things, not even now to be put into words, things of the mysteries of a child’s imagination; and these linger still in my life, and will linger, I think, until they are fulfilled. * * * * * I have another friend—a Devonshire stream. I found it in spring when the fields along its banks were golden with Lent-lilies. I do not even know its name; it has its source up among the old grey tors, and doubtless in its beginning had a hard fight for existence. When it reaches the plain it is a good-sized stream, although nowhere navigable. I do not think it even turns a mill; it just flows along and waters the flowers. I have seen it with my bodily eyes only once; but it has left in my life a blessing, a picture of blue sky, yellow bells, and clear rippling water—and whispered secrets not forgotten. All the Devonshire streams are full of life and strength. They chatter cheerily over stones, they toil bravely to shape out their bed. Some of them might tell horrible tales of the far-away past, of the worship of the false god when blood stained the clear waters; tales, too, of feud and warfare, of grave council and martial gathering; and happy stories of fairy and pixy our eyes are too dull to see, and of queer little hillmen with foreign ways and terror of all human beings. Their banks are bright with tormentil, blue with forget-me-not, rich in treasures of starry moss; the water is clear, cool in the hottest summer—they rise under the shadow of the everlasting hills, and their goal is the sea. * * * * * There are other times when I must leave the clean waters and the good brown earth, to live, for a while, in London: and there I go on pilgrimage that I may listen to the river’s voice. I stand sometimes at a wharf where the ships are being unloaded of the riches of every country, of fruits of labour by my unknown brothers in strange lands; and the river speaks of citizenship in the great world of God, wherein all men have place, each man have his own place, and every one should be neighbour to him who may have need. I pass on to London Bridge, our Bridge of Sighs. How many of these my brethren have sought refuge in the cold grey arms of the river from something worse than death? What drove them to this dreadful resting-place? What spectre hurried them to the leap? These things, too, are my concern, the river says. Life is very grim in London: it is not painted in the fair, glowing
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