pes as if they were hanging on the wall before me； and I have often thought that this early training of the imagination……for such it was……has much to do with the passionate love of rural scenery which lurked within me even when I did not recognize it； and which now for many a year has been one of the emotions directing my life。 Perhaps； too； that early memory explains why I love a good black… and…white print even more than a good painting。 And……to draw yet another inference……here may be a reason for the fact that； through my youth and early manhood； I found more pleasure in Nature as represented by art 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 e 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； I see the sunny gleam upon garden leaves and flowers； I hear the birds whose wont it is to sing to me； ever and anon the martins that have their home beneath my eaves sweep past in silence。 Church bells have begun to chime； I know the music of their voices； near and far。
There was a time when it delighted me to flash my satire on the English Sunday； I could see nothing but antiquated foolishness and modern hypocrisy in this weekly pause from labour and from bustle。 Now I prize it as an inestimable boon； and dread every encroachment upon its restful stillness。 Scoff as I might at 〃Sabbatarianism；〃 was I not always glad when Sunday came？ The bells of London churches and chapels are not soothing to the ear； but when I remember their sound……even that of the most aggressively pharisaic conventicle； with its one dire clapper……I find it associated with a sense of repose； of liberty。 This day of the seven I granted to my better genius； work was put aside； and； when Heaven permitted； trouble forgotten。
When out of England I have always missed this Sunday quietude； this difference from ordinary days which seems to affect the very atmosphere。 It is not enough that people should go to church； that shops should be closed and workyards silent； these holiday notes do not make a Sunday。 Think as one may of its significance； our Day of Rest has a peculiar sanctity； felt； I imagine； in a more or less vague way； even by those who wish to see the village lads at cricket and theatres open in the town。 The idea is surely as good a one as ever came to heavy…laden mortals； let one whole day in every week be removed from the mon life of the world； lifted above mon pleasures as above mon cares。 With all the abuses of fanaticism； this thought remained rich in blessings； Sunday has always brought large good to the generality； and to a chosen number has been the very life of the soul； however heretically some of them understood the words。 If its ancient use perish from among us； so much the worse for our country。 And perish no doubt it will； only here in rustic solitude can one forget the changes that have already made the day less sacred to multitudes。 With it will vanish that habit of periodic calm； which； even when it has bee so largely void of conscious meaning； is； one may safely say； the best spiritual boon ever bestowed upon a people。 The most difficult of all things to attain； the most difficult of all to preserve； the supreme benediction of the noblest mind； this calm was once breathed over the whole land as often as sounded the last stroke of weekly toil； on Saturday at even began the quiet and the solace。 With the decline of old faith； Sunday cannot but lose its sanction； and no loss among the innumerable that we are suffering will work so effectually for popular vulgarization。 What hope is there of guarding the moral beauty of the day when the authority which set it apart is no longer recognized？……Imagine a bank…holiday once a week！
V
On Sunday I e down later than usual； I make a change of dress； for it is fitting that the day of spiritual rest should lay aside the livery of the laborious week。 For me； indeed； there is no labour at any time； but nevertheless does Sunday bring me repose。 I share in the mon tranquillity； my thought escapes the workaday world more pletely than on other days。
It is not easy to see how this house of mine can make to itself a Sunday quiet； for at all times it is well…nigh soundless； yet I find a difference。 My housekeeper es into the room with her Sunday smile； she is happier for the day； and the sight of her happiness gives me pleasure。 She speaks； if possible； in a softer voice； she wears a garment which reminds me that there is only the lightest and cleanest housework to be done。 She will go to church； morning and evening； and I know that she is better for it。 During her absence I sometimes look into rooms which on other days I never enter； it is merely to gladden my eyes with the shining cleanliness； the perfect order； I am sure to find in the good woman's domain。 But for that spotless and sweet…smelling kitchen； what would it avail me to range my books and hang my pictures？ All the tranquillity of my life depends upon the honest care of this woman who lives and works unseen。 And I am sure that the money I pay her is the least part of her reward。 She is such an old…fashioned person that the mere discharge of what she deems a duty is in itself an end to her； and the work of her hands in itself a satisfaction； a pride。
When a child； I was permitted to handle on Sunday certain books which could not be exposed to the more careless usage of mon days； volumes finely illustrated； or the more handsome editions of familiar authors； or works which； merely by their bulk； demanded special care。 Happily； these books were all of the higher rank in literature； and so there came to be established in my mind an association between the day of rest and names which are the greatest in verse and prose。 Through my life this habit has remained with me； I have always wished to spend some part of the Sunday quiet with books which； at most times； it is fatally easy to leave aside； one's very knowledge and love of them serving as an excuse for their neglect in favour of