It has even occurred that foolish relapses into energy have borne us upon bicycles through leafy lanes to lazier Suffolk Broads; but these excesses are rare and brief. No man could face these sleepy inland waters and preserve an active spirit; the apathetic willows on the banks dreamily curtsey as if too tired to hold up their heads. But let Dr. Mackay, who opened this chapter, also speak the last word-- There's a humming of bees beneath the lime, And the deep blue heaven of a southern clime Is not more beautifully bright Than this English sky with its islets white, And its Alp-like clouds, so snowy fair!-- The birch leaves dangle in balmy air. A RUDE AWAKENING Men must work and women must weep; There's little to earn and many to keep, Though the harbour bar be moaning. CHARLES KINGSLEY. What is this Life at all, and what its purport? Is Good its aim or evil? If roses be fair, what need of thorns? God sends youth and health and beauty; what devil brings sickness, grief, and decay? When I wrote the irrelevant, drowsy chapter preceding this, the sun shone so kindly, and so benignly Nature beamed, that Care was as a dream of what never could have been. To live was to be blessed; to think was to enjoy. Nature was a doting mother that fed us with bounty and kissed us fondly to rest; the earth a sunny garden; heaven a waste of luxurious fancy. How blind I must have been! What a glorious blindness it would be, if---- Ah! "If"! * * * * * My drop from the rosy clouds began pleasantly enough. I was nooning by the river-side, when an ancient, second-hand Danish pirate, with improbable pantomime whiskers, like tangled seaweed, fixedly looking at the lower part of my waistcoat, casually remarked, "Seems to me you're pining away down there." "Yes," I answered briskly, "I'm not the man I was." "No," said he meditatively, "we're none of us as young as we was; but, come, you can't be more than forty-three." "I am," I answered indignantly, "no more than thirty-six." "Well," said he, with what may have been a consolatory intent, "we can't help our looks, none of us. I'm judging you'll not be for the lifeboat when you're my age." I had decided to speak to him no more, but an undefined hope to get the better of his sauciness prompted me to ask, "What age may that be?" "Fifty-five," he answered. "You look," said I vindictively, "a great deal older." Scarce had the words left my mouth than I was ashamed of them. I saw for the first time now that he was crippled, and walked with a stick. Rough weather and a hard life had left on him a low-water mark of rust and wear and decay. But he answered, gently enough, "It's like enough I may. I've been very bad this three week. Got tangled in a rope and fell overboard, and was dragged ashore through the water from the pierhead to the harbour. My uncle and two other young fellows was in the boat, but"--