One especially would I recall, who--no,
personally I admire the plungingly intimate kind of essayist very much
indeed, but I never was of that kind, and it's too late to begin now.
For a type of old-world servant I would recall rather some more public
worthy, such as that stout old hostler whom, whenever you went up to
stay in Hampstead, you would see standing planted outside that stout
old hostelry, Jack Straw's Castle. He stands there no more, and the
hostelry can never again be to me all that it was of solid comfort. Or
perhaps, as he was so entirely an outside figure, I might rather say
that Hampstead itself is not what it was. His robust but restful form,
topped with that weather-beaten and chin-bearded face, was the hub of
the summit of Hampstead. He was as richly local as the pond there--
that famous pond which in hot weather is so much waded through by
cart-horses and is at all seasons so much barked around by excitable
dogs and cruised on by toy boats. He was as essential as it and the
flag-staff and the gorse and the view over the valley away to
Highgate. It was always to Highgate that his big blue eyes were
looking, and on Highgate that he seemed to be ruminating. Not that I
think he wanted to go there. He was Hampstead-born and Hampstead-bred,
and very loyal to that village.
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