The good-natured reader who has perused some of these rambling papers has long since seen (if to see has been worth his trouble) that the writer belongs to the old-fashioned classes of this world, loves to remember very much more than to prophesy, and though he can’t help being carried onward, and downward, perhaps, on the hill of life, the swift milestones marking their forties, fifties—­how many tens or lustres shall we say?—­he sits under Time, the white-wigged charioteer, with his back to the horses, and his face to the past, looking at the receding landscape and the hills fading into the gray distance.  Ah me! those gray, distant hills were green once, and here, and covered with smiling people!  As we came up the hill there was difficulty, and here and there a hard pull to be sure, but strength, and spirits, and all sorts of cheery incident and companionship on the road; there were the tough struggles (by heaven’s merciful will) overcome, the pauses, the faintings, the weakness, the lost way, perhaps, the bitter weather, the dreadful partings, the lonely night, the passionate grief—­towards these I turn my thoughts as I sit and think in my hobby-coach under Time, the silver-wigged charioteer.  The young folks in the same carriage meanwhile are looking forwards.  Nothing escapes their keen eyes—­not a flower at the side of a cottage garden, nor a bunch of rosy-faced children at the gate:  the landscape is all bright, the air brisk and jolly, the town yonder looks beautiful, and do you think they have learned to be difficult about the dishes at the inn?

Now, suppose Paterfamilias on his journey with his wife and children in the sociable, and he passes an ordinary brick house on the road with an ordinary little garden in the front, we will say, and quite an ordinary knocker to the door, and as many sashed windows as you please, quite common and square, and tiles, windows, chimney-pots, quite like others; or suppose, in driving over such and such a common, he sees an ordinary tree, and an ordinary donkey browsing under it, if you like—­wife and daughter look at these objects without the slightest particle of curiosity or interest.  What is a brass knocker to them but a lion’s head, or what not? and a thorn-tree with pool beside it, but a pool in which a thorn and a jackass are reflected?

But you remember how once upon a time your heart used to beat, as you beat on that brass knocker, and whose eyes looked from the window above.  You remember how by that thorn-tree and pool, where the geese were performing a prodigious evening concert, there might be seen, at a certain hour, somebody in a certain cloak and bonnet, who happened to be coming from a village yonder, and whose image has flickered in that pool.  In that pool, near the thorn?  Yes, in that goose-pool, never mind how long ago, when there were reflected the images of the geese—­and two geese more.  Here, at least, an oldster may have the advantage of his young fellow-travellers, and so Putney Heath or the New Road may be invested with a halo of brightness invisible to them, because it only beams out of his own soul.