The Mill where Will lived with his adopted parents stood in a falling
valley between pine-woods and great mountains. Above, hill after hill
soared upwards until they soared out of the depth of the hardiest
timber, and stood naked against the sky. Some way up, a long gray
village lay like a seam or a rag of vapour on a wooded hillside; and
when the wind was favourable, the sound of the church bells would drop
down, thin and silvery, to Will. Below, the valley grew ever steeper and
steeper, and at the same time widened out on either hand; and from an
eminence beside the mill it was possible to see its whole length and
away beyond it over a wide plain, where the river turned and shone, and
moved on from city to city on its voyage towards the sea. It chanced
that over this valley there lay a pass into a neighbouring kingdom; so
that, quiet and rural as it was, the road that ran along beside the
river was a high thoroughfare between two splendid and powerful
societies. All through the summer, travelling-carriages came crawling
up, or went plunging briskly downwards past the mill; and as it happened
that the other side was very much easier of ascent, the path was not
much frequented, except by people going in one direction; and of all the
carriages that Will saw go by, five-sixths were plunging briskly
downwards and only one-sixth crawling up. Much more was this the case
with foot-passengers. All the light-footed tourists, all the pedlars
laden with strange wares, were tending downward like the river that
accompanied their path. Nor was this all; for when Will was yet a child
a disastrous war arose over a great part of the world. The newspapers
were full of defeats and victories, the earth rang with cavalry hoofs,
and often for days together and for miles around the coil of battle
terrified good people from their labours in the field. Of all this,
nothing was heard for a long time in the valley; but at last one of the
commanders pushed an army over the pass by forced marches, and for three
days horse and foot, cannon and tumbril, drum and standard, kept pouring
downward past the mill. All day the child stood and watched them on
their passage--the rhythmical stride, the pale, unshaven faces tanned
about the eyes, the discoloured regimentals and the tattered flags,
filled him with a sense of weariness, pity, and wonder; and all night
long, after he was in bed, he could hear the cannon pounding and the
feet trampling, and the great armament sweeping onward and downward
past the mill. No one in the valley ever heard the fate of the
expedition, for they lay out of the way of gossip in those troublous
times; but Will saw one thing plainly, that not a man returned. Whither
had they all gone? Whither went all the tourists and pedlars with
strange wares? whither all the brisk barouches with servants in the
dicky? whither the water of the stream, ever coursing downward and ever
renewed from above? Even the wind blew oftener down the valley, and
carried the dead leaves along with it in the fall. It seemed like a
great conspiracy of things animate and inanimate; they all went
downward, fleetly and gaily downward, and only he, it seemed, remained
behind, like a stock upon the wayside. It sometimes made him glad when
he noticed how the fishes kept their heads up stream. They, at least,
stood faithfully by him, while all else were posting downward to the
unknown world.
One evening he asked the miller where the river went.
"It goes down the valley," answered he, "and turns a power of mills--six
score mills, they say, from here to Unterdeck--and is none the wearier
after all. And then it goes out into the lowlands, and waters the great
corn country, and runs through a sight of fine cities (so they say)
where kings live all alone in great palaces, with a sentry walking up
and down before the door. And it goes under bridges with stone men upon
them, looking down and smiling so curious at the water, and living folks
leaning their elbows on the wall and looking over too. And then it goes
on and on, and down through marshes and sands, until at last it falls
into the sea, where the ships are that bring parrots and tobacco from
the Indies. Ay, it has a long trot before it as it goes singing over our
weir, bless its heart!"
"And what is the sea?" asked Will.
"The sea!" cried the miller. "Lord help us all, it is the greatest thing
God made. That is where all the water in the world runs down into a
great salt lake. There it lies, as flat as my hand and as innocent-like
as a child; but they do say when the wind blows it gets up into
water-mountains bigger than any of ours, and swallows down great ships
bigger than our mill, and makes such a roaring that you can hear it
miles away upon the land. There are great fish in it five times bigger
than a bull, and one old serpent as long as our river and as old as all
the world, with whiskers like a man, and a crown of silver on her head."
Will thought he had never heard anything like this, and he kept on
asking question after question about the world that lay away down the
river, with all its perils and marvels, until the old miller became
quite interested himself, and at last took him by the hand and led him
to the hilltop that overlooks the valley and the plain. The sun was near
setting, and hung low down in a cloudless sky. Everything was defined
and glorified in golden light. Will had never seen so great an expanse
of country in his life; he stood and gazed with all his eyes. He could
see the cities, and the woods and fields, and the bright curves of the
river, and far away to where the rim of the plain trenched along the
shining heavens. An over-mastering emotion seized upon the boy, soul and
body; his heart beat so thickly that he could not breathe; the scene
swam before his eyes; the sun seemed to wheel round and round, and throw
off, as it turned, strange shapes which disappeared with the rapidity of
thought, and were succeeded by others. Will covered his face with his
hands, and burst into a violent fit of tears; and the poor miller, sadly
disappointed and perplexed, saw nothing better for it than to take him
up in his arms and carry him home in silence.
