feet. Now every daybreak was a new occasion
of joy to me. I was rejuvenated not only in mind, but in the very core
and marrow of my body. I had put myself in right relation to Nature; I
had established contact, as electricians would say; and as a
consequence all the electric current of Nature flowed through me,
vitalising and quickening me in every nerve. Men who live in cities
are but half alive. They mistake infinite contortion for life. Life
consists in the efficient activity of every part of us, each part
equally efficient, and moving in a perfect rhythm. For the first time,
since I had been conscious of myself, I realised this entire efficiency.

Many times I had coveted what is called 'rude health,' but I had been
led to believe that rude health implies lack of sensitiveness. I now
found the reverse to be the case. Perfect health and perfect
sensitiveness are the same thing. I felt, enjoyed, and received
sensations more acutely simply because my health was perfect. It may
be said that the sensations afforded by such a life as mine were not
upon a grand scale. They were not to be compared with the acute and
poignant sensations afforded--perhaps I should say inflicted--by a
city. I can only say they were enough for me. All pleasures are
relative, and the simplest pleasure is capable of affording as great
delight as the rarest. The sight of a flower can produce as keen a
pleasure as a Coronation pageant, and the song of a bird may become to
the sensitive ear as fine a music as a sonata by Beethoven. May I not
also say that the simplest pleasures are the most enduring, the
commonest delights are the most invigorating, the form of happiness
which is the most easily available is the best? The further we stray
from Nature the harder are we to please, and he knows the truest
pleasure who can find it in the simplest forms.

CHAPTER IX

HOW WE LIVED

The most common objection to country life is what is called its
dulness. When I used to suggest to my town acquaintances the
advantages of a holiday in purely rustic scenes, I was always met by
the remark: 'Oh, there would be nothing to do there!' No doubt if a
holiday is devoted to lounging, it is much more difficult to lounge at
a solitary farm than at some crowded seaside resort. But my holidays
in the country had never been of this description. I am
constitutionally unfitted for a lounger. I like to have my days
planned out, and to live the