Non-Fiction > Uncollected essays > Volumes 33-38, 1876-1878 - Cornhill magazine > Volume 37

5ij AVILL 0' THE MILL.
vigorous ; and if liis pulses kept a sober time, they still beat strong and
steady in liis wrists, He carried a ruddy stain on either cheek, like a
ripe apple ; he stooped a little, but his step was still firm ; and his
sinewy hands were reached out to all men with a friendly pressure. His
face was covered with those wrinkles which are got in the open an* and
which, rightly looked at, are no more than a sort of permanent sunbuniing ;
such wrinkles heighten the stupidity of stupid faces; but to a person like
Will, with his clear eyes and smiling mouth, only give another charm by
testifying to a simple and easy life. His talk was full of wise sayings.
He had a taste for other people ; and other people had a taste for him.
When the valley was full of tourists in the season, there were merry
nights in Will's arbour ; and his views, which seemed whimsical to his
neighbours, were often enough admired by learned people out of towns
and colleges. Indeed, he had a very noble old age, and grew daily better
known ; so that his fame was heard of in the cities on the plain ; and
young men who had been summer travellers spoke together in cafes of
Will o' the Mill and his rough philosophy. Many and many an invita-
tion, you may be sure, he had ; but nothing could tempt him from his
upland valley. He would shake his head and smile over his tobacco-
pipe with a deal of meaning. " You come too late," he would answer.
" I am a dead man now ; I have lived and died already. Fifty years
ago you would have brought my heart into my mouth ; and now you do '
not even tempt me. But that is the object of long living, that a man
should cease to cai-e about life." And again : " There is only one
difference between a long life and a good dinner : that, in the dinner, the
dainties come last." Or once more : " When I was a boy, I was a bit
puzzled, and hardly knew whether it was myself or the world that was
curious and worth looking into. Now, I know it is myself, and stick to
that."
He never showed any symptom of frailty, but kept stalwart and
firm to the last ; but they say he grew less talkative towards the end,
and would listen to other people by the hour in an ami^sed and sympa-
thetic silence. Only, when he did speak, it was more to the point and
more charged with old ex2:)erience. He diank a bottle of wine gladly ;
aboA'e all, at sunset on the hill-top, or quite late at night under the stars
in the arbour-. The sight of something attractive and unattainable
seasoned his enjoyment, he would say ; and he professed he had lived
long enough to admire a candle all the more when he could compare it
with a planet.
One night, in his seventy-second year, he awoke in bed in such un-
easiness of body and mind, that he rose and dressed himself and went
out to meditate in the arbour. It was pitch dark, without a star ; the
river was swollen, and the wet woods and meadows loaded the air with
perfume. It had thundered during the day, and it promised more
thunder foi- the morrow. A murky, stifling night for a man of seventy-
two ! Whether it v.-as the weather oi' the wakefulness, or some little