f us fight, and sin, and agonise, and die--a sphere of
glow-worm light.

Having discoursed so long about Dreamthorp, it is but fair that I
should now introduce you to her lions. These are, for the most part,
of a commonplace kind; and I am afraid that, if you wish to find
romance in them, you must bring it with you. I might speak of the old
church-tower, or of the church-yard beneath it, in which the village
holds its dead, each resting-place marked by a simple stone, on which
is inscribed the name and age of the sleeper, and a Scripture text
beneath, in which live our hopes of immortality. But, on the whole,
perhaps it will be better to begin with the canal, which wears on its
olive-coloured face the big white water-lily already chronicled. Such
a secluded place is Dreamthorp that the railway does not come near, and
the canal is the only thing that connects it with the world. It stands
high, and from it the undulating country may be seen stretching away
into the gray of distance, with hills and woods, and stains of smoke
which mark the sites of villages. Every now and then a horse comes
staggering along the towing-path, trailing a sleepy barge filled with
merchandise. A quiet, indolent life these bargemen lead in the summer
days. One lies stretched at his length on the sun-heated plank; his
comrade sits smoking in the little dog-hutch, which I suppose he calls
a cabin. Silently they come and go; silently the wooden bridge lifts
to let them through. The horse stops at the bridge-house for a drink,
and there I like to talk a little with the men. They serve instead of
a newspaper, and retail with great willingness the news they have
picked up in their progress from town to town. I am told they
sometimes marvel who the old gentleman is who accosts them from beneath
a huge umbrella in the sun, and that they think him either very wise or
very foolish. Not in the least unnatural! We are great friends, I
believe--evidence of which they occasionally exhibit by requesting me
to disburse a trifle for drink-money. This canal is a great haunt of
mine of an evening. The water hardly invites one to bathe in it, and a
delicate stomach might suspect the flavour of the eels caught therein;
yet, to my thinking, it is not in the least destitute of beauty. A
barge trailing up through it in the sunset is a pretty sight; and the
heavenly crimsons and purples sleep quite lovingly upon its glossy
ripples. Nor does the evening