138 Autumn 



dead bodies into the melting-pot for recasting there 

 must be a continual loss. 



My reflections never take this turn save it be after 

 the mind has been stupefied with too much reading 

 and conversation, or as a corrective of what a bard 

 has called ' the wild joy of living ; ' the contemptuous 

 simile of the elder moralist, ' Ants on a dunghill,' is 

 not at all in it with them as a precipitant of that joy. 

 But when they do, whether they stop at an idle 

 musing lit up by a fancy, or travel on to the inmost 

 root of sorrow, they form memories that serve as 

 touchstones and measuring lines of poetry. No verse 

 exactly expresses what the reader or the writer has 

 felt, only a variation of it ; but whatever rings true 

 will awaken or recall those moments of exquisite 

 intimacy with Nature. If they are sad, so is every- 

 thing else that is delightful ; all music is so ; the sea 

 mourns along the beach and round her lonely islands ; 

 the wind's voice is at its sweetest a gentle dirge ; 

 colours are not harmoniously blent till they produce 

 a subdued pensiveness ; and there is a suggestion of 

 grief in every fine and delicate odour. 



It is an advantage of living in the country that it 

 leaves little time for making even unwritten criticism. 

 Every post brings material for a more charming occu- 

 pation. You can tell from the grimaces and motions of 

 his puppets whether the ordinary dramatist is intent 

 on comedy or tragedy. His skill is exerted from the 

 outset to produce an atmosphere suitable to result. 