From that day forward Will was full of new hopes and longings. Something
kept tugging at his heart-strings; the running water carried his desires
along with it as he dreamed over its fleeting surface; the wind, as it
ran over innumerable tree-tops, hailed him with encouraging words;
branches beckoned downward; the open road, as it shouldered round the
angles and went turning and vanishing fast and faster down the valley,
tortured him with its solicitations. He spent long whiles on the
eminence, looking down the river-shed and abroad on the flat low-lands,
and watched the clouds that travelled forth upon the sluggish wind and
trailed their purple shadows on the plain; or he would linger by the
wayside, and follow the carriages with his eyes as they rattled downward
by the river. It did not matter what it was; everything that went that
way, were it cloud or carriage, bird or brown water in the stream, he
felt his heart flow out after it in an ecstasy of longing.
We are told by men of science that all the ventures of mariners on the
sea, all that counter-marching of tribes and races that confounds old
history with its dust and rumour, sprang from nothing more abstruse than
the laws of supply and demand, and a certain natural instinct for cheap
rations. To any one thinking deeply, this will seem a dull and pitiful
explanation. The tribes that came swarming out of the North and East, if
they were indeed pressed onward from behind by others, were drawn at the
same time by the magnetic influence of the South and West. The fame of
other lands had reached them; the name of the eternal city rang in their
ears; they were not colonists, but pilgrims; they travelled towards wine
and gold and sunshine, but their hearts were set on something higher.
That divine unrest, that old stinging trouble of humanity that makes all
high achievements and all miserable failures, the same that spread wings
with Icarus, the same that sent Columbus into the desolate Atlantic,
inspired and supported these barbarians on their perilous march. There
is one legend which profoundly represents their spirit, of how a flying
party of these wanderers encountered a very old man shod with iron. The
old man asked them whither they were going; and they answered with one
voice: "To the Eternal City!" He looked upon them gravely. "I have
sought it," he said, "over the most part of the world. Three such pairs
as I now carry on my feet have I worn out upon this pilgrimage, and
now the fourth is growing slender underneath my steps. And all this
while I have not found the city." And he turned and went his own way
alone, leaving them astonished.
And yet this would scarcely parallel the intensity of Will's feeling for
the plain. If he could only go far enough out there, he felt as if his
eye sight would be purged and clarified, as if his hearing would grow
more delicate, and his very breath would come and go with luxury. He was
transplanted and withering where he was; he lay in a strange country and
was sick for home. Bit by bit, he pieced together broken notions of the
world below: of the river, ever moving and growing until it sailed forth
into the majestic ocean; of the cities, full of brisk and beautiful
people, playing fountains, bands of music and marble palaces, and
lighted up at night from end to end with artificial stars of gold; of
the great churches, wise universities, brave armies, and untold money
lying stored in vaults; of the high-flying vice that moved in the
sunshine, and the stealth and swiftness of midnight murder. I have said
he was sick as if for home: the figure halts. He was like some one lying
in twilit, formless pre-existence, and stretching out his hands lovingly
towards many-coloured, many-sounding life. It was no wonder he was
unhappy, he would go and tell the fish: they were made for their life,
wished for no more than worms and running water, and a hole below a
falling bank; but he was differently designed, full of desires and
aspirations, itching at the fingers, lusting with the eyes, whom the
whole variegated world could not satisfy with aspects. The true life,
the true bright sunshine, lay far out upon the plain. And O! to see this
sunlight once before he died! to move with a jocund spirit in a golden
land! to hear the trained singers and sweet church bells, and see the
holiday gardens! "And O fish!" he would cry, "if you would only turn
your noses down stream, you could swim so easily into the fabled waters
and see the vast ships passing over your head like clouds, and hear the
great water-hills making music over you all day long!" But the fish kept
looking patiently in their own direction, until Will hardly knew whether
to laugh or cry.
Hitherto the traffic on the road had passed by Will, like something seen
in a picture: he had perhaps exchanged salutations with a tourist, or
caught sight of an old gentleman in a travelling cap at a carriage
window; but for the most part it had been a mere symbol, which he
contemplated from apart and with something of a superstitious feeling. A
time came at last when this was to be changed. The miller, who was a
greedy man in his way, and never forewent an opportunity of honest
profit, turned the mill-house into a little wayside inn, and, several
pieces of good fortune falling in opportunely, built stables and got the
position of post-master on the road. It now became Will's duty to wait
upon people, as they sat to break their fasts in the little arbour at
the top of the mill garden; and you may be sure that he kept his ears
open, and learned many new things about the outside world as he brought
the omelette or the wine. Nay, he would often get into conversation with
single guests, and by adroit questions and polite attention, not only
gratify his own curiosity, but win the good-will of the travellers. Many
complimented the old couple on their serving-boy; and a professor was
eager to take him away with him, and have him properly educated on the
plain. The miller and his wife were mightily astonished and even more
pleased. They thought it a very good thing that they should have opened
their inn. "You see," the old man would remark, "he has a kind of talent
for a publican; he never would have made anything else!" And so life
wagged on in the valley, with high satisfaction to all concerned but
Will. Every carriage that left the inn-door seemed to take a part of him
away with it; and when people jestingly offered him a lift, he could
with difficulty command his emotion. Night after night he would dream
that he was awakened by flustered servants, and that a splendid equipage
waited at the door to carry him down into the plain; night after night;
until the dream, which had seemed all jollity to him at first, began to
take on a colour of gravity, and the nocturnal summons and waiting
equipage occupied a place in his mind as something to be both feared and
hoped for.
