tell thou,if thou mayest,to a man who is going to his death how this shall come about.""Only this may I tell thee "said I;"to thee,when thou didst try to conceive of them,the ways of the days to come seemed follies scarce to be thought of;yet shall they come to be familiar things,and an order by which every man liveth,ill as he liveth,so that men shall deem of them,that thus it hath been since the beginning of the world,and that thus it shall be while the world endureth;and in this wise so shall they be thought of a long while;and the complaint of the poor the rich man shall heed,even as much and no more as he who lieth in pleasure under the lime-trees in the summer heedeth the murmur of his toiling bees.Yet in time shall this also grow old,and doubt shall creep in,because men shall scarce be able to live by that order,and the complaint of the poor shall be hearkened,no longer as a tale not utterly grievous,but as a threat of ruin,and a fear.
Then shall these things,which to thee seem follies,and to the men between thee and me mere wisdom and the bond of stability,seem follies once again;yet,whereas men have so long lived by them,they shall cling to them yet from blindness and from fear;and those that see,and that have thus much conquered fear that they are furthering the real time that cometh and not the dream that faileth,these men shall the blind and the fearful mock and missay,and torment and murder:and great and grievous shall be the strife in those days,and many the failures of the wise,and too oft sore shall be the despair of the valiant;and back-sliding,and doubt,and contest between friends and fellows lacking time in the hubbub to understand each other,shall grieve many hearts and hinder the Host of the Fellowship:yet shall all bring about the end,till thy deeming of folly and ours shall be one,and thy hope and our hope;and then--the Day will have come."Once more I heard the voice of John Ball:"Now,brother,I say farewell;for now verily hath the Day of the Earth come,and thou and I are lonely of each other again;thou hast been a dream to me as I to thee,and sorry and glad have we made each other,as tales of old time and the longing of times to come shall ever make men to be.I go to life and to death,and leave thee;and scarce do I know whether to wish thee some dream of the days beyond thine to tell what shall be,as thou hast told me,for Iknow not if that shall help or hinder thee;but since we have been kind and very friends,I will not leave thee without a wish of good-will,so at least I wish thee what thou thyself wishest for thyself,and that is hopeful strife and blameless peace,which is to say in one word,life.Farewell,friend."For some little time,although I had known that the daylight was growing and what was around me,I had scarce seen the things Ihad before noted so keenly;but now in a flash I saw all--the east crimson with sunrise through the white window on my right hand;the richly-carved stalls and gilded screen work,the pictures on the walls,the loveliness of the faultless colour of the mosaic window lights,the altar and the red light over it looking strange in the daylight,and the biers with the hidden dead men upon them that lay before the high altar.A great pain filled my heart at the sight of all that beauty,and withal Iheard quick steps coming up the paved church-path to the porch,and the loud whistle of a sweet old tune therewith;then the footsteps stopped at the door;I heard the latch rattle,and knew that Will Green's hand was on the ring of it.
Then I strove to rise up,but fell back again;a white light,empty of all sights,broke upon me for a moment,and lo I behold,I was lying in my familiar bed,the south-westerly gale rattling the Venetian blinds and making their hold-fasts squeak.
I got up presently,and going to the window looked out on the winter morning;the river was before me broad between outer bank and bank,but it was nearly dead ebb,and there was a wide space of mud on each side of the hurrying stream,driven on the faster as it seemed by the push of the south-west wind.On the other side of the water the few willow-trees left us by the Thames Conservancy looked doubtfully alive against the bleak sky and the row of wretched-looking blue-slated houses,although,by the way,the latter were the backs of a sort of street of "villas"and not a slum;the road in front of the house was sooty and muddy at once,and in the air was that sense of dirty discomfort which one is never quit of in London.The morning was harsh,too,and though the wind was from the south-west it was as cold as a north wind;and yet amidst it all,I thought of the corner of the next bight of the river which I could not quite see from where I was,but over which one can see clear of houses and into Richmond Park,looking like the open country;and dirty as the river was,and harsh as was the January wind,they seemed to woo me toward the country-side,where away from the miseries of the "Great Wen"I might of my own will carry on a daydream of the friends I had made in the dream of the night and against my will.
But as I turned away shivering and downhearted,on a sudden came the frightful noise of the "hooters,"one after the other,that call the workmen to the factories,this one the after-breakfast one,more by token.So I grinned surlily,and dressed and got ready for my day's "work"as I call it,but which many a man besides John Ruskin (though not many in his position)would call "play."
