FOOTNOTES:[O]Mr. Pickwick, a benevolent, simple-minded old gentleman, is the founder of the Pickwick Club. He and three other members, Mr. Winkle, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Tupman, form the Corresponding Society of the club, and they travel over England together, meeting with many laughable adventures. They are accompanied by Samuel Weller, Mr. Pickwick's servant, an inimitable compound of cool impudence, quaint humor, and fidelity. The Pickwickians have accepted the invitation of Mr. Wardle, of Manor Farm, Dingley Dell, to be present at the marriage of his daughter, Isabella, to Mr. Trundle. Among the guests are also Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Benjamin Allen, two medical students, and Mr. Allen's sister, Arabella. Other members of Mr. Wardle's household are Mr. Wardle's mother, the "old lady" of Manor Farm, his daughter, Emily, and Joe, a servant lad, known as the "fat boy." The wedding takes place on the twenty-third of December, and then follow the Christmas festivities, of which the skating forms a part.
[O]Mr. Pickwick, a benevolent, simple-minded old gentleman, is the founder of the Pickwick Club. He and three other members, Mr. Winkle, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Tupman, form the Corresponding Society of the club, and they travel over England together, meeting with many laughable adventures. They are accompanied by Samuel Weller, Mr. Pickwick's servant, an inimitable compound of cool impudence, quaint humor, and fidelity. The Pickwickians have accepted the invitation of Mr. Wardle, of Manor Farm, Dingley Dell, to be present at the marriage of his daughter, Isabella, to Mr. Trundle. Among the guests are also Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Benjamin Allen, two medical students, and Mr. Allen's sister, Arabella. Other members of Mr. Wardle's household are Mr. Wardle's mother, the "old lady" of Manor Farm, his daughter, Emily, and Joe, a servant lad, known as the "fat boy." The wedding takes place on the twenty-third of December, and then follow the Christmas festivities, of which the skating forms a part.
I.Thelights are out, and gone are all the guestsThat thronging came with merriment and jestsTo celebrate the Hanging of the CraneIn the new house,—into the night are gone;But still the fire upon the hearth burns on,And I alone remain.O fortunate, O happy day,When a new household finds its placeAmong the myriad homes of earth,Like a new star just sprung to birth,And roll'd on its harmonious wayInto the boundless realms of space!So said the guests in speech and song,As in the chimney, burning bright,And merry was the feast and long.II.And now I sit and muse on what may be,And in my vision see, or seem to see,Through floating vapors interfused with light,Shapes indeterminate, that gleam and fade,As shadows passing into deeper shadeSink and elude the sight.For two alone, there in the hall,Is spread the table round and small;Upon the polish'd silver shineThe evening lamps, but, more divine,The light of love shines over all;Of love, that says not mine and thine,But ours, for ours is thine and mine.They want no guests, to come betweenTheir tender glances like a screen,And tell them tales of land and sea,And whatsoever may betideThe great, forgotten world outside;They want no guests; they needs must beEach other's own best company.III.The picture fades; as at a village fairA showman's views, dissolving into air,Again appear transfigured on the screen,So in my fancy this; and now once more,In part transfigured, through the open doorAppears the selfsame scene.Seated, I see the two again,But not alone; they entertainA little angel unaware,With face as round as is the moon;A royal guest with flaxen hair,Who, throned upon his lofty chair,Drums on the table with his spoon,Then drops it careless on the floor,To grasp at things unseen before.Are these celestial manners? theseThe ways that win, the arts that please?Ah yes; consider well the guest,And whatsoe'er he does seems best;He ruleth by the right divineOf helplessness, so lately bornIn purple chambers of the morn,As sovereign over thee and thine.He speaketh not; and yet there liesA conversation in his eyes;The golden silence of the Greek,The gravest wisdom of the wise,Not spoken in language, but in looksMore legible than printed books,As if he could but would not speak.And now, O monarch absolute,Thy power is put to proof; for, lo!Resistless, fathomless, and slow,The nurse comes rustling like the sea,And pushes back thy chair and thee,And so good night to King Canute.IV.As one who walking in a forest seesA lovely landscape through the parted trees,Then sees it not, for boughs that intervene;Or, as we see the moon sometimes reveal'dThrough drifting clouds, and then again conceal'd,So I behold the scene.There are two guests at table now;The king, deposed and older grown,No longer occupies the throne,—The crown is on his sister's brow;A Princess from the Fairy Isles,The very pattern girl of girls,All cover'd and embower'd in curls,Rose-tinted from the Isle of Flowers,And sailing with soft, silken sailsFrom far-off Dreamland into ours.Above their bowls with rims of blueFour azure eyes of deeper hueAre looking, dreamy with delight;Limpid as planets that emergeAbove the ocean's rounded verge,Soft-shining through the summer night.Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing seeBeyond the horizon of their bowls;Nor care they for the world that rollsWith all its freight of troubled soulsInto the days that are to be.V.Again the tossing boughs shut out the scene,Again the drifting vapors intervene,And the moon's pallid disk is hidden quite:And now I see the table wider grown,As round a pebble into water thrownDilates a ring of light.I see the table wider grown,I see it garlanded with guests,As if fair Ariadne's CrownOut of the sky had fallen down;Maidens within whose tender breastsA thousand restless hopes and fears,Forth reaching to the coming years,Flutter awhile, then quiet lie,Like timid birds that fain would fly,But do not dare to leave their nests;—And youths, who in their strength elateChallenge the van and front of fate,Eager as champions to beIn the divine knight-errantryOf youth, that travels sea and landSeeking adventures, or pursues,Through cities, and through solitudesFrequented by the lyric Muse,The phantom with the beckoning hand,That still allures and still eludes.O sweet illusions of the brain!O sudden thrills of fire and frost!The world is bright while ye remain,And dark and dead when ye are lost!VI.The meadow-brook, that seemeth to stand still,Quickens its current as it nears the mill;And so the stream of Time that lingerethIn level places, and so dull appears,Runs with a swifter current as it nearsThe gloomy mills of Death.And now, like the magician's scroll,That in the owner's keeping shrinksWith every wish he speaks or thinks,Till the last wish consumes the whole,The table dwindles, and againI see the two alone remain.The crown of stars is broken in parts;Its jewels, brighter than the day,Have one by one been stolen awayTo shine in other homes and hearts.One is a wanderer now afarIn Ceylon or in Zanzibar,Or sunny regions of Cathay;And one is in the boisterous campMid clink of arms and horses' tramp,And battle's terrible array.I see the patient mother read,With aching heart, of wrecks that floatDisabled on those seas remote,Or of some great heroic deedOn battle-fields, where thousands bleedTo lift one hero into fame.Anxious she bends her graceful headAbove these chronicles of pain,And trembles with a secret dreadLest there among the drown'd or slainShe find the one belovèd name.VII.After a day of cloud and wind and rainSometimes the setting sun breaks out again,And, touching all the darksome woods with light.Smiles on the fields, until they laugh and sing,Then like a ruby from the horizon's ringDrops down into the night.What see I now? The night is fair,The storm of grief, the clouds of care,The wind, the rain, have pass'd away;The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright,The house is full of life and light:It is the Golden Wedding day.The guests come thronging in once more,Quick footsteps sound along the floor,The trooping children crowd the stair,And in and out and everywhereFlashes along the corridorThe sunshine of their golden hair.On the round table in the hallAnother Ariadne's CrownOut of the sky hath fallen down;More than one Monarch of the MoonIs drumming with his silver spoon;The light of love shines over all.O fortunate, O happy day!The people sing, the people say.The ancient bridegroom and the bride,Smiling contented and serene,Upon the blithe, bewildering scene,Behold, well pleas'd, on every sideTheir forms and features multiplied,As the reflection of a lightBetween two burnish'd mirrors gleams,Or lamps upon a bridge at nightStretch on and on before the sight,Till the long vista endless seems.
