 which it was still
applied. Unlike and superior to either of those two typical remnants of
mediævalism, the old barn embodied practices which had suffered no mutilation at
the hands of time. Here at least the spirit of the ancient builders was at one
with the spirit of the modern beholder. Standing before this abraded pile, the
eye regarded its present usage, the mind dwelt upon its past history, with a
satisfied sense of functional continuity throughout - a feeling almost of
gratitude, and quite of pride, at the permanence of the idea which had heaped it
up. The fact that four centuries had neither proved it to be founded on a
mistake, inspired any hatred of its purpose, nor given rise to any reaction that
had battered it down, invested this simple grey effort of old minds with a
repose, if not a grandeur, which a too curious reflection was apt to disturb in
its ecclesiastical and military compeers. For once mediævalism and modernism had
a common standpoint. The lanceolate windows, the time-eaten arch-stones and
chamfers, the orientation of the axis, the misty chestnut work of the rafters,
referred to no exploded fortifying art or worn-out religious creed. The defence
and salvation of the body by daily bread is still a study, a religion, and a
desire.
    To-day the large side doors were thrown open towards the sun to admit a
bountiful light to the immediate spot of the shearers' operations, which was the
wood threshing-floor in the centre, formed of thick oak, black with age and
polished by the beating of flails for many generations, till it had grown as
slippery and as rich in hue as the state-room floors of an Elizabethan mansion.
Here the shearers knelt, the sun slanting in upon their bleached shirts, tanned
arms, and the polished shears they flourished, causing these to bristle with a
thousand rays strong enough to blind a weak-eyed man. Beneath them a captive
sheep lay panting, quickening its pants as misgiving merged in terror, till it
quivered like the hot landscape outside.
    This picture of to-day in its frame of four hundred years ago did not
produce that marked contrast between ancient and modern which is implied by the
contrast of date. In comparison with cities, Weatherbury was immutable. The
citizen's Then is the rustic's Now. In London, twenty or thirty years ago are
old times; in Paris ten years, or five; in Weatherbury three or four score years
were included in the mere present, and nothing less than a century set a mark on
its face or tone.
