midnight
Had I lived before the Roman Conquest I would have been a Druid , for it is not under the echoing domes of our magnificent cathedrals , with all the grandeur of our ritual , the flaming tapers , and bands of choristers , and the pealing organ , and smoking censers , and silver-toned bells , and white-robed priests , that the depths of my heart are stirred up . It is here , and not in a temple made with hands , however gorgeous -- here , in the secret places of the everlasting forest , -- it is in such a place as this that I feel the immortal spark within me kindling into a flame , and wavering up heavenward . I am superstitious , Thomas , I am superstitious , when left alone in such a scene as this . I can walk through a country churchyard at midnight , and stumble amongst the rank grass that covers the graves of those I have lived with and loved , even if they be ` green in death , and festering in their shrouds , ' with the wind moaning amongst the stunted yew-trees , and the rain splashing and scattering on the moss covered tombstones , and the blinding blue lightning flashing , while the headstones glance like an array of sheeted ghosts , and the thunder is grumbling overhead , without a qualm-direness of this kind can not once daunt me ; it is here and now , when all nature sleeps in the ardent noontide , that I become superstitious , and would not willingly be left alone . Thoughts too deep for tears ! -- ay , indeed , and there be such thoughts , that , long after time has allowed them to subside , and when , to the cold eye of the world , all is clear and smooth above , will , when stirred up , like the sediment of this fountain of the wood , discolour and embitter the whole stream of life once more , even after the lapse of long long years . When my heart crushing loss was recent -- when the wound was green , I could not walk abroad at this to me witching time of day , without a stock or a stone , a distant mark on the hill-side , or the outline of the grey cliff above , taking the very fashion of her face , or figure , on which I would gaze , and gaze , as if spell-bound , until I knew not whether to call it a grouping of the imagination , or a reality from without -- or her , with whom I fondly hoped to have travelled the weary road of life .