I.
Thelights are out, and gone are all the guestsThat thronging came with merriment and jestsTo celebrate the Hanging of the CraneIn the new house,—into the night are gone;But still the fire upon the hearth burns on,And I alone remain.
O fortunate, O happy day,When a new household finds its placeAmong the myriad homes of earth,Like a new star just sprung to birth,And roll'd on its harmonious wayInto the boundless realms of space!So said the guests in speech and song,As in the chimney, burning bright,And merry was the feast and long.
II.
And now I sit and muse on what may be,And in my vision see, or seem to see,Through floating vapors interfused with light,Shapes indeterminate, that gleam and fade,As shadows passing into deeper shadeSink and elude the sight.
For two alone, there in the hall,Is spread the table round and small;Upon the polish'd silver shineThe evening lamps, but, more divine,The light of love shines over all;Of love, that says not mine and thine,But ours, for ours is thine and mine.
They want no guests, to come betweenTheir tender glances like a screen,And tell them tales of land and sea,And whatsoever may betideThe great, forgotten world outside;They want no guests; they needs must beEach other's own best company.
III.
The picture fades; as at a village fairA showman's views, dissolving into air,Again appear transfigured on the screen,So in my fancy this; and now once more,In part transfigured, through the open doorAppears the selfsame scene.
Seated, I see the two again,But not alone; they entertainA little angel unaware,With face as round as is the moon;A royal guest with flaxen hair,Who, throned upon his lofty chair,Drums on the table with his spoon,Then drops it careless on the floor,To grasp at things unseen before.
Are these celestial manners? theseThe ways that win, the arts that please?Ah yes; consider well the guest,And whatsoe'er he does seems best;He ruleth by the right divineOf helplessness, so lately bornIn purple chambers of the morn,As sovereign over thee and thine.He speaketh not; and yet there liesA conversation in his eyes;The golden silence of the Greek,The gravest wisdom of the wise,Not spoken in language, but in looksMore legible than printed books,As if he could but would not speak.And now, O monarch absolute,Thy power is put to proof; for, lo!Resistless, fathomless, and slow,The nurse comes rustling like the sea,And pushes back thy chair and thee,And so good night to King Canute.
IV.
As one who walking in a forest seesA lovely landscape through the parted trees,Then sees it not, for boughs that intervene;Or, as we see the moon sometimes reveal'dThrough drifting clouds, and then again conceal'd,So I behold the scene.
There are two guests at table now;The king, deposed and older grown,No longer occupies the throne,—The crown is on his sister's brow;A Princess from the Fairy Isles,The very pattern girl of girls,All cover'd and embower'd in curls,Rose-tinted from the Isle of Flowers,And sailing with soft, silken sailsFrom far-off Dreamland into ours.Above their bowls with rims of blueFour azure eyes of deeper hueAre looking, dreamy with delight;Limpid as planets that emergeAbove the ocean's rounded verge,Soft-shining through the summer night.Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing seeBeyond the horizon of their bowls;Nor care they for the world that rollsWith all its freight of troubled soulsInto the days that are to be.
V.
Again the tossing boughs shut out the scene,Again the drifting vapors intervene,And the moon's pallid disk is hidden quite:And now I see the table wider grown,As round a pebble into water thrownDilates a ring of light.
I see the table wider grown,I see it garlanded with guests,As if fair Ariadne's CrownOut of the sky had fallen down;Maidens within whose tender breastsA thousand restless hopes and fears,Forth reaching to the coming years,Flutter awhile, then quiet lie,Like timid birds that fain would fly,But do not dare to leave their nests;—And youths, who in their strength elateChallenge the van and front of fate,Eager as champions to beIn the divine knight-errantryOf youth, that travels sea and landSeeking adventures, or pursues,Through cities, and through solitudesFrequented by the lyric Muse,The phantom with the beckoning hand,That still allures and still eludes.O sweet illusions of the brain!O sudden thrills of fire and frost!The world is bright while ye remain,And dark and dead when ye are lost!
VI.
The meadow-brook, that seemeth to stand still,Quickens its current as it nears the mill;And so the stream of Time that lingerethIn level places, and so dull appears,Runs with a swifter current as it nearsThe gloomy mills of Death.
And now, like the magician's scroll,That in the owner's keeping shrinksWith every wish he speaks or thinks,Till the last wish consumes the whole,The table dwindles, and againI see the two alone remain.The crown of stars is broken in parts;Its jewels, brighter than the day,Have one by one been stolen awayTo shine in other homes and hearts.One is a wanderer now afarIn Ceylon or in Zanzibar,Or sunny regions of Cathay;And one is in the boisterous campMid clink of arms and horses' tramp,And battle's terrible array.I see the patient mother read,With aching heart, of wrecks that floatDisabled on those seas remote,Or of some great heroic deedOn battle-fields, where thousands bleedTo lift one hero into fame.Anxious she bends her graceful headAbove these chronicles of pain,And trembles with a secret dreadLest there among the drown'd or slainShe find the one belovèd name.
VII.
After a day of cloud and wind and rainSometimes the setting sun breaks out again,And, touching all the darksome woods with light.Smiles on the fields, until they laugh and sing,Then like a ruby from the horizon's ringDrops down into the night.
