Page:The Yellow Book - 05.djvu/83



By Kenneth Grahame o all of us journeymen in this great whirling London mill, it happens sooner or later that the clatter and roar of its ceaseless wheels a thing at first portentous, terrifying, nay, not to be endured becomes a part of our nature, with our clothes and our acquaintances; till at last the racket and din of a competitive striving humanity not only cease to impinge on the sense, but induce a certain callosity in the organ, while that more sensitive inner ear of ours, once almost as quick to record as his in the fairy tale, who lay and heard the grass-blades thrust and sprout, from lack of exercise drops back to the rudimentary stage. Hence it comes about, that when we are set down for a brief Sunday, far from the central roar, our first sensation is that of a stillness corporeal, positive, aggressive. The clamorous ocean of sound has ebbed to an infinite distance; in its place this other sea of fullest silence conies crawling up, whelming and flooding us, its crystalline waves lapping us round with a possessing encirclement as distinct as that of the other angry tide now passed away and done with. The very Spirit of Silence is sitting hand in hand with us, and her touch is a real warm thing.

And yet, may not our confidence be premature? Even as we bathe and steep our senses refreshingly in this new element, that Rh