guilty at finding fault with a dog in this country. It is a matter
of constant surprise to me, and it always give me a warm glow in the

region of the heart, to see the supremacy of the dog in England. He
is respected, admired, loved, and considered, as he deserves to be

everywhere, but as he frequently is not. He is admitted on all
excursions; he is taken into the country for his health; he is a

factor in all the master' plans; in short, the English dog is a
member of the family, in good and regular standing.

My interior surroundings are all charming. My little sitting-room,
out of which I turned Mrs. Bobby, is bright with potted ferns and

flowering plants, and on its walls, besides the photographs of a
large and unusually" target="_blank" title="ad.异常地；非常">unusually plain family, I have two works of art which

inspire me anew every time I gaze at them: the first a scriptural
subject, treated by an enthusiastic but inexperienced hand, 'Susanne

dans le Bain, surprise par les Deux Vieillards'; the second, 'The
White Witch of Worcester on her Way to the Stake at High Cross.'

The fortunate" target="_blank" title="a.不幸的，运气差的">unfortunate lady in the latter picture is attired in a white
lawn wrapper with angel sleeves, and is followed by an abbess with

prayer-book, and eight surpliced choir-boys with candles. I have
been long enough in England to understand the significance of the

candles. Doubtless the White Witch had paid four shillings a week
for each of them in her prison lodging, and she naturally wished to

burn them to the end.
One has no need, though, of pictures on the walls here, for the

universe seems unrolled at one's very feet. As I look out of my
window the last thing before I go to sleep, I see the lights of

Great Belvern, the dim shadows of the distant cathedral towers, the
quaint priory seven centuries old, and just the outline of Holly

Bush Hill, a sacred seat of magic science when the Druids
investigated the secrets of the stars, and sought, by auspices and

sacrifices, to forecast the future and to penetrate the designs of
the gods.

It makes me feel very new, very undeveloped, to look out of that
window. If I were an Englishwoman, say the fifty-fifth duchess of

something, I could easily glow with pride to think that I was part
and parcel of such antiquity; the fortunate heiress not only of land

and titles, but of historic associations. But as I am an American
with a very recent background, I blow out my candle with the feeling

that it is rather grand to be making history for somebody else to
inherit.

Chapter XIX. The heart of the artist.
I am almost too comfortable with Mrs. Bobby. In fact I wished to be

just a little miserable in Belvern, so that I could paint with a
frenzy. Sometimes, when I have been in a state of almost despairing

loneliness and gloom, the colours have glowed on my canvas and the
lines have shaped themselves under my hand independent of my own

volition. Now, tucked away in a corner of my consciousness is the
knowledge that I need never be lonely again unless I choose. When I

yield myself fully to the sweet enchantment of this thought, I feel
myself in the mood to paint sunshine, flowers, and happy children's

faces; yet I am sadly lacking in concentration, all the same. The
fact is, I am no artist in the true sense of the word. My hope

flies ever in front of my best success, and that momentary success
does not deceive me in the very least. I know exactly how much, or

rather how little, I am worth; that I lack the imagination, the
industry, the training, the ambition, to achieve any lasting

results. I have the artistictemperament" target="_blank" title="n.气质；性格">temperament in so far that it is
impossible for me to work merely for money or popularity, or indeed

for anything less than the desire to express the best that is in me
without fear or favour. It would never occur to me to trade on

present approval and dash off unworthy stuff while I have command of
the market. I am quite above all that, but I am distinctly below

that other mental and spiritual level where art is enough; where
pleasure does not signify; where one shuts oneself up and produces

from sheer necessity; where one is compelled by relentless law;
where sacrifice does not count; where ideas throng the brain and

plead for release in expression; where effort is joy, and the
prospect of doing something enduring lures the soul on to new and

ever new endeavour: so I shall never be rich or famous.
What shall I paint to-day? Shall it be the bit of garden underneath

my window, with the tangle of pinks and roses, and the cabbages
growing appetisingly beside the sweet-williams, the woodbine

climbing over the brown stone wall, the wicket-gate, and the cherry-
tree with its fruit hanging red against the whitewashed cottage?

Ah, if I could only paint it so truly that you could hear the drowsy
hum of the bees among the thyme, and smell the scented hay-meadows

in the distance, and feel that it is midsummer in England! That
would indeed be truth, and that would be art. Shall I paint the

Bobby baby as he stoops to pick the cowslips and the flax, his head
as yellow and his eyes as blue as the flowers themselves; or that

bank opposite the gate, with its gorse bushes in golden bloom, its
mountain-ash hung with scarlet berries, its tufts of harebells

blossoming in the crevices of rock, and the quaint low clock-tower
at the foot? Can I not paint all these in the full glow of summer-

time in my secret heart whenever I open the door a bit and admit its
life-giving warmth and beauty? I think I can, if I can only quit

dreaming.
I wonder how the great artists worked, and under what circumstances

they threw aside the implements of their craft, impatient of all but
the throb of life itself? Could Raphael paint Madonnas the week of

his betrothal? Did Thackeray write a chapter the day his daughter
was born? Did Plato philosophise freely when he was in love? Were

there interruptions in the world's great revolutions, histories,
dramas, reforms, poems, and marbles when their creators fell for a

brief moment under the spell of the little blind tyrant who makes
slaves of us all? It must have been so. Your chronometer heart, on

whose pulsations you can reckon as on the procession of the
equinoxes, never gave anything to the world unless it were a system

of diet, or something quite uncoloured and unglorified by the
imagination.

Chapter XX. A canticle to Jane.
There are many donkeys owned in these nooks among the hills, and

some of the thriftier families keep donkey-chairs (or 'cheers,' as
they call them) to let to the casual summer visitor. This vehicle

is a regular Bath chair, into which the donkey is harnessed. Some
of them have a tiny driver's seat, where a small lad sits beating

and berating the donkey for the incumbent, generally a decrepit
dowager from London. Other chairs are minus this absurd coachman's

perch, and in this sort I take my daily drives. I hire the
miniature chariot from an old woman who dwells at the top of Gorse

Hill, and who charges one and fourpence the hour, It is a little
more when she fetches the donkey to the door, or when the weather is

wet or the day is very warm, or there is an unusualbreeze blowing,
or I wish to go round the hills; but under ordinary circumstances,

which may at any time occur, but which never do, one and four the
hour. It is only a shilling, if you have the boy to drive you; but,

of course, if you drive yourself, you throw the boy out of
employment, and have to pay extra.

It was in this fashion and on these elastic terms that I first met
you, Jane, and this chapter shall be sacred to you! Jane the long-

eared, Jane the iron-jawed, Jane the stubborn, Jane donkeyer than
other donkeys,--in a word, MULIER! It may be that Jane has made her

bow to the public before this. If she has ever come into close
relation with man or woman possessed of the instinct of self-

expression, then this is certainly not her first appearance in
print, for no human being could know Jane and fail to mention her.

Pause, Jane,--this you will do gladly, I am sure, since pausing is
the one accomplishment to which you lend yourself with special

energy,--pause, Jane, while I sing a canticle to your character.
Jane is a tiny--person, I was about to say, for she has so strong an

individuality that I can scarcely think of her as less than human--
Jane is a tiny, solemn creature, looking all docility and decorum,

with long hair of a subdued tan colour, very much worn off in
patches, I fear, by the offending toe of man.

I am a member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals, and I hope that I am as tender-hearted as most women;