What see I now? The night is fair,The storm of grief, the clouds of care,The wind, the rain, have pass'd away;The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright,The house is full of life and light:It is the Golden Wedding day.The guests come thronging in once more,Quick footsteps sound along the floor,The trooping children crowd the stair,And in and out and everywhereFlashes along the corridorThe sunshine of their golden hair.
On the round table in the hallAnother Ariadne's CrownOut of the sky hath fallen down;More than one Monarch of the MoonIs drumming with his silver spoon;The light of love shines over all.
O fortunate, O happy day!The people sing, the people say.The ancient bridegroom and the bride,Smiling contented and serene,Upon the blithe, bewildering scene,Behold, well pleas'd, on every sideTheir forms and features multiplied,As the reflection of a lightBetween two burnish'd mirrors gleams,Or lamps upon a bridge at nightStretch on and on before the sight,Till the long vista endless seems.
Wormshave played a more important part in the history of the world than most persons would at first suppose. In almost all humid countries they are extraordinarily numerous, and for their size possess great muscular power. In many parts of England a weight of more than ten tons of dry earth annually passes through their bodies and is brought to the surface on each acre of land; so that the whole superficial bed of vegetable mould passes through their bodies in the course of every few years. From the collapsing of the old burrows themould is in constant though slow movement, and the particles composing it are thus rubbed together. By these means fresh surfaces are continually exposed to the action of the carbonic acid in the soil, and of the humus-acids which appear to be still more efficient in the decomposition of rocks. The generation of the humus-acids is probably hastened during the digestion of the many half-decayed leaves which worms consume. Thus the particles of earth, forming the superficial mould, are subjected to conditions eminently favorable for their decomposition and disintegration. Moreover, the particles of the softer rocks suffer some amount of mechanical trituration in the muscular gizzards of worms, in which small stones serve as mill-stones....Archæologists ought to be grateful to worms, as they protect and preserve for an indefinitely long period every object, not liable to decay, which is dropped on the surface of the land, by burying it beneath their castings. Thus, also, many elegant and curious tesselated pavements and other ancient remains have been preserved; though no doubt the worms have in these cases been largely aided by earth washed and blown from the adjoining land, especially when cultivated. The old tesselated pavements have, however, often suffered by having subsided unequally from being unequally undermined by the worms. Even old massive walls may be undermined and subside; and no building is in this respect safe, unless the foundations lie six or seven feet beneath the surface, at a depth at which worms cannot work. It is probable that many monoliths and some old walls have fallen down from having been undermined by worms.Worms prepare the ground in an excellent manner for the growth of fibrous-rooted plants and for seedlings ofall kinds. They periodically expose the mould to the air, and sift it so that no stones larger than the particles which they can swallow are left in it. They mingle the whole intimately together, like a gardener who prepares fine soil for his choicest plants. In this state it is well fitted to retain moisture and to absorb all soluble substances, as well as for the process of nitrification. The bones of dead animals, the harder parts of insects, the shells of land-molluscs, leaves, twigs, etc., are before long all buried beneath the accumulated castings of worms, and are thus brought in a more or less decayed state within reach of the roots of plants. Worms likewise drag an infinite number of dead leaves and other parts of plants into their burrows, partly for the sake of plugging them up and partly as food.The leaves which are dragged into the burrows as food, after being torn into the finest shreds, partially digested, and saturated with the intestinal secretions, are commingled with much earth. This earth forms the dark-colored, rich humus which almost everywhere covers the surface of the land with a fairly well-defined layer or mantle. Von Hensen placed two worms in a vessel eighteen inches in diameter, which was filled with sand, on which fallen leaves were strewed; and these were soon dragged into their burrows to a depth of three inches. After about six weeks an almost uniform layer of sand, a centimetre (.4 inch) in thickness, was converted into humus by having passed through the alimentary canals of these two worms. It is believed by some persons that worm-burrows, which often penetrate the ground almost perpendicularly to a depth of five or six feet, materially aid in its drainage; notwithstanding that the viscid castings piled over the mouths of the burrowsprevent or check the rain-water directly entering them. They allow the air to penetrate deeply into the ground. They also greatly facilitate the downward passage of roots of moderate size; and these will be nourished by the humus with which the burrows are lined. Many seeds owe their germination to having been covered by castings; and others buried to a considerable depth beneath accumulated castings lie dormant, until at some future time they are accidentally uncovered and germinate.Worms are poorly provided with sense-organs, for they cannot be said to see, although they can just distinguish between light and darkness; they are completely deaf, and have only a feeble power of smell; the sense of touch alone is well developed. They can therefore learn little about the outside world, and it is surprising that they should exhibit some skill in lining their burrows with their castings and with leaves, and in the case of some species in piling up their castings into tower-like constructions. But it is far more surprising that they should apparently exhibit some degree of intelligence instead of a mere blind instinctive impulse, in their manner of plugging up the mouths of their burrows. They act in nearly the same manner as would a man, who had to close a cylindrical tube with different kinds of leaves, petioles, triangles of paper, etc., for they commonly seize such objects by their pointed ends. But with thin objects a certain number are drawn in by their broader ends. They do not act in the same unvarying manner in all cases, as do most of the lower animals; for instance, they do not drag in leaves by their foot-stalks, unless the basal part of the blade is as narrow as the apex, or narrower than it.When we behold a wide, turf-covered expanse, we should remember that its smoothness, on which so much of its beauty depends, is mainly due to all the inequalities having been slowly levelled by worms. It is a marvellous reflection that the whole of the superficial mould over any such expanse has passed, and will again pass, every few years, through the bodies of worms. The plough is one of the most ancient and most valuable of man's inventions; but long before he existed the land was in fact regularly ploughed, and still continues to be thus ploughed by earth-worms. It may be doubted whether there are many other animals which have played so important a part in the history of the world, as have these lowly organized creatures.
Wormshave played a more important part in the history of the world than most persons would at first suppose. In almost all humid countries they are extraordinarily numerous, and for their size possess great muscular power. In many parts of England a weight of more than ten tons of dry earth annually passes through their bodies and is brought to the surface on each acre of land; so that the whole superficial bed of vegetable mould passes through their bodies in the course of every few years. From the collapsing of the old burrows themould is in constant though slow movement, and the particles composing it are thus rubbed together. By these means fresh surfaces are continually exposed to the action of the carbonic acid in the soil, and of the humus-acids which appear to be still more efficient in the decomposition of rocks. The generation of the humus-acids is probably hastened during the digestion of the many half-decayed leaves which worms consume. Thus the particles of earth, forming the superficial mould, are subjected to conditions eminently favorable for their decomposition and disintegration. Moreover, the particles of the softer rocks suffer some amount of mechanical trituration in the muscular gizzards of worms, in which small stones serve as mill-stones....
