THE MAINLAND 375 
a freedom and half a shrinking from the fingers of the far- 
reaching 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 
growing 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.’ 
