IX A German First of September 473 



the clatter of a niitraille of gravel against the 



windows, delivered in unsparing handfuls by Herr 



Troster, whom I firmly believed in my drowsy wrath 



to have at least two near and dear relations in the 



plumbing and glazing line, so anxious he appeared 



to smash the glass ; and, 



' Up I rose, and donn'd my clothes. 

 Did up the chamber door,' 



and went out into the morning. 



How often in one's lifetime does one see a really 

 fine morning? Horace Walpole declares that he should 

 not know seven o'clock in the morning if he were 

 to see it, and I really am not surprised. No two 

 mornings are alike. If you get a bright, brassy, fine 

 early morning, you are bitten to death by the gnats 

 and gray flies till eight or nine o'clock, and then 

 drenched to the skin for the rest of the day ; and 

 if you are going to have anything like fine weather, 

 everything is dank and steaming, chilly and clammy, 

 with the trees and bushes looking as cheerful as a 

 posse of Irish peelers who have been still-hunting 

 all night in a moss. 



An utterly dank, steamy morning was it when 

 I appeared before Herr Troster, whose rosy close- 

 shaven face gleaming through the mist would have 

 done very good duty for a London November sun. 

 Civilities (and yawns) exchanged, we proceeded on 

 our way. 



It was all very melancholy outside. Sluggish 

 wreaths of vapour filled up the valley below, mark- 