Archæologists ought to be grateful to worms, as they protect and preserve for an indefinitely long period every object, not liable to decay, which is dropped on the surface of the land, by burying it beneath their castings. Thus, also, many elegant and curious tesselated pavements and other ancient remains have been preserved; though no doubt the worms have in these cases been largely aided by earth washed and blown from the adjoining land, especially when cultivated. The old tesselated pavements have, however, often suffered by having subsided unequally from being unequally undermined by the worms. Even old massive walls may be undermined and subside; and no building is in this respect safe, unless the foundations lie six or seven feet beneath the surface, at a depth at which worms cannot work. It is probable that many monoliths and some old walls have fallen down from having been undermined by worms.
Worms prepare the ground in an excellent manner for the growth of fibrous-rooted plants and for seedlings ofall kinds. They periodically expose the mould to the air, and sift it so that no stones larger than the particles which they can swallow are left in it. They mingle the whole intimately together, like a gardener who prepares fine soil for his choicest plants. In this state it is well fitted to retain moisture and to absorb all soluble substances, as well as for the process of nitrification. The bones of dead animals, the harder parts of insects, the shells of land-molluscs, leaves, twigs, etc., are before long all buried beneath the accumulated castings of worms, and are thus brought in a more or less decayed state within reach of the roots of plants. Worms likewise drag an infinite number of dead leaves and other parts of plants into their burrows, partly for the sake of plugging them up and partly as food.
The leaves which are dragged into the burrows as food, after being torn into the finest shreds, partially digested, and saturated with the intestinal secretions, are commingled with much earth. This earth forms the dark-colored, rich humus which almost everywhere covers the surface of the land with a fairly well-defined layer or mantle. Von Hensen placed two worms in a vessel eighteen inches in diameter, which was filled with sand, on which fallen leaves were strewed; and these were soon dragged into their burrows to a depth of three inches. After about six weeks an almost uniform layer of sand, a centimetre (.4 inch) in thickness, was converted into humus by having passed through the alimentary canals of these two worms. It is believed by some persons that worm-burrows, which often penetrate the ground almost perpendicularly to a depth of five or six feet, materially aid in its drainage; notwithstanding that the viscid castings piled over the mouths of the burrowsprevent or check the rain-water directly entering them. They allow the air to penetrate deeply into the ground. They also greatly facilitate the downward passage of roots of moderate size; and these will be nourished by the humus with which the burrows are lined. Many seeds owe their germination to having been covered by castings; and others buried to a considerable depth beneath accumulated castings lie dormant, until at some future time they are accidentally uncovered and germinate.
Worms are poorly provided with sense-organs, for they cannot be said to see, although they can just distinguish between light and darkness; they are completely deaf, and have only a feeble power of smell; the sense of touch alone is well developed. They can therefore learn little about the outside world, and it is surprising that they should exhibit some skill in lining their burrows with their castings and with leaves, and in the case of some species in piling up their castings into tower-like constructions. But it is far more surprising that they should apparently exhibit some degree of intelligence instead of a mere blind instinctive impulse, in their manner of plugging up the mouths of their burrows. They act in nearly the same manner as would a man, who had to close a cylindrical tube with different kinds of leaves, petioles, triangles of paper, etc., for they commonly seize such objects by their pointed ends. But with thin objects a certain number are drawn in by their broader ends. They do not act in the same unvarying manner in all cases, as do most of the lower animals; for instance, they do not drag in leaves by their foot-stalks, unless the basal part of the blade is as narrow as the apex, or narrower than it.
When we behold a wide, turf-covered expanse, we should remember that its smoothness, on which so much of its beauty depends, is mainly due to all the inequalities having been slowly levelled by worms. It is a marvellous reflection that the whole of the superficial mould over any such expanse has passed, and will again pass, every few years, through the bodies of worms. The plough is one of the most ancient and most valuable of man's inventions; but long before he existed the land was in fact regularly ploughed, and still continues to be thus ploughed by earth-worms. It may be doubted whether there are many other animals which have played so important a part in the history of the world, as have these lowly organized creatures.
Asships, becalm'd at eve, that layWith canvas drooping, side by side,Two towers of sail at dawn of dayAre scarce long leagues apart descried;When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,And all the darkling hours they plied,Nor dreamt but each the self-same seasBy each was cleaving, side by side:E'en so—but why the tale revealOf those, whom year by year unchanged,Brief absence join'd anew to feel,Astounded, soul from soul estranged?At dead of night their sails were fill'd,And onward each rejoicing steer'd—Ah, neither blame, for neither will'd,Or wist, what first with dawn appear'd!To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,Through winds and tides one compass guides—To that, and your own selves, be true.But O blithe breeze! and O great seas,Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,On your wide plain they join again,Together lead them home at last.One port, methought, alike they sought,One purpose hold where'er they fare,—O bounding breeze, O rushing seas!At last, at last, unite them there.
Asships, becalm'd at eve, that layWith canvas drooping, side by side,Two towers of sail at dawn of dayAre scarce long leagues apart descried;
When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,And all the darkling hours they plied,Nor dreamt but each the self-same seasBy each was cleaving, side by side:
E'en so—but why the tale revealOf those, whom year by year unchanged,Brief absence join'd anew to feel,Astounded, soul from soul estranged?
At dead of night their sails were fill'd,And onward each rejoicing steer'd—Ah, neither blame, for neither will'd,Or wist, what first with dawn appear'd!
To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,Through winds and tides one compass guides—To that, and your own selves, be true.
But O blithe breeze! and O great seas,Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,On your wide plain they join again,Together lead them home at last.
One port, methought, alike they sought,One purpose hold where'er they fare,—O bounding breeze, O rushing seas!At last, at last, unite them there.
Duty—that's to say, complyingWith whate'er's expected here;On your unknown cousin's dying,Straight be ready with the tear;Upon etiquette relying,Unto usage nought denying,Lend your waist to be embraced,Blush not even, never fear;Claims of kith and kin connection,Claims of manners honor still,Ready money of affectionPay, whoever drew the bill.With the form conforming duly,Senseless what it meaneth truly,Go to church—the world require you,To balls—the world require you too,And marry—papa and mamma desire you,And your sisters and schoolfellows do.Duty—'tis to take on trustWhat things are good, and right, and just;And whether indeed they be or be not,Try not, test not, feel not, see not:'Tis walk and dance, sit down and riseBy leading, opening ne'er your eyes;Stunt sturdy limbs that Nature gave,And be drawn in a Bath chair along to the grave.'Tis the stern and prompt suppressing,As an obvious deadly sin,All the questing and the guessingOf the soul's own soul within:'Tis the coward acquiescenceIn a destiny's behest,To a shade by terror made,Sacrificing, aye, the essenceOf all that's truest, noblest, best:'Tis the blind non-recognitionOr of goodness, truth, or beauty,Save by precept and submission;Moral blank, and moral void,Life at very birth destroy'd.Atrophy, exinanition!Duty!Yea, by duty's prime conditionPure nonentity of duty!
