A JOURNAL KEPT IN THE COUNTRY. 6l 



uncurling ; here and there a solitary stellaria shone. 

 As the light fades, a prevailing sadness grows upon 

 the land, a melancholy which the cry of the plover 

 beating up and down the field beyond the wood, 

 seems to express. In the distance some one is calling 

 the cows with that lugubrious " Cup, c'up, c'up," 

 which is one of the twilight sounds. Then from over 

 the hill a bell begins to toll for Arnington evensong, 

 a thin wavering note on the moist wind, a voice which 

 with all the sounds from wood and field, fold and 

 yard darkening under the unfriendly night, "paia il 

 giorno pianger che si muore." It is the hour of 

 introspection, doubts, fallings-from, all along a slow 

 mile under the glooming wood. Then comes into 

 sight my great elm, with one cheery starling bubbling 

 and whistling his utmost at the top ; and next, the 

 kitchen chimney already at work ; and for once the 

 domestic reality routs the vague trouble of the mind. 

 There are seasons when one's thoughts choke within 

 four walls, and must fling out for life into the open 

 air ; but there are times also of a lower unrest, 

 exorcised, as now, by vows to Lar, by thought of the 

 panelled corner where the Liber-proof hangs, of the 

 shelf of the immortals, of the meal even severe in 

 matter, in manner perfect now growing under 

 faithful Lucy's hands. In my solitary evening walks 



