es of youth which are as a glimmer of the
world's primeval glory. Let every land have joy of its poet; for the
poet is the land itself, all its greatness and its sweetness, all that
incommunicable heritage for which men live and die. As I close the book,
love and reverence possess me. Whether does my full heart turn to the
great Enchanter, or to the Island upon which he has laid his spell? I
know not. I cannot think of them apart. In the love and reverence
awakened by that voice of voices, Shakespeare and England are but one.

AUTUMN

I.

This has been a year of long sunshine. Month has followed upon month
with little unkindness of the sky; I scarcely marked when July passed
into August, August into September. I should think it summer still, but
that I see the lanes yellow-purfled with flowers of autumn.

I am busy with the hawkweeds; that is to say, I am learning to
distinguish and to name as many as I can. For scientific classification
I have little mind; it does not happen to fall in with my habits of
thought; but I like to be able to give its name (the "trivial" by choice)
to every flower I meet in my walks. Why should I be content to say, "Oh,
it's a hawkweed"? That is but one degree less ungracious than if I
dismissed all the yellow-rayed as "dandelions." I feel as if the flower
were pleased by my recognition of its personality. Seeing how much I owe
them, one and all, the least I can do is to greet them severally. For
the same reason I had rather say "hawkweed" than "hieracium"; the
homelier word has more of kindly friendship.

II.

How the mood for a book sometimes rushes upon one, either one knows not
why, or in consequence, perhaps, of some most trifling suggestion.
Yesterday I was walking at dusk. I came to an old farmhouse; at the
garden gate a vehicle stood waiting, and I saw it was our doctor's gig.
Having passed, I turned to look back. There was a faint afterglow in the
sky beyond the chimneys; a light twinkled at one of the upper windows. I
said to myself, "Tristram Shandy," and hurried home to plunge into a book
which I have not opened for I dare say twenty years.

Not long ago, I awoke one morning and suddenly thought of the
Correspondence between Goethe and Schiller; and so impatient did I become
to open the book that I got up an hour earlier than usual. A book worth
rising for; much better worth than old Burton, who pulled Johnson out of
bed. A book which he