Duty—that's to say, complyingWith whate'er's expected here;On your unknown cousin's dying,Straight be ready with the tear;Upon etiquette relying,Unto usage nought denying,Lend your waist to be embraced,Blush not even, never fear;Claims of kith and kin connection,Claims of manners honor still,Ready money of affectionPay, whoever drew the bill.With the form conforming duly,Senseless what it meaneth truly,Go to church—the world require you,To balls—the world require you too,And marry—papa and mamma desire you,And your sisters and schoolfellows do.
Duty—'tis to take on trustWhat things are good, and right, and just;And whether indeed they be or be not,Try not, test not, feel not, see not:'Tis walk and dance, sit down and riseBy leading, opening ne'er your eyes;Stunt sturdy limbs that Nature gave,And be drawn in a Bath chair along to the grave.
'Tis the stern and prompt suppressing,As an obvious deadly sin,All the questing and the guessingOf the soul's own soul within:'Tis the coward acquiescenceIn a destiny's behest,To a shade by terror made,Sacrificing, aye, the essenceOf all that's truest, noblest, best:'Tis the blind non-recognitionOr of goodness, truth, or beauty,Save by precept and submission;Moral blank, and moral void,Life at very birth destroy'd.Atrophy, exinanition!Duty!Yea, by duty's prime conditionPure nonentity of duty!
I.Theday was lingering in the pale north-west,And night was hanging o'er my head,—Night where a myriad stars were spread;While down in the east, where the light was least,Seem'd the home of the quiet dead.And, as I gazed on the field sublime,To watch the bright, pulsating stars,Adown the deep where the angels sleepCame drawn the golden chimeOf those great spheres that sound the yearsFor the horologe of time.Millenniums numberless they told,Millenniums a million-foldFrom the ancient hour of prime.II.The stars are glittering in the frosty sky,Frequent as pebbles on a broad sea-coast;And o'er the vault the cloud-like galaxyHas marshall'd its innumerable host.Alive all heaven seems! with wondrous glowTenfold refulgent every star appears,As if some wide, celestial gale did blow,And thrice illume the ever-kindled spheres.Orbs, with glad orbs rejoicing, burning, beam,Ray-crown'd, with lambent lustre in their zones,Till o'er the blue, bespangled spaces seemAngels and great archangels on their thrones;A host divine, whose eyes are sparkling gems,And forms more bright than diamond diadems.III.Hush'd in a calm beyond mine utterance,See in the western sky the evening spread;Suspended in its pale, serene expanse,Like scatter'd flames, the glowing cloudlets red.Clear are those clouds; and that pure sky's profound,Transparent as a lake of hyaline;Nor motion, nor the faintest breath of sound,Disturbs the steadfast beauty of the scene.Far o'er the vault, the winnow'd welkin wide,From the bronzed east unto the whiten'd west,Moor'd, seem, in their sweet, tranquil, roseate pride,Those clouds the fabled islands of the blest;—The lands where pious spirits breathe in joy,And love and worship all their hours employ.
I.
Theday was lingering in the pale north-west,And night was hanging o'er my head,—Night where a myriad stars were spread;While down in the east, where the light was least,Seem'd the home of the quiet dead.And, as I gazed on the field sublime,To watch the bright, pulsating stars,Adown the deep where the angels sleepCame drawn the golden chimeOf those great spheres that sound the yearsFor the horologe of time.Millenniums numberless they told,Millenniums a million-foldFrom the ancient hour of prime.
II.
The stars are glittering in the frosty sky,Frequent as pebbles on a broad sea-coast;And o'er the vault the cloud-like galaxyHas marshall'd its innumerable host.Alive all heaven seems! with wondrous glowTenfold refulgent every star appears,As if some wide, celestial gale did blow,And thrice illume the ever-kindled spheres.Orbs, with glad orbs rejoicing, burning, beam,Ray-crown'd, with lambent lustre in their zones,Till o'er the blue, bespangled spaces seemAngels and great archangels on their thrones;A host divine, whose eyes are sparkling gems,And forms more bright than diamond diadems.
III.
Hush'd in a calm beyond mine utterance,See in the western sky the evening spread;Suspended in its pale, serene expanse,Like scatter'd flames, the glowing cloudlets red.Clear are those clouds; and that pure sky's profound,Transparent as a lake of hyaline;Nor motion, nor the faintest breath of sound,Disturbs the steadfast beauty of the scene.Far o'er the vault, the winnow'd welkin wide,From the bronzed east unto the whiten'd west,Moor'd, seem, in their sweet, tranquil, roseate pride,Those clouds the fabled islands of the blest;—The lands where pious spirits breathe in joy,And love and worship all their hours employ.
