52 AN OLD ROAD. 



yes, that is the way to the sea ; that way 

 we all must go ; " while for themselves, 

 nevertheless, they manage to hold on by 

 their roots, victorious even while profess- 

 ing to yield. , 



To my mind the river is alive. Reason 

 about it as I will, I never can make it oth- 

 erwise. I could sooner believe in water 

 nymphs than in many existences which are 

 commonly treated as much more certain 

 matters of fact. I could believe in them, I 

 say ; but in reality I do not. My coinmun- 

 ings are not with any haunter of the river, 

 but with the living soul of the river itself. 

 It lags under the vine-covered alders, has- 

 tens through the bridge, then slips care- 

 lessly down a little descent, where it breaks 

 into singing, then into a mill-pond and out 

 again, and so on and on, through one expe- 

 rience after another ; and all the time it is 

 not dead water, but a river, a thing of life 

 and motion. After all, it is not for me to 

 say what is alive and what dead. As yet, 

 indeed, I do not so much as know what life 

 is. In certain moods, in what I fondly call 

 my better moments, I feel measurably sure 

 of being alive myself; but even on that 



