[A] Find me an English word as good, reader, and I will gladly
dispense with the French word. "Reflections" won't do.

What is this by itself in a wood no longer green, no longer even russet,
a wood neutral tint--this dark blue moving object? Why, it is a
schoolboy--a Briarfield grammar-school boy--who has left his companions,
now trudging home by the highroad, and is seeking a certain tree, with a
certain mossy mound at its root, convenient as a seat. Why is he
lingering here? The air is cold and the time wears late. He sits down.
What is he thinking about? Does he feel the chaste charm Nature wears
to-night? A pearl-white moon smiles through the gray trees; does he care
for her smile?

Impossible to say; for he is silent, and his countenance does not speak.
As yet it is no mirror to reflect sensation, but rather a mask to
conceal it. This boy is a stripling of fifteen--slight, and tall of his
years. In his face there is as little of amenity as of servility, his
eye seems prepared to note any incipient attempt to control or overreach
him, and the rest of his features indicate faculties alert for
resistance. Wise ushers avoid unnecessary interference with that lad.
To break him in by severity would be a useless attempt; to win him by
flattery would be an effort worse than useless. He is best let alone.
Time will educate and experience train him.

Professedly Martin Yorke (it is a young Yorke, of course) tramples on
the name of poetry. Talk sentiment to him, and you would be answered by
sarcasm. Here he is, wandering alone, waiting duteously on Nature, while
she unfolds a page of stern, of silent, and of solemn poetry beneath his
attentive gaze.

Being seated, he takes from his satchel a book--not the Latin grammar,
but a contraband volume of fairy tales. There will be light enough yet
for an hour to serve his keen young vision. Besides, the moon waits on
him; her beam, dim and vague as yet, fills the glade where he sits.

He reads. He is led into a solitary mountain region; all round him is
rude and desolate, shapeless, and almost colourless. He hears bells
tinkle on the wind. Forth-riding from the formless folds of the mist
dawns on him the brightest vision--a green-robed lady, on a snow-white
palfrey. He sees her dress, her gems, and her steed. She arrests him
with some mysterious question. He is spell-bound, and must follow her
into fairyland.

A second legend bears him to the sea-shore. There tum