blood, and make the mind thrill to memories of

Old, unhappy, far off things.
And battles long ago.

It is so even with the humble concertina. That instrument is to me the last
expression of musical depravity. It is the torture which Dante would
provide for me in the last circle of Hell. But the sound of a concertina on
a country road on a dark night is as cheerful a noise as I want to hear.
But just as Omar loved the sound of a _distant_ drum, so distance is an
essential part of the enchantment of my concertina.

And of all pleasant sounds what is there to excel the music of the hammer
and the anvil in the smithy at the entrance to the village? No wonder the
children love to stand at the open door and see the burning sparks that fly
and hear the bellows roar. I would stand at the open door myself if I had
the pluck, for I am as much a child as any one when the hammer and the
anvil are playing their primeval music. It is the oldest song of humanity
played with the most ancient instruments. Here we are at the very beginning
of our story--here we stand in the very dawn of things. What lineage so
noble as that of the smith? What task so ancient and so honourable? With
such tools the first smith smote music out of labour, and began the
conquest of things to the accompaniment of joyous sounds. In those sounds I
seem to hear the whole burden of the ages.

I think I will take another stroll down to the village. It will take me
past the smithy.