of the fishing-boat, and delight them with inappropriate talk.  Woe is me that I cannot give some specimens!...  But the talk was but a condiment, and these gatherings themselves only accidents in the career of the lantern-bearer.  The essence of this bliss was to walk by yourself in the black night, the slide shut, the top-coat buttoned, not a ray escaping, whether to conduct your footsteps or to make your glory public,—­a mere pillar of darkness in the dark; and all the while, deep down in the privacy of your fool’s heart, to know you had a bull’s-eye at your belt, and to exult and sing over the knowledge.

“It is said that a poet has died young in the breast of the most stolid.  It may be contended rather that a (somewhat minor) bard in almost every case survives, and is the spice of life to his possessor.  Justice is not done to the versatility and the unplumbed childishness of man’s imagination.  His life from without may seem but a rude mound of mud:  there will be some golden chamber at the heart of it, in which he dwells delighted; and for as dark as his pathway seems to the observer, he will have some kind of bull’s-eye at his belt.”

...  “There is one fable that touches very near the quick of life,—­the fable of the monk who passed into the woods, heard a bird break into song, hearkened for a trill or two, and found himself at his return a stranger at his convent gates; for he had been absent fifty years, and of all his comrades there survived but one to recognize him.  It is not only in the woods that this enchanter carols, though perhaps he is native there.  He sings in the most doleful places.  The miser hears him and chuckles, and his days are moments.  With no more apparatus than an evil-smelling lantern, I have evoked him on the naked links.  All life that is not merely mechanical is spun out of two strands,—­seeking for that bird and hearing him.  And it is just this that makes life so hard to value, and the delight of each so incommunicable.  And it is just a knowledge of this, and a remembrance of those fortunate hours in which the bird has sung to us, that fills us with such wonder when we turn to the pages of the realist.  There, to be sure, we find a picture of life in so far as it consists of mud and of old iron, cheap desires and cheap fears, that which we are ashamed to remember and that which we are careless whether we forget; but of the note of that time-devouring nightingale we hear no news.”

...  “Say that we came [in such a realistic romance] on some such business as that of my lantern-bearers on the links, and described the boys as very cold, spat upon by flurries of rain, and drearily surrounded, all of which they were; and their talk as silly and indecent, which it certainly was.  To the eye of the observer they are wet and cold and drearily surrounded; but ask themselves, and they are in the heaven of a recondite pleasure, the ground of which is an ill-smelling lantern.”