For I think we may look upon our little private war with death somewhat in this light.  If a man knows he will sooner or later be robbed upon a journey, he will have a bottle of the best in every inn, and look upon all his extravagances as so much gained upon the thieves.  And above all, where instead of simply spending, he makes a profitable investment for some of his money, when it will be out of risk of loss.  So every bit of brisk living, and above all when it is healthful, is just so much gained upon the wholesale filcher, death.  We shall have the less in our pockets, the more in our stomach, when he cries stand and deliver.  A swift stream is a favourite artifice of his, and one that brings him in a comfortable thing per annum; but when he and I come to settle our accounts, I shall whistle in his face for these hours upon the upper Oise.

Towards afternoon we got fairly drunken with the sunshine and the exhilaration of the pace.  We could no longer contain ourselves and our content.  The canoes were too small for us; we must be out and stretch ourselves on shore.  And so in a green meadow we bestowed our limbs on the grass, and smoked deifying tobacco and proclaimed the world excellent.  It was the last good hour of the day, and I dwell upon it with extreme complacency.

On one side of the valley, high up on the chalky summit of the hill, a ploughman with his team appeared and disappeared at regular intervals.  At each revelation he stood still for a few seconds against the sky:  for all the world (as the Cigarette declared) like a toy Burns who should have just ploughed up the Mountain Daisy.  He was the only living thing within view, unless we are to count the river.

On the other side of the valley a group of red roofs and a belfry showed among the foliage.  Thence some inspired bell-ringer made the afternoon musical on a chime of bells.  There was something very sweet and taking in the air he played; and we thought we had never heard bells speak so intelligibly, or sing so melodiously, as these.  It must have been to some such measure that the spinners and the young maids sang, ‘Come away, Death,’ in the Shakespearian Illyria.  There is so often a threatening note, something blatant and metallic, in the voice of bells, that I believe we have fully more pain than pleasure from hearing them; but these, as they sounded abroad, now high, now low, now with a plaintive cadence that caught the ear like the burthen of a popular song, were always moderate and tunable, and seemed to fall in with the spirit of still, rustic places, like the noise of a waterfall or the babble of a rookery in spring.  I could have asked the bell-ringer for his blessing, good, sedate old man, who swung the rope so gently to the time of his meditations.  I could have blessed the priest or the heritors, or whoever may be concerned with such affairs in France, who had left these sweet old bells to gladden the afternoon, and not held meetings, and made collections, and had their names repeatedly printed in the local paper, to rig up a peal of brand-new, brazen, Birmingham-hearted substitutes, who should bombard their sides to the provocation of a brand-new bell-ringer, and fill the echoes of the valley with terror and riot.