wander from it as he who shelters himself in a hovel. Well-meaning folk
talk about reawakening love of the country by means of deliberate
instruction. Lies any hope that way? Does it seem to promise a return
of the time when the old English names of all our flowers were common on
rustic lips--by which, indeed, they were first uttered? The fact that
flowers and birds are well-nigh forgotten, together with the songs and
the elves, shows how advanced is the process of rural degeneration. Most
likely it is foolishness to hope for the revival of any bygone social
virtue. The husbandman of the future will be, I daresay, a well-paid
mechanic, of the engine-driver species; as he goes about his work he will
sing the last refrain of the music-hall, and his oft-recurring holidays
will be spent in the nearest great town. For him, I fancy, there will be
little attraction in ever such melodious talk about "common objects of
the country." Flowers, perhaps, at all events those of tilth and
pasture, will have been all but improved away. And, as likely as not,
the word Home will have only a special significance, indicating the
common abode of retired labourers who are drawing old-age pensions.



XVIII.


I cannot close my eyes upon this day without setting down some record of
it; yet the foolish insufficiency of words! At sunrise I looked forth;
nowhere could I discern a cloud the size of a man's hand; the leaves
quivered gently, as if with joy in the divine morning which glistened
upon their dew. At sunset I stood in the meadow above my house, and
watched the red orb sink into purple mist, whilst in the violet heaven
behind me rose the perfect moon. All between, through the soft circling