when all the world was young and we were young with it there was no occupation more pleasing to our infant minds than the digging of great holes in that placid and maternal earth that endured the trampling of our childish feet with patience, and betrayed no realisation of the extraordinary miracle of life that had set us dancing in the fields and valleys of the world. as repentant children trace with curious finger on their mother’s foreheads the lines that they themselves have set there, so we followed the furrows on the forehead of our mother earth with our little spades, smoothing here and deepening there, and not the less contented that our labours had but a vague and illusory aim. sometimes, perhaps, we had a half-formed ambition to dig to those dim and incredible antipodes where children walk p. 106head downwards, clinging to the earth with their feet, like the flies on the playroom’ ceiling. sometimes, perhaps, we dug for treasure, immense masses of golden coin, like those memorable hoards described in “treasure island” and the “gold bug.” or, again, it might be that we planned vast caves and galleries wherein tawny pirates and swart smugglers might carouse, shocking the echoes with blood-curdling oaths, and drinking boiling rum like quilp. we dug, in fine.

there seems to be some element in the human mind that is definitely attracted by the digging of holes, for it is not only children who are interested by the spectacle. the genial excavators whose duty it is to make havoc of the london streets never fail to draw an attentive and apparently appreciative audience, whether of loafers or philosophers the critic may not lightly determine. they gaze into the pit with countenances of abysmal profundity, that appear to see all, to understand all, and to express nothing in particular. it is possible that they are placidly enjoying the reflection that beneath p. 107the complex contrivances of our civilisation, beneath london itself, the virgin earth lies unturned and unaffected. perhaps, as each spadeful of earth reaches the surface, they perceive, like a child watching the sawdust trickle from the broken head of a doll, that here is the raw material of which worlds are made. perhaps they do not think at all, but merely derive a mild satisfaction from watching other people work. yet it is at least agreeable to believe that they are watchers for the unexpected, that they have discovered the great truth that if you dig long enough you will probably dig something up.

we children knew this very well, and we never dug without feeling the thrill proper to treasure-seekers. even half a brick becomes eventful when found in these circumstances, and the earth had a hundred pleasant secrets in the shape of fragments of pottery, mysterious lumps of metal and excited insects for those who approached her reverently, trowel in hand. it was this variety of treasure that made us prefer inland digging p. 108to those more fashionable excavations that are carried on at the seaside. sand is a friendly substance in which to dig, and it is very convenient to have a supply of water like the sea close at hand when it is necessary to fill a pond or add a touch of realism to a moat. but the ease with which sand obeys the spade soon becomes monotonous, and the seaside in general suffers from an air of having been elaborately prepared for children to play there. our delving operations in the garden had the charm of nominal illegality, and the brown earth had a hundred moods to thwart and help and enchant us continually. sometimes we dug with scientific precision; sometimes we set to work with fury, flinging the earth to all sides in our eagerness to rob her of her secrets. a philosopher might have found in us a striking instance of the revolt of civilised man against nature; a woman would have noticed that we were getting our pinafores dirty.

and though we liked digging for its own sake, we were not unmindful of the possibilities of a good big hole. from its cool p. 109depths we could obtain a new aspect of the sky; and, cunningly roofed over with branches and earth, it made a snug retreat for a harassed brigand and a surprising pitfall for the unwary gardener. in smaller cavities we concealed treasure of stones decked with the colours left behind by the painters at the last spring-cleaning, and if we could not wholly convince ourselves of their intrinsic value, they at least bore adequate resemblance to the treasures of aladdin’s cave, as revealed to us in pantomime. we kept the knowledge of the spots where these treasures were buried a close secret, even from each other, and it was etiquette for the finder of one of these repositories to remove its contents and conceal them elsewhere. the conflict between seeker and finder never languished, and men who rose up millionaires would go to bed paupers.

like all sincere artists, we did not allow our own efforts to hinder a just appreciation of those of others, and we had the utmost admiration for rabbits, down whose enchanted burrows we would peer p. 110longingly, reflecting wisely how fine a home it must be that had so romantic and fascinating an entrance. for us half the charm of “alice” lay in the natural and sensible means by which she reached her wonderland, though we could never bring ourselves to forgive the author for pretending that his clearly veracious narrative was only a dream. this, we recognised, was an obvious grown-up device for preventing the youthful from slipping away from governesses to wonderlands of their own, and true enough we found rabbit-holes oddly reluctant to admit our small bodies, even though we widened their mouths with our trowels. looking-glasses, it may be mentioned, proved no less refractory, and at this day, it is said, children find it impossible to emulate the flying feats of “peter pan,” though they carefully follow the directions. it is clear that these grown-up authors are not wholly straightforward with their youthful readers, but guard the olympian interests by concealing some essential part of the ritual in these matters. sooner or later the children find them out, and expel them from p. 111all nurseries, playrooms, gardens, and places where youth and wisdom congregate.

but if we could not tread those long corridors into which the rabbits scuttled so featly on our approach, there was nothing to hinder us from digging a tunnel to fairyland of our own. the grand project formed, all the forces of the garden would unite, and we would dig seriously for an hour or so. at the end of that time somebody’s foot would be hurt by a spade, or some bright spirit would suggest that we should fill the hole with water and call it a lake. or, perhaps, it would be teatime—at all events, we never got to fairyland at all. or did we? as we grow old our memories fade, but dimly i seem to remember a garden that was like no garden i have found in grown-up places. it is possible that we did reach fairyland, treading the same road that alice and cinderella and aladdin had trod before us. perhaps a grown-up writer may be pardoned for forgetting.