“On an Unknown Country” Hilaire Belloc

Ten years ago, I think, or perhaps a little less or perhaps a little more, I came in the Euston Road1–that thoroughfare of Empire–upon a young man a little younger than myself whom I knew, though I did not know him very well. It was drizzling, and the second-hand booksellers (who are rare in this thoroughfare) were beginning to put out the waterproof covers over their wares. This disturbed my acquaintance, because he was engaged upon buying a cheap book that should really satisfy him.

Now this was difficult, for he had no hobby, and the book which should satisfy him must be one that should describe or summon up, or, it is better to say, hint at–or, the theologians would say, reveal, or, the Platonists would say, recall–the Unknown Country, which he thought was his very home.

I had known his habit of seeking such books for two years, and had half wondered at it and half sympathized. It was an appetite partly satisfied by almost any work that brought to him the vision of a place in the mind which he had always intensely desired, but to which, as he had then long guessed, and as he is now quite certain, no human paths directly lead. He would buy with avidity travels to the moon and to the planets, from the most worthless to the best. He loved Utopias and did not disregard even so prosaic a category as books of real travel, so long as by exaggeration or by a glamour in the style they gave him a full draft of that drug which he desired. Whether this satisfaction the young man sought was a satisfaction in illusion (I have used the word “drug”

with hesitation), or whether it was, as he persistently maintained, the satisfaction of a memory, or whether it was, as I am often tempted to think, the satisfaction of a thirst which will ultimately be quenched in every human soul I cannot tell. Whatever it was, he sought it with more than the appetite with which a hungry man seeks food. He sought it with something that was not hunger but passion.

That evening he found a book.

It is well known that men purchase with difficulty secondhand books upon the stalls, and that in some mysterious way the sellers of these books are content to provide a kind of library for the poorer and more eager of the public, and a library admirable in this, that it is accessible upon every shelf and exposes a man to no control, except that he must not steal, and even in this it is nothing but the force of public law that interferes. My friend therefore would in the natural course of things have dipped into the book and left it there; but a better luck persuaded him. Whether it was the beginning of the rain or a sudden loneliness in such terrible weather and in such a terrible town, compelling him to seek a more permanent companionship with another mind, or whether it was my sudden arrival and shame lest his poverty should appear in his refusing to buy the book–whatever it was, he bought that same. And since he bought the Book I also have known it and have found in it, as he did, the most complete expression that I know of the Unknown Country, of which he was a citizen–oddly a citizen, as I then thought, wisely as I now conceive.

All that can best be expressed in words should be expressed in verse, but verse is a slow thing to create; nay, it is not really created: it is a secretion of the mind, it is a pearl that gathers round some irritant and slowly expresses the very essence of beauty and of desire that has lain long, potential and unexpressed, in the mind of the man who secretes it. God knows that this Unknown Country has been hit off in

verse a hundred times. If I were perfectly sure of my accents I would quote two lines from the Odyssey in which the Unknown Country stands out as clear as does a sudden vision from a mountain ridge when the mist lifts after a long climb and one sees beneath one an unexpected and glorious land; such a vision as greets a man when he comes over the Saldeu into the simple and secluded Republic of the Andorrans. Then, again, the Germans in their idioms have flashed it out, I am assured, for I remember a woman telling me that there was a song by Schiller which exactly gave the revelation of which I speak. In English, thank Heaven, emotion of this kind, emotion necessary to the life of the soul, is very abundantly furnished. As, who does not know the lines:

Blessed with that which is not in the word
Of man nor his conception: Blessed Land!

Then there is also the whole group of glimpses which Shakespeare amused himself by scattering as might a man who had a great oak chest fullof jewels and who now and then, out of kindly fun, poured out a handful and gave them to his guests. I quote from memory, but I think certainof the lines run more or less like this:

Look how the dawn in russet mantle clad,
Stands on the steep of yon high eastern hill.

And again:

Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.

Which moves me to digress. . . . How on earth did any living man pull it off as well as that? I remember arguing with a man who very genuinely thought the talent of Shakespeare was exaggerated in public opinion, and discovering at the end of a long wrangle that he was not considering Shakespeare as a poet. But as a poet, then, how on earth did he manage it?

Keats did it continually in the Hyperion. Milton does it so well in the Fourth Book of Paradise Lost that I defy any man of a sane understanding to read the whole of that book before going to bed and not to wake up next morning as though he had been on a journey. William Morris does it, especially in the verses about a prayer over the corn2; and as for Vergil, the poet Vergil, he does it continually like a man whose very trade it is. Who does not remember the swimmer3 who saw Italy from the top of the wave?

