ky with soft, green
foliage of apple-trees, and flushing crimson with roses,--air, and
fields, and mountains. The future of the Welsh puddler passing just now
is not so pleasant. To be stowed away, after his grimy work is done, in
a hole in the muddy graveyard, and after that,--_not_ air, nor green
fields, nor curious roses.

Can you see how foggy the day is? As I stand here, idly tapping the
window-pane, and looking out through the rain at the dirty back-yard and
the coal-boats below, fragments of an old story float up before me,--a
story of this old house into which I happened to come to-day. You may
think it a tiresome story enough, as foggy as the day, sharpened by no
sudden flashes of pain or pleasure.--I know: only the outline of a dull
life, that long since, with thousands of dull lives like its own, was
vainly lived and lost: thousands of them,--massed, vile, slimy lives,
like those of the torpid lizards in yonder stagnant water-butt.--Lost?
There is a curious point for you to settle, my friend, who study
psychology in a lazy, _dilettante_ way. Stop a moment. I am going to be
honest. This is what I want you to do. I want you to hide your disgust,
take no heed to your clean clothes, and come right down with me,--here,
into the thickest of the fog and mud and foul effluvia. I want you to
hear this story. There is a secret down here, in this nightmare fog,
that has lain dumb for centuries: I want to make it a real thing to you.
You, Egoist, or Pantheist, or Arminian, busy in making straight paths
for your feet on the hills, do not see it clearly,--this terrible
question which men here have gone mad and died trying to answer. I dare
not put this secret into words. I told you it was dumb. These men, going
by with drunken faces and brains full of unawakened power, do not ask it
of Society or of God. Their lives ask it; their deaths ask it. There is
no reply. I will tell you plainly that I have a great hope; and I bring
it to you to be tested. It is this: that this terrible dumb question is
its own reply; that it is not the sentence of death we think it, but,
from the very extremity of its darkness, the most solemn prophecy which
the world has known of the Hope to come. I dare make my meaning no
clearer, but will only tell my story. It will, perhaps, seem to you as
foul and dark as this thick vapor about us, and as pregnant with death;
but if your eyes are free as mine are to look deeper, no perfume-tinted
dawn will be