Essays | Page 3

haste to call upon the earth to cover, and the second
lifted up the arches of the aqueduct.
The search of easy ways to live is not always or everywhere the way to
ugliness, but in some countries, at some dates, it is the sure way. In all
countries, and at all dates, extreme finish compassed by hidden means
must needs, from the beginning, prepare the abolition of dignity. This is
easy to understand, but it is less easy to explain the ill-fortune that
presses upon the expert workman, in search of easy ways to live, all the
ill-favoured materials, makes them cheap for him, makes them
serviceable and effectual, urges him to use them, seal them, and inter
them, turning the trim and dull completeness out to the view of the
daily world. It is an added mischance. Nor, on the other hand, is it easy
to explain the beautiful good luck attending the simpler devices which
are, after all, only less expert ways of labour. In those happy conditions,
neither from the material, suggesting to the workman, nor from the
workman looking askance at his unhandsome material, comes a first
proposal to pour in cement and make fast the underworld, out of sight.
But fate spares not that suggestion to the able and the unlucky at their
task of making neat work of the means, the distribution, the traffick of

life.
The springs, then, the profound wells, the streams, are of all the means
of our lives those which we should wish to see open to the sun, with
their waters on their progress and their way to us; but, no, they are
lapped in lead.
King Pandion and his friends lie not under heavier seals.
Yet we have been delighted, elsewhere, by open floods. The
hiding-place that nature and the simpler crafts allot to the waters of
wells are, at their deepest, in communication with the open sky. No
other mine is so visited; for the noonday sun himself is visible there;
and it is fine to think of the waters of this planet, shallow and profound,
all charged with shining suns, a multitude of waters multiplying suns,
and carrying that remote fire, as it were, within their unalterable
freshness. Not a pool without this visitant, or without passages of stars.
As for the wells of the Equator, you may think of them in their last
recesses as the daily bathing-places of light; a luminous fancy is able so
to scatter fitful figures of the sun, and to plunge them in thousands
within those deeps.
Round images lie in the dark waters, but in the bright waters the sun is
shattered out of its circle, scattered into waves, broken across stones,
and rippled over sand; and in the shallow rivers that fall through
chestnut woods the image is mingled with the mobile figures of leaves.
To all these waters the agile air has perpetual access. Not so can great
towns be watered, it will be said with reason; and this is precisely the
ill-luck of great towns.
Nevertheless, there are towns, not, in a sense, so great, that have the
grace of visible wells; such as Venice, where every campo has its circle
of carved stone, its clashing of dark copper on the pavement, its soft
kiss of the copper vessel with the surface of the water below, and the
cheerful work of the cable.
Or the Romans knew how to cause the parted floods to measure their
plain with the strong, steady, and level flight of arches from the
watersheds in the hills to the and city; and having the waters captive,
they knew how to compel them to take part, by fountains, in this
Roman triumph. They had the wit to boast thus of their brilliant
prisoner.
None more splendid came bound to Rome, or graced captivity with a

more invincible liberty of the heart. And the captivity and the leap of
the heart of the waters have outlived their captors. They have remained
in Rome, and have remained alone. Over them the victory was longer
than empire, and their thousands of loud voices have never ceased to
confess the conquest of the cold floods, separated long ago, drawn one
by one, alive, to the head and front of the world.
Of such a transit is made no secret. It was the most manifest fact of
Rome. You could not look to the city from the mountains or to the
distance from the city without seeing the approach of those perpetual
waters--waters bound upon daily tasks and minute services. This, then,
was the style of a master, who does not lapse from "incidental
greatness," has no mean precision, out of sight, to prepare the finish of
his phrases, and does not think the means and the approaches