And all this only shows what every man who has ruralised a little in his
lifetime knows, more than in theory, that the golden age lingers in no
corner of the earth, but is really quite gone and over everywhere, and
that peace and _prisca fides_ have not fled to the nooks and shadows of
deep valleys and bowery brooks, but flown once, and away to heaven
again, and left the round world to its general curse. So it is even in
pretty old villages, embowered in orchards, with hollyhocks and
jessamine in front of the houses, and primeval cocks and hens pecking
and scraping in the street, and the modest river dimpling and simpering
among osiers and apple trees, and old ivied walls close by--you
sometimes hear other things than lowing herds, and small birds singing,
and purling streams; and shrill accents and voluble rhetoric will now
and then trouble the fragrant air, and wake up the dim old river-god
from his nap.
As to Irons, if he was all that his wife gave out, he must have been a
mighty sly dog indeed; for on the whole, he presented a tolerably decent
exterior to society. It is said, indeed, that he liked a grave tumbler
of punch, and was sardonic and silent in his liquor; that his gait was
occasionally a little queer and uncertain, as his lank figure glided
home by moonlight, from the 'Salmon House;' and that his fingers fumbled
longer than need be with the latch, and his tongue, though it tried but
a short and grim 'bar'th door, Marjry,' or 'gi' me can'le, wench,'
sometimes lacked its cunning, and slipped and kept not time.
Pages:
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236