Withhis usual and undoubting confidence in what he believed to be a general law of Providence, he based his whole management of the school on his early-formed and yearly-increasing conviction that what he had to look for, both intellectually and morally, was not performance but promise; that the very freedom and independence of school life, which in itself he thought so dangerous, might be made the best preparation for Christian manhood; and he did not hesitate to apply to his scholars the principle which seemed to him to have been adopted in the training of the childhood of the human raceitself. He shrunk from pressing on the conscience of boys rules of action which he felt they were not yet able to bear, and from enforcing actions which, though right in themselves, would in boys be performed from wrong motives. Keenly as he felt the risk and fatal consequences of the failure of this trial, still it was his great, sometimes his only support to believe that "the character is braced amid such scenes to a greater beauty and firmness than it ever can attain without enduring and witnessing them. Our work here would be absolutely unendurable if we did not bear in mind that we should look forward as well as backward—if we did not remember that the victory of fallen man lies not in innocence but in tried virtue." "I hold fast," he said, "to the great truth, that 'blessed is he that overcometh;'" and he writes in 1837: "Of all the painful things connected with my employment, nothing is equal to the grief of seeing a boy come to school innocent and promising, and tracing the corruption of his character from the influence of the temptations around him, in the very place which ought to have strengthened and improved it. But in most cases those who come with a character of positive good are benefited; it is the neutral and indecisive characters which are apt to be decided for evil by schools, as they would be in fact by any other temptation."But this very feeling led him with the greater eagerness to catch at every means by which the trial might be shortened or alleviated. "Can the change from childhood to manhood be hastened, without prematurely exhausting the faculties of body or mind?" was one of the chief questions on which his mind was constantly at work, and which in the judgment of some he was disposed to answer too readily in the affirmative. It was with the elder boys,of course, that he chiefly acted on this principle, but with all above the very young ones he trusted to it more or less. Firmly as he believed thatatime of trial was inevitable, he believed no less firmly that it might be passed at public schools sooner than under other circumstances; and, in proportion as he disliked the assumption of a false manliness in boys, was his desire to cultivate in them true manliness, as the only step to something higher, and to dwell on earnest principle and moral thoughtfulness, as the great and distinguishing mark between good and evil. Hence his wish that as much as possible should be donebythe boys, and nothingforthem; hence arose his practice, in which his own delicacy of feeling and uprightness of purpose powerfully assisted him, of treating the boys as gentlemen and reasonable beings, of making them respect themselves by the mere respect he showed to them; of showing that he appealed and trusted to their own common sense and conscience. Lying, for example, to the masters, he made a great moral offence: placing implicit confidence in a boy's assertion, and then, if a falsehood was discovered, punishing it severely,—in the upper part of the school, when persisted in, with expulsion. Even with the lower forms he never seemed to be on the watch for boys; and in the higher forms any attempt at further proof of an assertion was immediately checked: "If you say so, that is quite enough—of courseI believe your word;" and there grew up in consequence a general feeling that "it was a shame to tell Arnold a lie—he always believes one."Perhaps the liveliest representation of this general spirit, as distinguished from its exemplification in particular parts of the discipline and instruction, would be formed by recalling his manner, as he appeared in thegreat school, where the boys used to meet when the whole school was assembled collectively, and not in its different forms or classes. Then, whether on his usual entrance every morning to prayers before the first lesson, or on the more special emergencies which might require his presence, he seemed to stand before them, not merely as the head-master, but as the representative of the school. There he spoke to them as members together with himself of the same great institution, whose character and reputation they had to sustain as well as he. He would dwell on the satisfaction he had in being head of a society, where noble and honorable feelings were encouraged, or on the disgrace which he felt in hearing of acts of disorder or violence, such as in the humbler ranks of life would render them amenable to the laws of their country; or again, on the trust which he placed in their honor as gentlemen, and the baseness of any instance in which it was abused. "Is this a Christian school?" he indignantly asked at the end of one of those addresses, in which he had spoken of an extensive display of bad feeling amongst the boys; and then added,—"I cannot remain here if all this is to be carried on by constraint and force; if I am to be here as a jailer, I will resign my office at once." And few scenes can be recorded more characteristic of him than on one of these occasions, when, in consequence of a disturbance, he had been obliged to send away several boys, and when in the midst of the general spirit of discontent which this excited, he stood in his place before the assembled school and said: "It isnotnecessary that this should be a school of three hundred, or one hundred, or of fifty boys; but itisnecessary that it should be a school of Christian gentlemen."
Withhis usual and undoubting confidence in what he believed to be a general law of Providence, he based his whole management of the school on his early-formed and yearly-increasing conviction that what he had to look for, both intellectually and morally, was not performance but promise; that the very freedom and independence of school life, which in itself he thought so dangerous, might be made the best preparation for Christian manhood; and he did not hesitate to apply to his scholars the principle which seemed to him to have been adopted in the training of the childhood of the human raceitself. He shrunk from pressing on the conscience of boys rules of action which he felt they were not yet able to bear, and from enforcing actions which, though right in themselves, would in boys be performed from wrong motives. Keenly as he felt the risk and fatal consequences of the failure of this trial, still it was his great, sometimes his only support to believe that "the character is braced amid such scenes to a greater beauty and firmness than it ever can attain without enduring and witnessing them. Our work here would be absolutely unendurable if we did not bear in mind that we should look forward as well as backward—if we did not remember that the victory of fallen man lies not in innocence but in tried virtue." "I hold fast," he said, "to the great truth, that 'blessed is he that overcometh;'" and he writes in 1837: "Of all the painful things connected with my employment, nothing is equal to the grief of seeing a boy come to school innocent and promising, and tracing the corruption of his character from the influence of the temptations around him, in the very place which ought to have strengthened and improved it. But in most cases those who come with a character of positive good are benefited; it is the neutral and indecisive characters which are apt to be decided for evil by schools, as they would be in fact by any other temptation."
But this very feeling led him with the greater eagerness to catch at every means by which the trial might be shortened or alleviated. "Can the change from childhood to manhood be hastened, without prematurely exhausting the faculties of body or mind?" was one of the chief questions on which his mind was constantly at work, and which in the judgment of some he was disposed to answer too readily in the affirmative. It was with the elder boys,of course, that he chiefly acted on this principle, but with all above the very young ones he trusted to it more or less. Firmly as he believed thatatime of trial was inevitable, he believed no less firmly that it might be passed at public schools sooner than under other circumstances; and, in proportion as he disliked the assumption of a false manliness in boys, was his desire to cultivate in them true manliness, as the only step to something higher, and to dwell on earnest principle and moral thoughtfulness, as the great and distinguishing mark between good and evil. Hence his wish that as much as possible should be donebythe boys, and nothingforthem; hence arose his practice, in which his own delicacy of feeling and uprightness of purpose powerfully assisted him, of treating the boys as gentlemen and reasonable beings, of making them respect themselves by the mere respect he showed to them; of showing that he appealed and trusted to their own common sense and conscience. Lying, for example, to the masters, he made a great moral offence: placing implicit confidence in a boy's assertion, and then, if a falsehood was discovered, punishing it severely,—in the upper part of the school, when persisted in, with expulsion. Even with the lower forms he never seemed to be on the watch for boys; and in the higher forms any attempt at further proof of an assertion was immediately checked: "If you say so, that is quite enough—of courseI believe your word;" and there grew up in consequence a general feeling that "it was a shame to tell Arnold a lie—he always believes one."
