was revealed to his soul. Such doubt does not affect his greatness as a
poet in colour and in form, but I suspect that it has always been the
cause why England could not love him. If any man whom I knew to be a man
of brains confessed to me that he preferred Birket Foster, I should
smile--but I should understand.



V.


A long time since I wrote in this book. In September I caught a cold,
which meant three weeks' illness.

I have not been suffering; merely feverish and weak and unable to use my
mind for anything but a daily hour or two of the lightest reading. The
weather has not favoured my recovery, wet winds often blowing, and not
much sun. Lying in bed, I have watched the sky, studied the clouds,
which--so long as they are clouds indeed, and not a mere waste of grey
vapour--always have their beauty. Inability to read has always been my
horror; once, a trouble of the eyes all but drove me mad with fear of
blindness; but I find that in my present circumstances, in my own still
house, with no intrusion to be dreaded, with no task or care to worry me,
I can fleet the time not unpleasantly even without help of books.
Reverie, unknown to me in the days of bondage, has brought me solace; I
hope it has a little advanced me in wisdom.

For not, surely, by deliberate effort of thought does a man grow wise.
The truths of life are not discovered by us. At moments unforeseen, some
gracious influence descends upon the soul, touching it to an emotion