Memories 187 



once, is it not mine for ever ? Memory, that survives 

 everything else, will it not survive the grave also? 

 In this idle hour by the firelight I live, not as the 

 beasts in moments that like grains of wheat in a mill- 

 hopper are flung from the future into the present, and 

 without stoppage borne into the past, but as the Gods, 

 for Time stops when that which has gone by is still 

 being lived. 



But, nay, that is only a vain and arrogant fancy. 

 Even as I write, the shadows have closed over the 

 hill and the pine-trees ; the neighbouring oaks are 

 invisible ; night, stormy, dark and starless, has fallen 

 on the lone fields ; the lights come in, and the wind 

 that I did not hear before roars loud and dismal ; 

 and while in fancy I have been living in the past, lo ! 

 the stealthy moments have seized the chance of rush- 

 ing from the emptying to the filling portion of my 

 life, and because I have lived with the risen spirits of 

 hours past, these that even now are passing are 

 numbered with them that can have no resurrection, 

 for of them I have no memory. 



VILLAGE HEATHEN 



IN these days it is not uncommon to hear parsons 

 and statesmen bewailing the relapse of rural England 

 into Paganism. But, lest you fancy I am going to 



