140 THE CLERK OF THE WOODS 



such things, enjoyed such things, concerned 

 ourselves with such things, trembled with 

 such fears, were lifted up by such hopes, felt 

 ourselves enriched by such havings ? How 

 shadowy and unreal they look now ; and once 

 they were as substantial as life and death. 

 Nay, it is some one else whose past we are 

 remembering. The boy and the man cannot 

 be the same. 



Shall we rejoice or be sad that we have 

 outgrown ourselves thus completely ? Some- 

 thing of both, perhaps. It matters not. The 

 year is ending, the night is falling. The 

 past is as if it had never been ; the future is 

 nothing ; and the present is less than either 

 of them. Life is a vapor ; nothing, and less 

 than nothing, and vanity. 



So we say to ourselves, not sadly, but with 

 a kind of satisfaction to have it so. Yet we 

 love to live over the past, and, with less as- 

 surance, to dream of the future. 



" The flower that once has blown forever dies." 



Yes, we have heard that, and we will 

 not dispute ; this is not an hour for disput- 

 ing ; but the flowers that bloomed forty years 



