not treated sharply,\nthat the neighbours couldn't stand it. However, I'm happy to say that\nall that is gone by now; the disease is either extinct, or exists in such\na mild form that a short course of aperient medicine carries it off. It\nis sometimes called the Blue-devils now, or the Mulleygrubs. Queer\nnames, ain't they?\" \"Yes,\" said I, pondering much. But the old man broke in:\n\n\"Yes, all that is true, neighbour; and I have seen some of those poor\nwomen grown old. But my father used to know some of them when they were\nyoung; and he said that they were as little like young women as might be:\nthey had hands like bunches of skewers, and wretched little arms like\nsticks; and waists like hour-glasses, and thin lips and peaked noses and\npale cheeks; and they were always pretending to be offended at anything\nyou said or did to them. No wonder they bore ugly children, for no one\nexcept men like them could be in love with them--poor things!\" He stopped, and seemed to be musing on his past life, and then said:\n\n\"And do you know, neighbours, that once on a time people were still\nanxious about that disease of Idleness: at one time we gave ourselves a\ngreat deal of trouble in trying to cure people of it. Have you not read\nany of the medical books on the subject?\" \"No,\" said I; for the old man was speaking to me. \"Well,\" said he, \"it was thought at the time that it was the survival of\nthe old mediaeval disease of leprosy: it seems it was very catching, for\nmany of the people afflicted by it were much secluded, and were waited\nupon by a special class of diseased persons queerly dressed up, so that\nthey might be known. They wore amongst other garments, breeches made of\nworsted velvet, that stuff which used to be called plush some years ago.\" All this seemed very interesting to me, and I should like to have made\nthe old man talk more. But Dick got rather restive under so much ancient\nhistory: besides, I suspect he wanted to keep me as fresh as he could for\nhis great-grandfather. So he burst out laughing at last, and said:\n\"Excuse me, neighbours, but I can't help it. Fancy people not liking to\nwork!--it's too ridiculous. Why, even you like to work, old\nfellow--sometimes,\" said he, affectionately patting the old horse with\nthe whip. \"What a queer disease! it may well be called Mulleygrubs!\" And he laughed out again most boisterously; rather too much so, I\nthought, for his usual good manners; and I laughed with him for company's\nsake, but from the teeth outward only; for _I_ saw nothing funny in\npeople not liking to work, as you may well imagine.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-18, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far."]
[{"question": "Summarize the content of the book I read from 2024-01-01 to 2024-01-18", "answer": "William Guest, Dick, Boffin, Robert, narrator, Socialist League meeting, argument, suspension bridge, Thames, moonlight, Guest House, breakfast, inscription, Hammersmith Socialists, May 1962, Epping Forest, Putney, boatman, carriage, Bloomsbury, market, Hammersmith, Kensington, Westminster Abbey, Houses of Parliament, Piccadilly, shopping, pipe, tobacco, hand-crafted pipe, moneyless society, education system, children camping, children working, architecture, disease called Idleness, social transformation, summer, winter, time travel, public transportation, elegant dress, fruit and bread, old coins, guide, harvest, nature conversation, storage place for manure, acceptance, gratitude, social customs, relationships, great-great-grandfather, young woman, young girl, young boy, wine, work enjoyment, self-sufficiency, beauty, simplicity, social critique"}]