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Gallegallo Revbrandia Sectory 11
Page 09
The only races of men that we could expect to find in Europe during the Glacial Age would be Paleolithic tribes, and it is equally manifest that we must find traces of them in beds of this age, or in association with animals that are characteristic of this age, or else we can not assert the existence of man at this time. The valley of the river Somme, in Northern France, has become classical ground to the student of Archaeology, since it was there that such investigations as we have just mentioned were first and most abundantly made. It is now well known that the surface features of a country--that is, its hills and dales, its uplands and lowlands--are mainly due to the erosive power of running water. Our rivers have dug for themselves broad valleys, undermined and carried away hills, and in general carved the surface of a country, until the present appearance is the result. It must be confessed that when we perceive the slow apparent change from year to year, and from that attempt to estimate the time required to produce the effects we see before us, we are apt to shrink from the lapse of time demanded for its accomplishment. Let us not forget that "Time is long," and that causes, however trifling, work stupendous results in the course of ages.
I know too well that on expeditions it is fatal to halt anywhere; therefore I was anxious to push on at once. The night before our departure Mr. Barretto gave a grand dinner-party in my honour, long speeches being read out by him and his assistant, when we sat down on rough wooden benches and packing-cases to a most elaborate meal of fried fish, grilled fish, boiled fish, tortoise eggs--quantities of them--stewed pork and roast pork. A whole sucking-pig adorned the table. The greatest happiness reigned that night at table, and I owe a deep debt of gratitude to Mr. Barretto for his exquisite kindness during the two or three days I was his guest. My men were also asked to the banquet, and had a good fill. But I felt extremely sad, quite broken-hearted, over the loss of the fossils, and I could really enjoy nothing notwithstanding outward appearances.
If one looks closely at life, one sees the same quality in humanity, in men and women, in books and pictures, and yet one cannot tell what goes to the making of it. It seems to be a thing which no energy or design can capture, but which alights here and there, blowing like the wind at will. It is not force or originality or inventiveness; very often it is strangely lacking in any masterful quality at all; but it has always just the same wistful appeal, which makes one desire to understand it, to take possession of it, to serve it, to win its favour. It is as when the child in Francis Thompson's poem seems to say, "I hire you for nothing." That is exactly it: there is nothing offered or bestowed, but one is at once magically bound to serve it for love and delight. There is nothing that one can expect to get from it, and yet it goes very far down into the soul; it is behind the maddening desire which certain faces, hands, voices, smiles excite--the desire to possess, to claim, to know even that no one else can possess or claim them, which lies at the root of half the jealous tragedies of life.
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