1 84 Winter 



who rejoice over the good ; but when I think over the 

 incidents and scenes that come back often and involun- 

 tarily, I find no preponderance either among those 

 that were full of joy or pregnant with sorrow, that 

 were absolutely trivial or intensely interesting. There 

 is something from each, and all are now raised to an 

 equal importance, all bathed in the same mild light, all 

 enhaloed with the same quiet and pleasing melancholy. 

 The grassy cradle among the hills whereon one 

 summer day the beauty of earth first dawned on me 

 is not a whit more vividly remembered than a non- 

 significant village scene that for no discoverable reason 

 the mind holds fast a pouring rain, a tame magpie 

 washing itself in a pool, a girl's voice singing ' Villikins 

 and his Dinah.' 



So too with faces. On no principle of selection, 

 but, as would appear, from the simple operation of 

 chance, a thousand have faded away for one that is 

 added to the mental picture gallery. An early play- 

 mate is forgotten, and the face of a stranger of which 

 the merest glimpse has been caught in a crowded street 

 is treasured for ever. In my case the apostolic features 

 of an old grey clergyman when they reappear always 

 bring with them the stolid face and cunning eyes 

 half-concealed by the dinted white hat partly tilted 

 over them of a rascal horsey poacher, and those of 

 a one-legged drunken saddler who was an adept at 

 dressing fly- hooks. Memory has no care to keep her 

 figures intact, and of many preserves only one charac- 



