t than in Nature herself. Even during that strange time when
hardships and passions held me captive far from any glimpse of the
flowering earth, I could be moved, and moved deeply, by a picture of the
simplest rustic scene. At rare moments, when a happy chance led me into
the National Gallery, I used to stand long before such pictures as "The
Valley Farm," "The Cornfield," "Mousehold Heath." In the murk confusion
of my heart these visions of the world of peace and beauty from which I
was excluded--to which, indeed, I hardly ever gave a thought--touched me
to deep emotion. But it did not need--nor does it now--the magic of a
master to awake that mood in me. Let me but come upon the poorest little
woodcut, the cheapest "process" illustration, representing a thatched
cottage, a lane, a field, and I hear that music begin to murmur. It is a
passion--Heaven be thanked--that grows with my advancing years. The last
thought of my brain as I lie dying will be that of sunshine upon an
English meadow.

III.

Sitting in my garden amid the evening scent of roses, I have read through
Walton's _Life of Hooker_; could any place and time have been more
appropriate? Almost within sight is the tower of Heavitree
church--Heavitree, which was Hooker's birthplace. In other parts of
England he must often have thought of these meadows falling to the green
valley of the Exe, and of the sun setting behind the pines of Haldon.
Hooker loved the country. Delightful to me, and infinitely touching, is
that request of his to be transferred from London to a rural
living--"where I can see God's blessing spring out of the earth." And
that glimpse of him where he was found tending sheep, with a Horace in
his hand. It was in rural solitudes that he conceived the rhythm of
mighty prose. What music of the spheres sang to that poor,
vixen-haunted, pimply-faced man!

The last few pages I read by the light of the full moon, that of
afterglow having till then sufficed me. Oh, why has it not been granted
me in all my long years of pen-labour to write something small and
perfect, even as one of these lives of honest Izaak! Here is literature,
look you--not "literary work." Let me be thankful that I have the mind
to enjoy it; not only to understand, but to savour, its great goodness.

IV.

It is Sunday morning, and above earth's beauty shines the purest, softest
sky this summer has yet gladdened us withal. My window is thrown open;