was aloof from its "idle business." By some such phrase, at least,
the friar would assuredly have attempted to include her in any

spiritual honours ascribed to him. Or one might have asked of her
the condescension of forbearance. "Only fancy," said the Salvation

Army girl, watching the friar out of sight, "only fancy making such
a fool of one's self!"

The great hood of the friars, which is drawn over the head in
Zurbaran's ecstatic picture, is turned to use when the friars are

busy. As a pocket it relieves the over-burdened hands. A bottle of
the local white wine made by the brotherhood at Genoa, and sent to

this house by the West, is carried in the cowl as a present to the
stranger at the gates. The friars tell how a brother resolved, at

Shrovetide, to make pancakes, and not only to make, but also to toss
them. Those who chanced to be in the room stood prudently aside,

and the brother tossed boldly. But that was the last that was seen
of his handiwork. Victor Hugo sings in La Legende des Siecles of

disappearance as the thing which no creature is able to achieve:
here the impossibility seemed to be accomplished by quite an

ordinary and a simple pancake. It was clean gone, and there was an
end of it. Nor could any explanation of this ceasing of a pancake

from the midst of the visible world be so much as divined by the
spectators. It was only when the brother, in church, knelt down to

meditate and drew his cowl about his head that the accident was
explained.

Every midnight the sweet contralto bells call the community, who get
up gaily to this difficult service. Of all duties this one never

grows easy or familiar, and therefore never habitual. It is
something to have found but one act aloof from habit. It is not

merely that the friars overcome the habit of sleep. The subtler
point is that they can never acquire the habit of sacrificing sleep.

What art, what literature, or what life but would gain a secret
security by such a point of perpetualfreshness and perpetual

initiative? It is not possible to get up at midnight without a will
that is new night by night. So should the writer's work be done,

and, with an intentionperpetually unique, the poet's.
The contralto bells have taught these Western hills the "Angelus" of

the French fields, and the hour of night - l'ora di notte - which
rings with so melancholy a note from the village belfries on the

Adriatic littoral, when the latest light is passing. It is the
prayer for the dead: "Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O

Lord."
The little flocks of novices, on paschal evenings, are folded to the

sound of that evening prayer. The care of them is the central work
of the monastery, which is placed in so remote a country because it

is principally a place of studies. So much elect intellect and
strength of heart withdrawn from the traffic of the world! True,

the friars are not doing the task which Carlyle set mankind as a
refuge from despair. These "bearded counsellors of God" keep their

cells, read, study, suffer, sing, hold silence; whereas they might
be "operating" - beautiful word! - upon the Stock Exchange, or

painting Academy pictures, or making speeches, or reluctantly
jostling other men for places. They might be among the involuntary

busybodies who are living by futile tasks the need whereof is a
discouraged fiction. There is absolutely no limit to the

superfluous activities, to the art, to the literature, implicitly
renounced by the dwellers within such walls as these. The output -

again a beautiful word - of the age is lessened by this abstention.
None the less hopes the stranger and pilgrim to pause and knock once

again upon those monastery gates.
RUSHES AND REEDS

Taller than the grass and lower than the trees, there is another
growth that feels the implicit spring. It had been more abandoned

to winter than even the short grass shuddering under a wave of east
wind, more than the dumb trees. For the multitudes of sedges,

rushes, canes, and reeds were the appropriate lyre of the cold. On
them the nimble winds played their dry music. They were part of the

winter. It looked through them and spoke through them. They were
spears and javelins in array to the sound of the drums of the north.

The winter takes fuller possession of these things than of those
that stand solid. The sedges whistle his tune. They let the colour

of his light look through - low-flying arrows and bright bayonets of
winter day.

The multitudes of all reeds and rushes grow out of bounds. They
belong to the margins of lands, the space between the farms and the

river, beyond the pastures, and where the marsh in flower becomes
perilous footing for the cattle. They are the fringe of the low

lands, the sign of streams. They grow tall between you and the near
horizon of flat lands. They etch their sharp lines upon the sky;

and near them grow flowers of stature, including the lofty yellow
lily.

Our green country is the better for the grey, soft, cloudy darkness
of the sedge, and our full landscape is the better for the

distinction of its points, its needles, and its resolute right
lines.

Ours is a summer full of voices, and therefore it does not so need
the sound of rushes; but they are most sensitive to the stealthy

breezes, and betray the passing of a wind that even the tree-tops
knew not of. Sometimes it is a breeze unfelt, but the stiff sedges

whisper it along a mile of marsh. To the strong wind they bend,
showing the silver of their sombre little tassels as fish show the

silver of their sides turning in the pathless sea. They are
unanimous. A field of tall flowers tosses many ways in one warm

gale, like the many lovers of a poet who have a thousand reasons for
their love; but the rushes, more strongly tethered, are swept into a

single attitude, again and again, at every renewal of the storm.
Between the pasture and the wave, the many miles of rushes and reeds

in England seem to escape that insistentownership which has so
changed (except for a few forests and downs) the aspect of England,

and has in fact made the landscape. Cultivation makes the landscape
elsewhere, rather than ownership, for the boundaries in the south

are not conspicuous; but here it is ownership. But the rushes are a
gipsy people, amongst us, yet out of reach. The landowner, if he is

rather a gross man, believes these races of reeds are his. But if
he is a man of sensibility, depend upon it he has his interior

doubts. His property, he says, goes right down to the centre of the
earth, in the shape of a wedge; how high up it goes into the air it

would be difficult to say, and obviously" target="_blank" title="ad.明显地；显而易见地">obviously the shape of the wedge must
be continued in the direction of increase. We may therefore

proclaim his right to the clouds and their cargo. It is true that
as his ground game is apt to go upon his neighbour's land to be

shot, so the clouds may now and then spend his showers elsewhere.
But the great thing is the view. A well-appointed country-house

sees nothing out of the windows that is not its own. But he who
tells you so, and proves it to you by his own view, is certainly

disturbed by an unspoken doubt, if his otherwisecontented eyes
should happen to be caught by a region of rushes. The water is his

- he had the pond made; or the river, for a space, and the fish, for
a time. But the bulrushes, the reeds! One wonders whether a very

thorough landowner, but a sensitive one, ever resolved that he would
endure this sort of thing no longer, and went out armed and had a

long acre of sedges scythed to death.
They are probably outlaws. They are dwellers upon thresholds and

upon margins, as the gipsies make a home upon the green edges of a
road. No wild flowers, however wild, are rebels. The copses and

their primroses are good subjects, the oaks are loyal. Now and
then, though, one has a kind of suspicion of some of the other kinds

of trees - the Corot trees. Standing at a distance from the more
ornamental trees, from those of fuller foliage, and from all the

indeciduous shrubs and the conifers (manifest property, every one),
two or three translucent aspens, with which the very sun and the

breath of earth are entangled, have sometimes seemed to wear a
certain look - an extra-territorial look, let us call it. They are

suspect. One is inclined to shake a doubtful head at them.
And the landowner feels it. He knows quite well, though he may not

say so, that the Corot trees, though they do not dwell upon margins,