And let it slide away into the still recesses of Memory--the Present has its privileges--and they may be blamelessly, wisely, virtuously enjoyed--and without irreverence to the sanctity of the Past. Let it slide away--but not into oblivion--no danger, no fear of oblivion--even joys will return on their wings of gossamer;--sorrows may be buried, but they are immortal. SEWARD. I see not the slightest change on this Grove of Sycamores. Twenty years tell not on boles that have for centuries been in their prime. Yes--that one a little way down--and that one still farther off--_have_ grown--and those striplings, then but saplings, may now be called Trees. BULLER. I never heard such a noise. NORTH. A cigar in your mouth at four o'clock in the morning! Well--well. BULLER. There, my dear sir, keep me in countenance with a Manilla. NORTH. The Herb! You have high authority--Spenser's--for "noise." BULLER. I said Noise--because it is Noise. Why, the hum of bees overhead is absolutely like soft sustained thunder--and yet no bees visible in the umbrage. The sound is like that of one single bee, and he must be a giant. Ay--there I see a few working like mad--and I guess there must be myriads. The Grove must be full of bees' nests. NORTH. Not one. Hundreds of smokes are stealing up from hidden or apparent cottages--for the region is not unpopulous, and not a garden without its hives--and early risers though we be, the _matutinæ apes_ are still before us, and so are the birds. BULLER. They, too, are making a noise. Who says a shilfa cannot sing? Of the fifty now "pouring his throat," as the poet well says, I defy you to tell which sings best. That splendid fellow on the birch-tree top--or yonder gorgeous tyke on the yellow oak--or---- NORTH. "In shadiest covert hid" the leader of the chorus that thrills the many-nested underwood with connubial bliss. SEWARD. Not till this moment heard I the waterfall. BULLER. You did, though, all along--a felt accompaniment. NORTH. I know few dens more beautiful than Cladich-Cleugh! BULLER. Pardon me, sir, if I do not attempt that name. NORTH. How mellifluous!--Cladich-Cleugh! BULLER. Great is the power of gutturals. NORTH. It is not inaccessible. But you must skirt it till you reach the meadow where the cattle are beginning to browse. And then threading your way through a coppice, where you are almost sure to see a roe, you come down upon a series of little pools, in such weather as this so clear that you can count the trouts; and then the verdurous walls begin to rise on either side and right before you; and you begin to feel that the beauty is becoming magnificence, for the pools are now black, and the stems are old, and the cliffs intercept the sky, and there are caves, and that waterfall has dominion in the gloom, and there is sublimity in the sounding solitude. BULLER. Cladick-Cloock. NORTH. A miserable failure. BULLER. Cladig-Cloog. NORTH. Worser and worser. SEWARD.