And so, in idle occupations, and in gleaning up particulars
as to Glasgow matters according to our taste wherever
we go, our sojourn upon the Frith of Clyde pleasantly
passed away. We left our hospitable friends,
not without a promise that when the Christmas holidays
come we should visit them once more, and see what kind
of thing is the town life of the winter time in that
warm-hearted city. And meanwhile, as the days
shorten to chill November,—as the clouds
of London smoke drift by our windows,—as
the Thames runs muddy through this mighty hum and
bustle away to the solitudes of its last level,—we
recall that cheerful time with a most agreeable recollection
of the kindness of Glasgow friends,—and
of all that is implied in Glasgow Down the Water.
CONCERNING MAN AND HIS DWELLING-PLACE
When my friend Smith’s drag comes round to his
door, as he and I are standing on the steps ready
to go out for a drive, how cheerful and frisky the
horses look! I think I see them, as I saw them
yesterday, coming round from the stable-yard, with
their glossy coats and the silver of their harness
glancing in the May sunshine, the May sunshine mellowed
somewhat by the green reflection of two great leafy
trees. They were going out for a journey of twenty
miles. They were, in fact, about to begin their
day’s work, and they knew they were; yet how
buoyant and willing they looked! There was not
the faintest appearance of any disposition to shrink
from their task, as if it were a hard and painful
one. No; they were eager to be at it: they
were manifestly enjoying the anticipation of the brisk
exertion in the midst of which they would be in five
minutes longer. And by the time we have got into
our places, and have wrapped those great fur robes
comfortably about our limbs, the chafing animals have
their heads given them; and instantly they fling themselves
at their collars, and can hardly be restrained from
breaking into a furious gallop. Happy creatures,
you enjoy your work; you wish nothing better than
to get at it!
And when I have occasionally beheld a ploughman, bricklayer,
gardener, weaver, or blacksmith, begin his work in
the morning, I have envied him the readiness and willingness
with which he took to it. The plough-man, after
he has got his horses harnessed to the plough, does
not delay a minute: into the turf the shining
share enters, and away go horses, plough and man.
It costs the ploughman no effort to make up his mind
to begin. He does not stand irresolute, as you
and I in childish days have often done when taken down
to the sea for our morning dip, and when trying to
get courage to take the first plunge under water.
And the bricklayer lifts and places the first brick
of his daily task just as easily as the last one.
The weaver, too, sits down without mental struggle
at his loom, and sets off at once. How different
is the case with most men whose work is mental; more
