rough the haze, I could
see the huge Cathedral towers and portals looming up over the trees.
Even so might be the gate of death! As we fare upon our pilgrimage,
that shadowy doorway waits, silent and sombre, to receive us. That
gate, the gate of death, seems to me, as in strength and health I sweep
along the pleasant road of life, a terrible, an appalling place. But
shall I feel so, when indeed I tread the threshold, and see the dark
arches, the mysterious windows to left and right? It may prove a cool
and secure haven of beauty and refreshment, rich in memory, echoing
with melodious song. The poor beetle knows about it now, whatever it
is; he is wise with the eternal wisdom of all that have entered in,
leaving behind them the frail and delicate tabernacle, in which the
spirit dwelt, and which is so soon to moulder into dust.

XII

The Farm-yard

There is a big farm-yard close to the house where I am staying just
now; it is a constant pleasure, as I pass that way, to stop and watch
the manners and customs of the beasts and birds that inhabit it; I am
ashamed to think how much time I spend in hanging over a gate, to watch
the little dramas of the byre. I am not sure that pigs are an
altogether satisfactory subject of contemplation. They always seem to
me like a fallen race that has seen better days. They are able,
intellectual, inquisitive creatures. When they are driven from place
to place, they are not gentle or meek, like cows and sheep, who follow
the line of least resistance. The pig is suspicious and cautious; he
is sure that there is some uncomfortable plot on foot, not wholly for
his good, which he must try to thwart if he can. Then, too, he never
seems quite at home in his deplorably filthy surroundings; he looks at
you, up to the knees in ooze, out of his little eyes, as if he would
live in a more cleanly way, if he were permitted. Pigs always remind
me of the mariners of Homer, who were transformed by Circe; there is a
dreadful humanity about them, as if they were trying to endure their
base conditions philosophically, waiting for their release.

But cows bring a deep tranquillity into the spirit; their glossy skins,
their fragrant breath, their contented ease, their mild gaze, their
Epicurean rumination tend to restore the balance of the mind, and make
one feel that vegetarianism must be a desirable thing. There is the
dignity of innocence about the cow, and I often wish that she did no