"This holiday was to Herbert one of those seasons which tinge the whole of
the future life. It was a storehouse of sights and sounds and images of
thought; a tiring-room, wherein to clothe the ideas that came forth to act
their parts upon the stage of reason. Often at night, just ere the sleep
that wipes out the day from the overfilled and blotted tablets of the
brain, enwrapped him in its cool, grave-like garments, a vision of the
darkened sea, spotted and spangled with pools of unutterable light, would
rise before him unbidden, in that infinite space for creation which lies
dark and waiting under the closed eyelids. The darkened sea might be but
the out-thrown image of his own overshadowed soul; and the spots of light
the visual form of his hopes. So clearly would these be present to him
sometimes, that when he opened his eyes and gazed into the darkness of his
room, he would see the bright spaces shining before him still. Then he
would fall asleep and dream on about the sea--watching a little cutter
perhaps, as 'she leaned to the lee, and girdled the wave,' flinging the
frolic-some waters from her bows, and parting a path for herself between.
Pages:
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117