Whatever I have seen in my life, that at least is
immortal.
Or again the scene shifts, and now I stumble to the deck of another
little steamer, very insufficiently habited, in the sharp freshness
of the dawn of a spring morning. The waves are different here--not
the great steely league-long rollers of the Atlantic, but the sharp
azure waves, marching in rhythmic order, of the Mediterranean; what
is the land, with grassy downs and folded valleys falling to grey
cliffs, upon which the brisk waves whiten and leap? That is Sicily;
and the thought of Theocritus, with the shepherd-boy singing light-
heartedly upon the headland a song of sweet days and little eager
joys, comes into my heart like wine, and brings a sharp touch of
tears into the eyes. Theocritus! How little I thought, as I read
the ugly brown volume with its yellow paper, in the dusty
schoolroom at Eton ten years before, that it was going to mean that
to me, sweetly as even then, in a moment torn from the noisy tide
of schoolboy life, came the pretty echoes of the song into a little
fanciful and restless mind! But now, as I saw those deserted
limestone crags, that endless sheep-wold, with no sign of a
habitation, rising and falling far into the distance, with the
fresh sea-breeze upon my cheek--there came upon me that tender
sorrow for all the beautiful days that are dead, the days when the
shepherds walked together, exulting in youth and warmth and good-
fellowship and song, to the village festival, and met the wandering
minstrel, with his coat of skin and his kind, ironical smile, who
gave them, after their halting lays, a touch of the old true melody
from a master's hand.
Pages:
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110