sixpence extra, the ready-reckoners of bibliopolic discount--am I to
see in these a witness of my hope for the century to come?

I am told that their semi-education will be integrated. We are in a
transition stage, between the bad old time when only a few had

academic privileges, and that happy future which will see all men
liberally instructed. Unfortunately for this argument, education is

a thing of which only the few are capable; teach as you will, only a
small percentage will profit by your most zealousenergy. On an

ungenerous soil it is vain to look for rich crops. Your average
mortal will be your average mortal still: and if he grow conscious

of power, if he becomes vocal and self-assertive, if he get into his
hands all the material resources of the country, why, you have a

state of things such as at present looms menacingly before every
Englishman blessed--or cursed--with an unpopular spirit.

XXIII
Every morning when I awake, I thank heaven for silence. This is my

orison. I remember the London days when sleep was broken by clash
and clang, by roar and shriek, and when my first sense on returning

to consciousness was hatred of the life about me. Noises of wood
and metal, clattering of wheels, banging of implements, jangling of

bells--all such things are bad enough, but worse still is the
clamorous human voice. Nothing on earth is more irritating to me

than a bellow or scream of idiot mirth, nothing more hateful than a
shout or yell of brutal anger. Were it possible, I would never

again hear the utterance of a human tongue, save from those few who
are dear to me.

Here, wake at what hour I may, early or late, I lie amid gracious
stillness. Perchance a horse's hoof rings rhythmically upon the

road; perhaps a dog barks from a neighbour farm; it may be that
there comes the far, soft murmur of a train from the other side of

Exe; but these are almost the only sounds that could force
themselves upon my ear. A voice, at any time of the day, is the

rarest thing.
But there is the rustle of branches in the morning breeze; there is

the music of a sunny shower against the window; there is the matin
song of birds. Several times lately I have lain wakeful when there

sounded the first note of the earliest lark; it makes me almost glad
of my restless nights. The only trouble that touches me in these

moments is the thought of my long life wasted amid the senseless
noises of man's world. Year after year this spot has known the same

tranquillity; with ever so little of good fortune, with ever so
little wisdom, beyond what was granted me, I might have blessed my

manhood with calm, might have made for myself in later life a long
retrospect of bowered peace. As it is, I enjoy with something of

sadness, remembering that this melodious silence is but the prelude
of that deeper stillness which waits to enfold us all.

XXIV
Morning after morning, of late, I have taken my walk in the same

direction, my purpose being to look at a plantation of young
larches. There is no lovelier colour on earth than that in which

they are now clad; it seems to refresh as well as gladden my eyes,
and its influence sinks deep into my heart. Too soon it will

change; already I think the first radiant verdure has begun to pass
into summer's soberness. The larch has its moment of unmatched

beauty--and well for him whose chance permits him to enjoy it,
spring after spring.

Could anything be more wonderful than the fact that here am I, day
by day, not only at leisure to walk forth and gaze at the larches,

but blessed with the tranquillity of mind needful for such
enjoyment? On any morning of spring sunshine, how many mortals find

themselves so much at peace that they are able to give themselves
wholly to delight in the glory of heaven and of earth? Is it the

case with one man in every fifty thousand? Consider what
extraordinary kindness of fate must tend upon one, that not a care,

not a preoccupation, should interfere with his contemplative thought
for five or six days successively! So rooted in the human mind (and

so reasonably rooted) is the belief in an Envious Power, that I ask
myself whether I shall not have to pay, by some disaster, for this

period of sacred calm. For a week or so I have been one of a small
number, chosen out of the whole human race by fate's supreme

benediction. It may be that this comes to every one in turn; to
most, it can only be once in a lifetime, and so briefly. That my

own lot seems so much better than that of ordinary men, sometimes
makes me fearful.

XXV
Walking in a favourite lane to-day, I found it covered with shed

blossoms of the hawthorn. Creamy white, fragrant even in ruin, lay
scattered the glory of the May. It told me that spring is over.

Have I enjoyed it as I should? Since the day that brought me
freedom, four times have I seen the year's new birth, and always, as

the violet yielded to the rose, I have known a fear that I had not
sufficiently prized this boon of heaven whilst it was with me. Many

hours I have spent shut up among my books, when I might have been in
the meadows. Was the gain equivalent? Doubtfully, diffidently, I

hearken what the mind can plead.
I recall my moments of delight, the recognition of each flower that

unfolded, the surprise of budding branches clothed in a night with
green. The first snowy gleam upon the blackthorn did not escape me.

By its familiar bank, I watched for the earliest primrose, and in
its copse I found the anemone. Meadows shining with buttercups,

hollows sunned with the marsh marigold held me long at gaze. I saw
the sallow glistening with its cones of silvery fur, and splendid

with dust of gold. These common things touch me with more of
admiration and of wonder each time I behold them. They are once

more gone. As I turn to summer, a misgiving mingles with my joy.
SUMMER

I
To-day, as I was reading in the garden, a waft of summer perfume--

some hidden link of association in what I read--I know not what it
may have been--took me back to schoolboy holidays; I recovered with

strange intensity that lightsome mood of long release from tasks, of
going away to the seaside, which is one of childhood's blessings. I

was in the train; no rushing express, such as bears you great
distances; the sober train which goes to no place of importance,

which lets you see the white steam of the engine float and fall upon
a meadow ere you pass. Thanks to a good and wise father, we

youngsters saw nothing of seaside places where crowds assemble; I am
speaking, too, of a time more than forty years ago, when it was

still possible to find on the coasts of northern England, east or
west, spots known only to those who loved the shore for its beauty

and its solitude. At every station the train stopped; little
stations, decked with beds of flowers, smelling warm in the sunshine

where country-folk got in with baskets, and talked in an unfamiliar
dialect, an English which to us sounded almost like a foreign

tongue. Then the first glimpse of the sea; the excitement of noting
whether tide was high or low--stretches of sand and weedy pools, or

halcyon wavelets frothing at their furthest reach, under the sea-
banks starred with convolvulus. Of a sudden, OUR station!

Ah, that taste of the brine on a child's lips! Nowadays, I can take
holiday when I will, and go whithersoever it pleases me; but that

salt kiss of the sea air I shall never know again. My senses are
dulled; I cannot get so near to Nature; I have a sorry dread of her

clouds, her winds, and must walk with tedious circumspection where
once I ran and leapt exultingly. Were it possible, but for one

half-hour, to plunge and bask in the sunny surf, to roll on the
silvery sand-hills, to leap from rock to rock on shining sea-ferns,

laughing if I slipped into the shallows among starfish and anemones!
I am much older in body than in mind; I can but look at what I once

enjoyed.
II

I have been spending a week in Somerset. The right June weather put
me in the mind for rambling, and my thoughts turned to the Severn

Sea. I went to Glastonbury and Wells, and on to Cheddar, and so to
the shore of the Channel at Clevedon, remembering my holiday of

fifteen years ago, and too often losing myself in a contrast of the