through the beautiful traceries of the windows, as if we had belonged
to time long passed, when books were scarce and the art of reading
somewhat rare. Indeed, I may say here, that, though, as you will
have noted, my friends had mostly something to say about books, yet
they were not great readers, considering the refinement of their
manners and the great amount of leisure which they obviously had. In
fact, when Dick, especially, mentioned a book, he did so with an air
of a man who has accomplished an achievement; as much as to say,
"There, you see, I have actually read that!"

The evening passed all too quickly for me; since that day, for the
first time in my life, I was having my fill of the pleasure of the
eyes without any of that sense of incongruity, that dread of
approaching ruin, which had always beset me hitherto when I had been
amongst the beautiful works of art of the past, mingled with the
lovely nature of the present; both of them, in fact, the result of
the long centuries of tradition, which had compelled men to produce
the art, and compelled nature to run into the mould of the ages.
Here I could enjoy everything without an afterthought of the
injustice and miserable toil which made my leisure; the ignorance and
dulness of life which went to make my keen appreciation of history;
the tyranny and the struggle full of fear and mishap which went to
make my romance. The only weight I had upon my heart was a vague
fear as it drew toward bed-time concerning the place wherein I should
wake on the morrow: but I choked that down, and went to bed happy,
and in a very few moments was in a dreamless sleep.



CHAPTER XXI: GOING UP THE RIVER