But there were groups of trees that I knew, even without
their leaves; and farm-houses and small stone bridges that had not at
all changed. Only what mattered was changed. Only what mattered was
gone. Would what I had come to see be there still? In comparison with
what it had held, it was not much. But I wished to see it, melancholy
spectacle though it must be for me if it were extant, and worse than
melancholy if it held something new. I began to be sure it had been
demolished, built over. At the corner of the lane that had led to it,
I was almost minded to explore no further, to turn back. But I went
on, and suddenly I was at the four-barred iron gate, that I
remembered, between the laurels. It was rusty, and was fastened with a
rusty padlock, and beyond it there was grass where a winding `drive'
had been. From the lane the cottage never had been visible, even when
these laurels were lower and sparser than they were now. Was the
cottage still standing? Presently, I climbed over the gate, and walked
through the long grass, and--yes, there was Mary's cottage; still
there; William's and Mary's cottage. Trite enough, I have no doubt,
were the thoughts that possessed me as I stood gazing. There is
nothing new to be thought about the evanescence of human things; but
there is always much to be felt about it by one who encounters in his
maturity some such intimate instance and reminder as confronted me, in
that cold sunshine, across that small wilderness of long rank wet
grass and weeds.
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