with the one supreme will, as the tide
moves beneath the moon, piled in the central deep with all its noises,
flooding the mud-stained waterway, where the ships ride together, or
creeping softly upon the pale sands of some sequestered bay.

XLII

Until the Evening

I stop sometimes on a landing in an old house, where I often stay, to
look at a dusky, faded water-colour that hangs upon the wall. I do not
think its technical merit is great, but it somehow has the poetical
quality. It represents, or seems to represent, a piece of high open
ground, down-land or heath, with a few low bushes growing there,
sprawling and wind-brushed; a road crosses the fore-ground, and dips
over to the plain beyond, a forest tract full of dark woodland, dappled
by open spaces. There is a long faint distant line of hills on the
horizon. The time appears to be just after sunset, when the sky is
still full of a pale liquid light, before objects have lost their
colour, but are just beginning to be tinged with dusk. In the road
stands the figure of a man, with his back turned, his hand shading his
eyes as he gazes out across the plain. He appears to be a wayfarer,
and to be weary but not dispirited. There is a look of serene and
sober content about him, how communicated I know not. He would seem to
have far to go, but yet to be certainly drawing nearer to his home,
which indeed he seems to discern afar off. The picture bears the
simple legend, _Until the evening_.

This design seems always to be charged for me with a beautiful and
grave meaning. Just so would I draw near to the end of my pilgrimage,
wearied but tranquil, assured of rest and welcome. The freshness and
blithe eagerness of the morning are over, the solid hours of sturdy
progress are gone, the heat of the day is past, and only the gentle
descent among the shadows remains, with cool airs blowing from darkling
thickets, laden with woodland scents, and the rich fragrance of rushy
dingles. Ere the night falls the wayfarer will push the familiar gate
open, and see the lamplit windows of home, with the dark chimneys and
gables outlined against the green sky. Those that love him are
awaiting him, listening for the footfall to draw near.

Is it not possible to attain this? And yet how often does it seem to
be the fate of a human soul to stumble, like one chased and hunted,
with dazed and terrified air, and hurried piteous phrase, down the
darkening track. Yet one sh