Here also let me digress. How do the poets do it? (I do not mean where do they get their power, as I was asking just now of Shakespeare, but how do the words, simple or complex, produce that effect?) Very often there is not any adjective, sometimes not any qualification at all; often only one subject with its predicate and its statement and its object. There is never any detail of description, but the scene rises, more vivid in color, more exact in outline, more wonderful in influence, than anything we can see with our eyes, except perhaps those things we see in the few moments of intense emotion which come to us, we know not whence, and expand out into completion and into manhood.

Catullus does it. He does it so powerfully in the opening lines of

Vesper adest. . .

that a man reads the first couplet of that Hymeneal,4 and immediately perceives the Apennines.


2 a prayer over the corn, “Summer Dawn.”
3 the swimmer,

Tres Notus hibernas immensa per aequora noctes
Vexit me violentus aqua: vix lumine quarto
Prospexi Italiam, summa sublimis ab unda

( Aeneid VI, 355-357)

“Over the boundless sea, three dark stormy nights through the water
Borne by a strong south wind, I drove; the fourth day was dawning
When from the crest of a wave, high tossing, I faintly discovered Italy!”

–trans. by H. H. Ballard.

4 the first couplet of that Hymeneal,

Vesper adest, juvenes, consurgite. Vesper Olympo
expectata diu vix tandem lumina tollit
. ( Catullus LXII)

“The evening is come; rise up, ye youths. Vesper from Olympus at last is just raising his long-looked-for light.”

The nameless translator of the Highland song5 does it, especially when he advances that battering line–

And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.

They all do it, bless their hearts, the poets, which leads me back again to the mournful reflection that it cannot be done in prose . . .

Little friends, my readers, I wish it could be done in prose, for if it could, and if I knew how to do it, I would here present to you that Unknown Country in such a fashion that every landscape which you should see henceforth would be transformed, by the appearing through it, the shining and uplifting through it, of the Unknown Country upon which reposes this tedious and repetitive world.

Now you may say to me that prose can do it, and you may quote to me the end of the Pilgrim’s Progress, a very remarkable piece of writing. Or, better still, as we shall be more agreed upon it, the general impression left upon the mind by the book which set me writing–Mr. Hudson Crystal Age.6 I do not deny that prose can do it, but when it does it, it is hardly to be called prose, for it is inspired. Note carefully the passages in which the trick is worked in prose (for instance, in the story of Ruth in the Bible, where it is done with complete success), you still perceive an incantation and a spell. Indeed this same episode of Ruth in exile has inspired two splendid passages of European verse, of which it is difficult to say which is the more national, and therefore the greater, Victor Hugo’s in the Légende des Siècles7 or Keats’s astounding three lines.8


5 the Highland song,

From the lone shealing on the misty island
Mountains divide us, and the waste of seas–
But still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland,
And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.

From the “Canadian Boat Song,” Blackwood’s Magazine, September, 1829. (A shealing is a fisherman’s hut.)

6 Mr. Hudson Crystal Age. See page 212.
7 in the Légende der Siècles,” Boöz Endormi.”
8 Keats’s astounding three lines:

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn.

–Ode to a Nightingale.

There was a shepherd the other day up at Findon Fair who had come from the east by Lewes9 with sheep, and who had in his eyes that reminiscence of horizons which makes the eyes of shepherds and of mountaineers different from the eyes of other men. He was occupied, when I came upon him, in pulling Mr. Fulton’s sheep by one hind leg so that they should go the way they were desired to go. It happened that day that Mr. Fulton’s sheep were not sold, and the shepherd went driving them back through Findon Village, and up on to the high Downs. I went with him to hear what he had to say, for shepherds talk quite differently from other men. And when we came on to the shoulder ofChanctonbury and looked down upon the Weald, which stretched out like the Plains of Heaven, he said to me: “I never come here but it seems like a different place down below, and as though it were not the place where I have gone afoot with sheep under the hills. It seems different when you are looking down at it.” He added that he had never known why. Then I knew that he, like myself, was perpetually in perception ofthe Unknown Country, and I was very pleased. But we did not say anything more to each other about it until we got down into Steyning. Then we drank together and we still said nothing more about it; so that to this day all we know of the matter is what we knew when we started, and what you are now no further informed upon, namely, that there is an Unknown Country lying beneath the places that we know, and appearing only in moments of revelation.

Whether we shall reach this country at last or whether we shall not, it is impossible to determine.


9 Lewes, a town in Sussex. The other place names in this paragraph also refer to places in Sussex.