Of deeds which make up life, one deed
Power shall fall short in or exceed!”
Yet, if you should reply boldly in refutation of these words, Here, in my life, is one deed, one action at least, which stands paramount above all others, I would answer, True; but what of the so-called tiny influences, the so-called minute events which led to it? Can you eliminate any one of them, and then say with certainty that, without it, the result would have been the same? And if you can not, how can you declare that the apparently tiny event was of less importance than the one you call great?
However, let’s on to the matter in hand.
Corin found the joys of scraping plaster off walls beginning to pall. Apparently he had come to an end of discovery.
It is one thing to delve for new treasures, it is another to scrape for hours on end to find a mere repetition of design. However delightful masonry and herb Robert may be when it dawns freshly on the sight, its continued contemplation waxes somewhat stale. To his judging, and no doubt he judged rightly, there were still yards and yards of it to be uncovered. Monotony, therefore, crept upon his soul. With a view, then, to relaxing the monotony, and taking into consideration that the sunshine without the church appeared infinitely preferable to the gloom within, he laid down his tools this particular afternoon a full hour before his customary time, and came out into the open.
And here, for a moment, he paused.
Before him, eight miles distant, lay Whortley, to be reached by road or field, according to inclination. He ruled out that notion promptly. To the right lay the river, the silver ribbon bordered by pollard willows; to the left lay wood and moorland; behind him and the church lay the sea. It was distant a mile or thereabouts, and the sun was distinctly hot. But what of that! Wouldn’t the music of its voice on the shore, the colour of its sparkling waters, the coolness of the little breeze that would sweep across its surface, be well worth the tramp?
“The sea for me!” cried Corin to his heart. “And that’s rhyme, and I’m not sure that it isn’t poetry if you take into consideration the vision it conjures up. In fact, taking that into consideration, I am sure that it is poetry.”