Pageant of Summer | Page 2

of
light entering the solid oak; and see! it bursts forth in countless leaves.
Living things leap in the grass, living things drift upon the air, living
things are coming forth to breathe in every hawthorn bush. No longer
does the immense weight of Matter--the dead, the crystallized--press
ponderously on the thinking mind. The whole office of Matter is to
feed life--to feed the green rushes, and the roses that are about to be; to
feed the swallows above, and us that wander beneath them. So much

greater is this green and common rush than all the Alps.
Fanning so swiftly, the wasp's wings are but just visible as he passes;
did he pause, the light would be apparent through their texture. On the
wings of the dragon-fly as he hovers an instant before he darts there is a
prismatic gleam. These wing textures are even more delicate than the
minute filaments on a swallow's quill, more delicate than the pollen of
a flower. They are formed of matter indeed, but how exquisitely it is
resolved into the means and organs of life! Though not often
consciously recognized, perhaps this is the great pleasure of summer, to
watch the earth, the dead particles, resolving themselves into the living
case of life, to see the seed-leaf push aside the clod and become by
degrees the perfumed flower. From the tiny mottled egg come the
wings that by-and-by shall pass the immense sea. It is in this
marvellous transformation of clods and cold matter into living things
that the joy and the hope of summer reside. Every blade of grass, each
leaf, each separate floret and petal, is an inscription speaking of hope.
Consider the grasses and the oaks, the swallows, the sweet blue
butterfly--they are one and all a sign and token showing before our eyes
earth made into life. So that my hope becomes as broad as the horizon
afar, reiterated by every leaf, sung on every bough, reflected in the
gleam of every flower. There is so much for us yet to come, so much to
be gathered, and enjoyed. Not for you or me, now, but for our race,
who will ultimately use this magical secret for their happiness. Earth
holds secrets enough to give them the life of the fabled Immortals. My
heart is fixed firm and stable in the belief that ultimately the sunshine
and the summer, the flowers and the azure sky, shall become, as it were,
interwoven into man's existence. He shall take from all their beauty and
enjoy their glory. Hence it is that a flower is to me so much more than
stalk and petals. When I look in the glass I see that every line in my
face means pessimism; but in spite of my face--that is my experience--I
remain an optimist. Time with an unsteady hand has etched thin
crooked lines, and, deepening the hollows, has cast the original
expression into shadow. Pain and sorrow flow over us with little
ceasing, as the sea-hoofs beat on the beach. Let us not look at ourselves
but onwards, and take strength from the leaf and the signs of the field.
He is indeed despicable who cannot look onwards to the ideal life of

man. Not to do so is to deny our birthright of mind.
The long grass flowing towards the hedge has reared in a wave against
it. Along the hedge it is higher and greener, and rustles into the very
bushes. There is a mark only now where the footpath was; it passed
close to the hedge, but its place is traceable only as a groove in the
sorrel and seed-tops. Though it has quite filled the path, the grass there
cannot send its tops so high; it has left a winding crease. By the hedge
here stands a moss-grown willow, and its slender branches extend over
the sward. Beyond it is an oak, just apart from the bushes; then the
ground gently rises, and an ancient pollard ash, hollow and black inside,
guards an open gateway like a low tower. The different tone of green
shows that the hedge is there of nut-trees; but one great hawthorn
spreads out in a semicircle, roofing the grass which is yet more verdant
in the still pool (as it were) under it. Next a corner, more oaks, and a
chestnut in bloom. Returning to this spot an old apple tree stands right
out in the meadow like an island. There seemed just now the tiniest
twinkle of movement by the rushes, but it was lost among the hedge
parsley. Among the grey leaves of the willow there is another flit of
motion; and visible now against the sky there is a little brown bird, not
to be distinguished at the moment from the many