There was a windmill on a
distant height, its long arms motionless. A strip of Scotch firs stood
black and near at one portion of the horizon; but elsewhere the
successive lines of wood and hill faded away into the south, becoming of
a paler and paler hue until they disappeared in a silvery mist. The air
was sweet with the resinous scent of the furze. In short, it was a
perfect day in early June, on a wide, untenanted, high-lying Surrey
common.
And Maurice Mangan, in his aimless, desultory fashion, was inveighing
against the vanity of the life led by certain classes in the great
Babylon out of which he had just haled his rather unwilling friend; and
describing their mad and frantic efforts to wrest themselves free of the
demon _ennui_; and their ceaseless, eager clamor for hurry and
excitement, lest, in some unguarded moment of silence, their souls
should speak.
"It is quite a fallacy," he was saying, as he walked carelessly onwards,
his head thrown forward a little, his hands clasped behind his back, his
stick trailing after him, "it is altogether a fallacy to talk of the
'complaining millions of men' who 'darken in labor and pain.' It is the
hard-working millions of mankind who are the happiest; their constant
labor brings content; the riddle of the painful earth doesn't vex
them--they have no leisure; they don't fear the hour of sleep--they
welcome it.
Pages:
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106