254 THE LIFE OF THE FIELDS. 



pulse and undulation like the swing of the sea. Under 

 the trees in the woodlands it vibrates and lives ; on 

 the hills there is a resonance of light. It beats against 

 every leaf, and, thrown back, beats again; it is agitated 

 with the motion of the grass blades ; you can feel it 

 ceaselessly streaming on your face. It is renewed and 

 fresh every moment, and never twice do you see the 

 same ray. Stayed and checked by the dome and 

 book-built walls, the beams lose their elasticity, and 

 the ripple ceases in the motionless pool. The eyes, 

 responding, forget to turn quickly, and only partially 

 see. Deeper thought and inspiration quit the heart, 

 for they can only exist where the light vibrates and 

 communicates its tone to the soul. If any imagine 

 they shall find thought in many books, certainly they 

 will be disappointed. Thought dwells by the stream 

 and sea, by the hill and in the woodland, in the sun- 

 light and free wind, where the wild dove haunts. 

 Walls and roof shut it off as they shut off" the undula- 

 tion of light. The very lightning cannot penetrate 

 here. A murkiness marks the coming of the cloud, 

 and the dome becomes vague, but the fierce flash is 

 shorn to a pale reflection, and the thunder is no more 

 than the rolling of a heavier truck loaded with tomes. 

 But in closing out the sky, with it is cut off" aU that 

 the sky can tell you with its light, or in its passion of 

 storm. 



Sitting at these long desks and trying to read, I soon 

 find that I have made a mistake ; it is not here I shall 

 find that which I seek. Yet the magic of books draws 

 me here time after time, to be as often disappointed. 

 Something in a book tempts the mind as pictures 



