ended.' And then, my reader, tell me--as the evening falls on you,
but not on him; as the shadows deepen on you, but not on him; as
the darkness gathers on you, but not on him--if, in sober reality,
the glorious promise has not found its perfect fulfilment, that
'at the evening time there shall be light!'

Every one knows that Summer Days dispose one to a certain listlessly
meditative mood. In cold weather, out of doors at least, you must
move about actively; it is only by the evening fireside, watching
the dancing shadows, that you have glimpses of this not wholly
unprofitable condition of mind. In summer-time you sometimes feel
disposed to stand and look for a good while at the top of a large
tree, gently waving about in the blue sky. You begin by thinking
it would be curious to be up there: but there is no thought or
speculation, moral, political, or religious, which may not come at
the end of the train started by the loftiest branches of the great
beech. You are able to sit for a considerable space in front of
an ivied wall, and think out your sermon for Sunday as you look at
the dark leaves in the sun. Above all, it is soothing and suggestive
to look from a height at the soft outline of distant hills of modest
elevation; and to see, between yourself and them, many farm-houses
and many little cottages dotted here and there. There, under your
eye, how much of life, and of the interests of life, is going on!
Looking at such things, you muse, in a vague, desultory way. I
wonder whether when ordinary folk profess to be thinking, musing,
or meditating, they are really thinking connectedly or to any purpose.
I daresay the truth is they have (so to speak) given the mind its
head; laid the reins of the will on the mind's neck; and are letting
it go on and about in a wayward, interrupted, odd, semi-conscious
way. They are not holding onward on any track of thought. I believe