THE MAINLAND 375 



a freedom and half a shrinking from the fingers of the far- 

 reachinp- iron hand) and such a scene as lies before me now. 



Through the open window is borne a scent which has 

 no name. Not from briar and violet alone it comes, but 

 from daisy, from willow-catkin, from the very turf of the 

 o-rowing grass. With every passing shower it changes, 

 and with every touch of the sun. 



Under a cloud of gnats the trout are rising, till the 

 pool below the cattle ford twinkles and glints again. 



Further yet — where the beech wood cuts a line of 

 emerald across the hill — the hollow is billowed in 

 blossoms pink and white, and a jet of blue smoke feels 

 its way up among the trees. And faintly across the 

 meadows comes the barking of a collie ; for the men are 

 folding sheep. 



All this — the scent of May, and the softness, the 

 homestead and the quiet rhythm of its life — seems to 

 me the expression of a certain rest and confidence that 

 belong to the beauty of strength. I have wandered 

 among many people, but I have not elsewhere found 

 exactly this. 



'Dear old England!' is a phrase which comes very 

 glibly to the lips. But to mean it I think you must be con- 

 tent for a spell entirely to sever yourself from the land that 

 is laid as a garden — the land where Victoria is Queen. 



It is worth doing, because it teaches you, as it only 

 can, the perfect meaning of the old burden, ' Home, 

 sweet Home.' 



