smoked on that same hillside, under the same glowing sky, would

taste as it then did, or bring me the same solace? Would the turf
be so soft beneath me? Would the great elm-branches temper so

delightfully the noontide rays beating upon them? And, when the
hour of rest was over, should I spring to my feet as then I did,

eager to put forth my strength again? No, no; what I remember is
just one moment of my earlier life, linked by accident with that

picture of the Suffolk landscape. The place no longer exists; it
never existed save for me. For it is the mind which creates the

world about us, and, even though we stand side by side in the same
meadow, my eyes will never see what is beheld by yours, my heart

will never stir to the emotions with which yours is touched.
XI

I awoke a little after four o'clock. There was sunlight upon the
blind, that pure gold of the earliest beam which always makes me

think of Dante's angels. I had slept unusually well, without a
dream, and felt the blessing of rest through all my frame; my head

was clear, my pulse beat temperately. And, when I had lain thus for
a few minutes, asking myself what book I should reach from the shelf

that hangs near my pillow, there came upon me a desire to rise and
go forth into the early morning. On the moment I bestirred myself.

The drawing up of the blind, the opening of the window, only
increased my zeal, and I was soon in the garden, then out in the

road, walking light-heartedly I cared not whither.
How long is it since I went forth at the hour of summer sunrise? It

is one of the greatest pleasures, physical and mental, that any man
in moderate health can grant himself; yet hardly once in a year do

mood and circumstance combine to put it within one's reach. The
habit of lying in bed hours after broad daylight is strange enough,

if one thinks of it; a habit entirely evil; one of the most foolish
changes made by modern system in the healthier life of the old time.

But that my energies are not equal to such great innovation, I would
begin going to bed at sunset and rising with the beam of day; ten to

one, it would vastly improve my health, and undoubtedly it would add
to the pleasures of my existence.

When travelling, I have now and then watched the sunrise, and always
with an exultationunlike anything produced in me by other aspects

of nature. I remember daybreak on the Mediterranean; the shapes of
islands growing in hue after hue of tenderest light, until they

floated amid a sea of glory. And among the mountains--that crowning
height, one moment a cold pallor, the next soft-glowing under the

touch of the rosy-fingered goddess. These are the things I shall
never see again; things, indeed, so perfect in memory that I should

dread to blur them by a newer experience. My senses are so much
duller; they do not show me what once they did.

How far away is that school-boy time, when I found a pleasure in
getting up and escaping from the dormitorywhilst all the others

were still asleep. My purpose was innocent enough; I got up early
only to do my lessons. I can see the long school-room, lighted by

the early sun; I can smell the school-room odour--a blend of books
and slates and wall-maps and I know not what. It was a mental

peculiarity of mine that at five o'clock in the morning I could
apply myself with gusto to mathematics, a subject loathsome to me at

any other time of the day. Opening the book at some section which
was wont to scare me, I used to say to myself: "Come now, I'm going

to tackle this this morning! If other boys can understand it, why
shouldn't I?" And in a measure I succeeded. In a measure only;

there was always a limit at which my powers failed me, strive as I
would.

In my garret-days it was seldom that I rose early: with the
exception of one year--or the greater part of a twelvemonth--during

which I was regularly up at half-past five for a special reason. I
had undertaken to "coach" a man for the London matriculation; he was

in business, and the only time he could conveniently give to his
studies was before breakfast. I, just then, had my lodgings near

Hampstead Road; my pupil lived at Knightsbridge; I engaged to be
with him every morning at half-past six, and the walk, at a brisk

pace, took me just about an hour. At that time I saw no severity in
the arrangement, and I was delighted to earn the modest fee which

enabled me to write all day long without fear of hunger; but one
inconvenience attached to it. I had no watch, and my only means of

knowing the time was to hear the striking of a clock in the
neighbourhood. As a rule, I awoke just when I should have done; the

clock struck five, and up I sprang. But occasionally--and this when
the mornings had grown dark--my punctual habit failed me; I would

hear the clock chime some fraction of the hour, and could not know
whether I had awoke too soon or slept too long. The horror of

unpunctuality, which has always been a craze with me, made it
impossible to lie waiting; more than once I dressed and went out

into the street to discover as best I could what time it was, and
one such expedition, I well remember, took place between two and

three o'clock on a morning of foggy rain.
It happened now and then that, on reaching the house at

Knightsbridge, I was informed that Mr.--felt too tired to rise.
This concerned me little, for it meant no deduction of fee; I had

the two hours' walk, and was all the better for it. Then the
appetite with which I sat down to breakfast, whether I had done my

coaching or not! Bread and butter and coffee--such coffee!--made
the meal, and I ate like a navvy. I was in magnificent spirits.

All the way home I had been thinking of my day's work, and the
morning brain, clarified and whipped to vigour by that brisk

exercise, by that wholesomehunger, wrought its best. The last
mouthful swallowed, I was seated at my writing-table; aye, and there

I sat for seven or eight hours, with a short munching interval,
working as only few men worked in all London, with pleasure, zeal,

hope. . . .
Yes, yes, those were the good days. They did not last long; before

and after them were cares, miseries, endurance multiform. I have
always felt grateful to Mr.--of Knightsbridge; he gave me a year of

health, and almost of peace.
XII

A whole day's walk yesterday with no plan; just a long ramble of
hour after hour, entirely enjoyable. It ended at Topsham, where I

sat on the little churchyardterrace, and watched the evening tide
come up the broad estuary. I have a great liking for Topsham, and

that churchyard, overlooking what is not quite sea, yet more than
river, is one of the most restful spots I know. Of course the

association with old Chaucer, who speaks of Topsham sailors, helps
my mood. I came home very tired; but I am not yet decrepit, and for

that I must be thankful.
The unspeakable blessedness of having a HOME! Much as my

imagination has dwelt upon it for thirty years, I never knew how
deep and exquisite a joy could lie in the assurance that one is AT

HOME for ever. Again and again I come back upon this thought;
nothing but Death can oust me from my abiding place. And Death I

would fain learn to regard as a friend, who will but intensify the
peace I now relish.

When one is at home, how one's affections grow about everything in
the neighbourhood! I always thought with fondness of this corner of

Devon, but what was that compared with the love which now
strengthens in me day by day! Beginning with my house, every stick

and stone of it is dear to me as my heart's blood; I find myself
laying an affectionate hand on the door-post, giving a pat, as I go

by, to the garden gate. Every tree and shrub in the garden is my
beloved friend; I touch them, when need is, very tenderly, as though

carelessness might pain, or roughness injure them. If I pull up a
weed in the walk, I look at it with a certain sadness before

throwing it away; it belongs to my home.
And all the country round about. These villages, how delightful are

their names to my ear! I find myself reading with interest all the
local news in the Exeter paper. Not that I care about the people;

with barely one or two exceptions, the people are nothing to me, and
the less I see of them the better I am pleased. But the PLACES grow

ever more dear to me. I like to know of anything that has happened
at Heavitree, or Brampford Speke, or Newton St. Cyres. I begin to

pride myself on knowing every road and lane, every bridle path and
foot-way for miles about. I like to learn the names of farms and of

fields. And all this because here is my abiding place, because I am
home for ever.