A JOURNAL KEPT IN THE COUNTRY. 99 



painful, unseemly, base life which fills it in waking 

 hours. 



The sun flushed upon the long woods above the 

 village and drew the eye away to the level edge of 

 the Downs. It was all endlessly beautiful ; but I 

 found once more the recompense I have learned to 

 look for in any deliberate regard of natural beauty. 

 The sudden flushing of sunset, a chance view during 

 a journey, leave only memories of delight ; but when 

 I go in search of beauty of earth, wilfully sit down to 

 receive its impressions, always there grows in the end 

 a melancholy as of loss and departure, helpless, most 

 irrational, but, I believe (as with the wild irrational 

 happiness of dreams), going down to the deeps of our 

 nature. 



One o'clock of this idle day goes by the church. I 

 think of little Alice, down at the Rectory, who has 

 by this time escaped from the Kings of England and 

 is no doubt bouncing her ball against the back of 

 the stables. I think of Gervase French, who, no 

 doubt, is leaning out of his window to call to some 

 one in the street, plans for going down to Sandford 

 in a canvas pair ; while lunch is replacing gown and 

 note-books on the table behind him, and across the 

 gay street he sees some corner of Bagley, shimmering 

 in the sun. I think of old Tomsett, straightening his 



