Giddy people may think the life I lead here staid and humdrum, but they are mistaken.  It is true, I hear no concerts, save those in which the thrushes are performers in the spring mornings.  I see no pictures, save those painted on the wide sky-canvas with the colours of sunrise and sunset.  I attend neither rout nor ball; I have no deeper dissipation than the tea-table; I hear no more exciting scandal than quiet village gossip.  Yet I enjoy my concerts more than I would the great London ones.  I like the pictures I see, and think them better painted, too, than those which adorn the walls of the Royal Academy; and the village gossip is more after my turn of mind than the scandals that convulse the clubs.  It is wonderful how the whole world reflects itself in the simple village life.  The people around me are full of their own affairs and interests; were they of imperial magnitude, they could not be excited more strongly.  Farmer Worthy is anxious about the next market; the likelihood of a fall in the price of butter and eggs hardly allows him to sleep o’ nights.  The village doctor—­happily we have only one—­skirrs hither and thither in his gig, as if man could neither die nor be born without his assistance.  He is continually standing on the confines of existence, welcoming the new-comer, bidding farewell to the goer-away.  And the robustious fellow who sits at the head of the table when the Jolly Swillers meet at the Blue Lion on Wednesday evenings is a great politician, sound of lung metal, and wields the village in the taproom, as my Lord Palmerston wields the nation in the House.  His listeners think him a wiser personage than the Premier, and he is inclined to lean to that opinion himself.  I find everything here that other men find in the big world.  London is but a magnified Dreamthorp.

And just as the Rev. Mr. White took note of the ongoings of the seasons in and around Hampshire Selborne, watched the colonies of the rooks in the tall elms, looked after the swallows in the cottage and rectory eaves, played the affectionate spy on the private lives of chaffinch and hedge-sparrow, was eaves-dropper to the solitary cuckoo; so here I keep eye and ear open; take note of man, woman, and child; find many a pregnant text imbedded in the commonplace of village life; and, out of what I see and hear, weave in my own room my essays as solitary as the spider weaves his web in the darkened corner.  The essay, as a literary form, resembles the lyric, in so far as it is moulded by some central mood—­whimsical, serious, or satirical.  Give the mood, and the essay, from the first sentence to the last, grows around it as the cocoon grows around the silkworm.  The essay-writer is a chartered libertine, and a law unto himself.  A quick ear and eye, an ability to discern the infinite suggestiveness of common things, a brooding meditative spirit, are all that the essayist requires to start business with.  Jacques, in “As You Like It,” had the makings of a charming essayist.