Perhaps the liveliest representation of this general spirit, as distinguished from its exemplification in particular parts of the discipline and instruction, would be formed by recalling his manner, as he appeared in thegreat school, where the boys used to meet when the whole school was assembled collectively, and not in its different forms or classes. Then, whether on his usual entrance every morning to prayers before the first lesson, or on the more special emergencies which might require his presence, he seemed to stand before them, not merely as the head-master, but as the representative of the school. There he spoke to them as members together with himself of the same great institution, whose character and reputation they had to sustain as well as he. He would dwell on the satisfaction he had in being head of a society, where noble and honorable feelings were encouraged, or on the disgrace which he felt in hearing of acts of disorder or violence, such as in the humbler ranks of life would render them amenable to the laws of their country; or again, on the trust which he placed in their honor as gentlemen, and the baseness of any instance in which it was abused. "Is this a Christian school?" he indignantly asked at the end of one of those addresses, in which he had spoken of an extensive display of bad feeling amongst the boys; and then added,—"I cannot remain here if all this is to be carried on by constraint and force; if I am to be here as a jailer, I will resign my office at once." And few scenes can be recorded more characteristic of him than on one of these occasions, when, in consequence of a disturbance, he had been obliged to send away several boys, and when in the midst of the general spirit of discontent which this excited, he stood in his place before the assembled school and said: "It isnotnecessary that this should be a school of three hundred, or one hundred, or of fifty boys; but itisnecessary that it should be a school of Christian gentlemen."
Welcome, wild North-easter!Shame it is to seeOdes to every zephyr;Ne'er a verse to thee.Welcome, black North-easter!O'er the German foam;O'er the Danish moorlands,From thy frozen home.Tired we are of summer,Tired of gaudy glare,Showers soft and steaming,Hot and breathless air.Tired of listless dreamingThrough the lazy day:Jovial wind of winterTurns us out to play!Sweep the golden reed-beds;Crisp the lazy dyke;Hunger into madnessEvery plunging pike.Fill the lake with wild-fowl;Fill the marsh with snipe;While on dreary moorlandsLonely curlew pipe.Through the black fir-forestThunder harsh and dry,Shattering down the snow-flakesOff the curdled sky.Hark! The brave North-easter!Breast-high lies the scent,On by holt and headland,Over heath and bent.Chime, ye dappled darlings,Through the sleet and snow.Who can over-ride you?Let the horses go!Chime, ye dappled darlings,Down the roaring blast;You shall see a fox dieEre an hour be past.Go! and rest to-morrow,Hunting in your dreams,While our skates are ringingO'er the frozen streams.Let the luscious South-windBreathe in lovers' sighs,While the lazy gallantsBask in ladies' eyes.What does he but softenHeart alike and pen?'Tis the hard grey weatherBreeds hard English men.What's the soft South-wester?'Tis the ladies' breeze,Bringing home their true-lovesOut of all the seas.But the black North-easter,Through the snow-storm hurl'd,Drives our English hearts of oakSeaward round the world.Come, as came our fathers,Heralded by thee,Conquering from the eastward,Lords by land and sea.Come; and strong within usStir the Vikings' blood,Bracing brain and sinew;Blow, thou wind of God!
Welcome, wild North-easter!Shame it is to seeOdes to every zephyr;Ne'er a verse to thee.Welcome, black North-easter!O'er the German foam;O'er the Danish moorlands,From thy frozen home.Tired we are of summer,Tired of gaudy glare,Showers soft and steaming,Hot and breathless air.Tired of listless dreamingThrough the lazy day:Jovial wind of winterTurns us out to play!Sweep the golden reed-beds;Crisp the lazy dyke;Hunger into madnessEvery plunging pike.Fill the lake with wild-fowl;Fill the marsh with snipe;While on dreary moorlandsLonely curlew pipe.Through the black fir-forestThunder harsh and dry,Shattering down the snow-flakesOff the curdled sky.Hark! The brave North-easter!Breast-high lies the scent,On by holt and headland,Over heath and bent.Chime, ye dappled darlings,Through the sleet and snow.Who can over-ride you?Let the horses go!Chime, ye dappled darlings,Down the roaring blast;You shall see a fox dieEre an hour be past.Go! and rest to-morrow,Hunting in your dreams,While our skates are ringingO'er the frozen streams.Let the luscious South-windBreathe in lovers' sighs,While the lazy gallantsBask in ladies' eyes.What does he but softenHeart alike and pen?'Tis the hard grey weatherBreeds hard English men.What's the soft South-wester?'Tis the ladies' breeze,Bringing home their true-lovesOut of all the seas.But the black North-easter,Through the snow-storm hurl'd,Drives our English hearts of oakSeaward round the world.Come, as came our fathers,Heralded by thee,Conquering from the eastward,Lords by land and sea.Come; and strong within usStir the Vikings' blood,Bracing brain and sinew;Blow, thou wind of God!
Thenext morning Maggie was trotting with her own fishing-rod in one hand and a handle of the basket in the other, stepping always, by a peculiar gift, in the muddiest places, and looking darkly radiant from under her beaver bonnet because Tom was good to her. She had told Tom, however, that she should like him to put the worms on the hook for her, although she accepted his word when he assured her that worms couldn't feel (it was Tom's private opinion that it didn't much matter if they did). He knew all about worms, and fish, and those things; and what birds were mischievous, and how padlocks opened, and which way the handles of the gates were to be lifted. Maggie thought this sort of knowledge was very wonderful—much more difficult than remembering what was in the books; and she was rather in awe of Tom's superiority, for he was the only person who called her knowledge "stuff," and did not feel surprised at her cleverness. Tom, indeed, was of opinion that Maggie was a silly little thing; all girls were silly; they couldn't throw a stone so as to hit anything, couldn't do anything with a pocket-knife, and were frightened at frogs. Still, he was very fond of his sister, and meant always to takecare of her, make her his housekeeper, and punish her when she did wrong.They were on their way to the Round Pool—that wonderful pool, which the floods had made a long while ago. No one knew how deep it was; and it was mysterious, too, that it should be almost a perfect round, framed in with willows and tall reeds, so that the water was only to be seen when you got close to the brink. The sight of the old favorite spot always heightened Tom's good-humor, and he spoke to Maggie in the most amiable whispers, as he opened the precious basket and prepared their tackle. He threw her line for her, and put the rod into her hand. Maggie thought it probable that the small fish would come to her hook, and the large ones to Tom's. But she had forgotten all about the fish, and was looking dreamily at the glassy water, when Tom said, in a loud whisper, "Look! look, Maggie!" and came running to prevent her from snatching her line away.Maggie was frightened lest she had been doing something wrong, as usual, but presently Tom drew out her line and brought a large tench bouncing on the grass.Tom was excited."O Magsie! you little duck! Empty the basket."Maggie was not conscious of unusual merit, but it was enough that Tom called her Magsie, and was pleased with her. There was nothing to mar her delight in the whispers and the dreamy silences, when she listened to the light dipping sounds of the rising fish, and the gentle rustling, as if the willows, and the reeds, and the water had their happy whisperings also. Maggie thought it would make a very nice heaven to sit by the pool in that way, and never be scolded. She never knew she had a bite till Tom told her, but she liked fishing very much.It was one of their happy mornings. They trotted along and sat down together, with no thought that life would ever change much for them: