CHAPTER XVII

NEW GROUND

My readers have now been steadily at Oxford for six months
without moving. Most people find such a spell of the place
without a change quite as much as they care to take; perhaps too,
it may do our hero good to let him alone for a little, that he
may have time to look steadily into the pit which he has been so
near falling down, which is still yawning awkwardly in his path;
moreover, the exigencies of a story teller must lead him away
from home now and then. Like the rest of us, his family must have
change of air, or he has to go off to see a friend properly
married, or a connexion buried; to wear white or black gloves
with or for some one, carrying such sympathy as he can with him,
so that he may come back from every journey, however short, with
a wider horizon. Yes; to come back home after every stage of
life's journeying with a wider horizon--more in sympathy with men
and nature, knowing ever more of the righteous and eternal laws
which govern them, and of the righteous and loving will which is
above all, and around all, and beneath all--this must be the end
and aim of all of us, or we shall be wandering about blindfold,
and spending time and labor and journey-money on that which
profiteth nothing. So now I must ask my readers to forget the old
buildings and quadrangles of the fairest of England's cities, the
caps and the gowns, the reading and rowing for a short space, and
take a flight with me to other scenes and pastures new.

The nights are pleasant in May, short and pleasant for travel. We
will leave the ancient city asleep, and do our flight in the
night to save time. Trust yourself then to the story-teller's
aerial machine. It is but a rough affair, I own, rough and
humble, unfitted for high or great flights, with no gilded panels
or dainty cushions, or C-springs--not that we shall care about
springs, by the way, until we alight on terra firma again--still,
there is much to be learned in a third-class carriage if we will
only not look while in it for cushions and fine panels, and forty
miles an hour traveling, and will not be shocked at our fellow
passengers for being weak in their h's and smelling of fustian.
Mount in it, then, you who will, after this warning; the fares
are holiday fares, the tickets return tickets. Take with you
nothing but the poet's luggage,

"A smile for Hope, a tear for Pain,
A breath to swell the voice of Prayer."

and may you have a pleasan