e birds, more especially for the short-winged migrants. In
April I looked for the woodland warblers and found them not, or saw but
a few of the commonest kinds. It was only too easy to account for this
rarity. The bitter north-east wind had blown every day and all day long
during those weeks when birds are coming, and when nearing the end
of their journey, at its most perilous stage, the wind had been dead
against them; its coldness and force was too much for these delicate
travellers, and doubtless they were beaten down in thousands into the
grey waters of a bitter sea. The stronger-winged wheatear was more
fortunate, since he comes in March, and before that spell of deadly
weather he was already back in his breeding haunts on Salisbury Plain,
and, in fact, everywhere on that open down country. I was there to hear
him sing his wild notes to the listening waste--singing them, as his
pretty fashion is, up in the air, suspended on quickly vibrating wings
like a great black and white moth. But he was in no singing mood, and at
last, in desperation, I fled to Salisbury to wait for loitering spring
in that unattractive town.

The streets were cold as the open plain, and there was no comfort
indoors; to haunt the cathedral during those vacant days was the only
occupation left to me. There was some shelter to be had under the walls,
and the empty, vast interior would seem almost cosy on coming in from
the wind. At service my due feet never failed, while morning, noon,
and evening I paced the smooth level green by the hour, standing at
intervals to gaze up at the immense pile with its central soaring spire,
asking myself why I had never greatly liked it in the past and did not
like it much better now when grown familiar with it. Undoubtedly it is
one of the noblest structures of its kind in England--even my eyes that
look coldly on most buildings could see it; and I could admire, even
reverence, but could not love. It suffers by comparison with other
temples into which my soul has wandered. It has not the majesty
and appearance of immemorial age, the dim religious richness of the
interior, with much else that goes to make up, without and within, the
expression which is so marked in other mediaeval fanes--Winchester, Ely,
York, Canterbury, Exeter, and Wells. To the dry, mechanical mind of the
architect these great cathedrals are in the highest degree imperfect,
according to the rules of his art: to all others this imperfectness i