they would only get bigger and not go to school, and it would always be like the holidays; they would always live together and be fond of each other. And the mill with its booming—the great chestnut-tree under which they played at houses—their own little river, the Ripple, where the banks seemed like home, and Tom was always seeing the water-rats, while Maggie gathered the purple plumy tops of the reeds, which she forgot and dropped afterward—above all, the great Floss, along which they wandered with a sense of travel, to see the rushing spring-tide, the awful Eagre, come up like a hungry monster, or to see the Great Ash which had once wailed and groaned like a man—these things would always be just the same to them. Tom thought people were at a disadvantage who lived on any other spot of the globe; and Maggie, when she read about Christiana passing "the river over which there is no bridge," always saw the Floss between the green pastures by the Great Ash.Life did change for Tom and Maggie; and yet they were not wrong in believing that the thoughts and loves of these first years would always make part of their lives. We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it—if it were not the earth where the same flowers come up again every spring that we used to gather with our tiny fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves on the grass—the same hips and haws on the autumn hedgerows—the same red-breasts that we used to call "God's birds," because they did no harm to the precious crops. What novelty is worth that sweet monotony where everything is known, andlovedbecause it is known?The wood I walk in on this mild May day, with the young yellow-brown foliage of the oaks between me and the blue sky, the white star-flowers, and the blue-eyed speedwell, and the ground-ivy at my feet—what grove of tropic palms, what strange ferns or splendid broad-petaled blossoms, could ever thrill such deep and delicate fibres within me as this home-scene? These familiar flowers, these well-remembered bird-notes, this sky with its fitful brightness, these furrowed and grassy fields, each with a sort of personality given to it by the capricious hedgerows—such things as these are the mother tongue of our imagination, the language that is laden with all the subtle inextricable associations the fleeting hours of our childhood left behind them. Our delight in the sunshine on the deep-bladed grass to-day might be no more than the faint perception of wearied souls, if it were not for the sunshine and the grass in the far-off years, which still live in us, and transform our perception into love.
Thenext morning Maggie was trotting with her own fishing-rod in one hand and a handle of the basket in the other, stepping always, by a peculiar gift, in the muddiest places, and looking darkly radiant from under her beaver bonnet because Tom was good to her. She had told Tom, however, that she should like him to put the worms on the hook for her, although she accepted his word when he assured her that worms couldn't feel (it was Tom's private opinion that it didn't much matter if they did). He knew all about worms, and fish, and those things; and what birds were mischievous, and how padlocks opened, and which way the handles of the gates were to be lifted. Maggie thought this sort of knowledge was very wonderful—much more difficult than remembering what was in the books; and she was rather in awe of Tom's superiority, for he was the only person who called her knowledge "stuff," and did not feel surprised at her cleverness. Tom, indeed, was of opinion that Maggie was a silly little thing; all girls were silly; they couldn't throw a stone so as to hit anything, couldn't do anything with a pocket-knife, and were frightened at frogs. Still, he was very fond of his sister, and meant always to takecare of her, make her his housekeeper, and punish her when she did wrong.
They were on their way to the Round Pool—that wonderful pool, which the floods had made a long while ago. No one knew how deep it was; and it was mysterious, too, that it should be almost a perfect round, framed in with willows and tall reeds, so that the water was only to be seen when you got close to the brink. The sight of the old favorite spot always heightened Tom's good-humor, and he spoke to Maggie in the most amiable whispers, as he opened the precious basket and prepared their tackle. He threw her line for her, and put the rod into her hand. Maggie thought it probable that the small fish would come to her hook, and the large ones to Tom's. But she had forgotten all about the fish, and was looking dreamily at the glassy water, when Tom said, in a loud whisper, "Look! look, Maggie!" and came running to prevent her from snatching her line away.
Maggie was frightened lest she had been doing something wrong, as usual, but presently Tom drew out her line and brought a large tench bouncing on the grass.
Tom was excited.
"O Magsie! you little duck! Empty the basket."
Maggie was not conscious of unusual merit, but it was enough that Tom called her Magsie, and was pleased with her. There was nothing to mar her delight in the whispers and the dreamy silences, when she listened to the light dipping sounds of the rising fish, and the gentle rustling, as if the willows, and the reeds, and the water had their happy whisperings also. Maggie thought it would make a very nice heaven to sit by the pool in that way, and never be scolded. She never knew she had a bite till Tom told her, but she liked fishing very much.
It was one of their happy mornings. They trotted along and sat down together, with no thought that life would ever change much for them: they would only get bigger and not go to school, and it would always be like the holidays; they would always live together and be fond of each other. And the mill with its booming—the great chestnut-tree under which they played at houses—their own little river, the Ripple, where the banks seemed like home, and Tom was always seeing the water-rats, while Maggie gathered the purple plumy tops of the reeds, which she forgot and dropped afterward—above all, the great Floss, along which they wandered with a sense of travel, to see the rushing spring-tide, the awful Eagre, come up like a hungry monster, or to see the Great Ash which had once wailed and groaned like a man—these things would always be just the same to them. Tom thought people were at a disadvantage who lived on any other spot of the globe; and Maggie, when she read about Christiana passing "the river over which there is no bridge," always saw the Floss between the green pastures by the Great Ash.
Life did change for Tom and Maggie; and yet they were not wrong in believing that the thoughts and loves of these first years would always make part of their lives. We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it—if it were not the earth where the same flowers come up again every spring that we used to gather with our tiny fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves on the grass—the same hips and haws on the autumn hedgerows—the same red-breasts that we used to call "God's birds," because they did no harm to the precious crops. What novelty is worth that sweet monotony where everything is known, andlovedbecause it is known?
The wood I walk in on this mild May day, with the young yellow-brown foliage of the oaks between me and the blue sky, the white star-flowers, and the blue-eyed speedwell, and the ground-ivy at my feet—what grove of tropic palms, what strange ferns or splendid broad-petaled blossoms, could ever thrill such deep and delicate fibres within me as this home-scene? These familiar flowers, these well-remembered bird-notes, this sky with its fitful brightness, these furrowed and grassy fields, each with a sort of personality given to it by the capricious hedgerows—such things as these are the mother tongue of our imagination, the language that is laden with all the subtle inextricable associations the fleeting hours of our childhood left behind them. Our delight in the sunshine on the deep-bladed grass to-day might be no more than the faint perception of wearied souls, if it were not for the sunshine and the grass in the far-off years, which still live in us, and transform our perception into love.