One day, when Will was about sixteen, a fat young man arrived at sunset
to pass the night. He was a contented-looking fellow, with a jolly eye,
and carried a knapsack. While dinner was preparing, he sat in the arbour
to read a book; but as soon as he had begun to observe Will, the book
was laid aside; he was plainly one of those who prefer living people to
people made of ink and paper. Will, on his part, although he had not
been much interested in the stranger at first sight, soon began to take
a great deal of pleasure in his talk, which was full of good nature and
good sense, and at last conceived a great respect for his character and
wisdom. They sat far into the night; and about two in the morning Will
opened his heart to the young man, and told him how he longed to leave
the valley and what bright hopes he had connected with the cities of the
plain. The young man whistled, and then broke into a smile.
"My young friend," he remarked, "you are a very curious little fellow to
be sure, and wish a great many things which you will never get. Why, you
would feel quite ashamed if you knew how the little fellows in these
fairy cities of yours are all after the same sort of nonsense, and keep
breaking their hearts to get up into the mountains. And let me tell you,
those who go down into the plains are a very short while there before
they wish themselves heartily back again. The air is not so light nor so
pure; nor is the sun any brighter. As for the beautiful men and women,
you would see many of them in rags and many of them deformed with
horrible disorders; and a city is so hard a place for people who are
poor and sensitive that many choose to die by their own hand."
"You must think me very simple," answered Will. "Although I have never
been out of this valley, believe me, I have used my eyes. I know how
one thing lives on another; for instance, how the fish hangs in the
eddy to catch his fellows; and the shepherd, who makes so pretty a
picture carrying home the lamb, is only carrying it home for dinner. I
do not expect to find all things right in your cities. That is not what
troubles me; it might have been that once upon a time; but although I
live here always, I have asked many questions and learned a great deal
in these last years, and certainly enough to cure me of my old fancies.
But you would not have me die like a dog and not see all that is to be
seen, and do all that a man can do, let it be good or evil? you would
not have me spend all my days between this road here and the river, and
not so much as make a motion to be up and live my life?--I would rather
die out of hand," he cried, "than linger on as I am doing."
"Thousands of people," said the young man, "live and die like you, and
are none the less happy."
"Ah!" said Will, "if there are thousands who would like, why should not
one of them have my place?"
It was quite dark; there was a hanging lamp in the arbour which lit up
the table and the faces of the speakers; and along the arch, the leaves
upon the trellis stood out illuminated against the night sky, a pattern
of transparent green upon a dusky purple. The fat young man rose, and,
taking Will by the arm, led him out under the open heavens.
"Did you ever look at the stars?" he asked, pointing upwards.
"Often and often," answered Will.
"And do you know what they are?"
"I have fancied many things."
"They are worlds like ours," said the young man. "Some of them less;
many of them a million times greater; and some of the least sparkles
that you see are not only worlds, but whole clusters of worlds turning
about each other in the midst of space. We do not know what there may be
in any of them; perhaps the answer to all our difficulties or the cure
of all our sufferings: and yet we can never reach them; not all the
skill of the craftiest of men can fit out a ship for the nearest of
these our neighbours, nor would the life of the most aged suffice for
such a journey. When a great battle has been lost or a dear friend is
dead, when we are hipped or in high spirits, there they are unweariedly
shining overhead. We may stand down here, a whole army of us together,
and shout until we break our hearts, and not a whisper reaches them. We
may climb the highest mountain, and we are no nearer them. All we can do
is to stand down here in the garden and take off our hats; the starshine
lights upon our heads, and where mine is a little bald, I dare say you
can see it glisten in the darkness. The mountain and the mouse. That is
like to be all we shall ever have to do with Arcturus or Aldebaran. Can
you apply a parable?" he added, laying his hand upon Will's shoulder.
"It is not the same thing as a reason, but usually vastly more
convincing."
Will hung his head a little, and then raised it once more to heaven. The
stars seemed to expand and emit a sharper brilliancy; and as he kept
turning his eyes higher and higher, they seemed to increase in
multitude under his gaze.
"I see," he said, turning to the young man. "We are in a rat-trap."
"Something of that size. Did you ever see a squirrel turning in a cage?
and another squirrel sitting philosophically over his nuts? I needn't
ask you which of them looked more of a fool."