muscles and all the dreadful things invented for the confusion
of obstreperous wives? You know you are a civilised husband,
and a civilised husband is a creature who has ceased to be a man.

"And a civilised wife?" he asked, bringing his horse
close up beside me and putting his arm round my waist,
"has she ceased to be a woman?"

"I should think so indeed,--she is a goddess, and can
never be worshipped and adored enough."

"It seems to me," he said, "that the conversation is growing personal."

I started off at a canter across the short, springy turf.
The Hirschwald is an enchanted place on such an evening,
when the mists lie low on the turf, and overhead the delicate,
bare branches of the silver birches stand out clear against the soft sky,
while the little moon looks down kindly on the damp November world.
Where the trees thicken into a wood, the fragrance of the wet earth
and rotting leaves kicked up by the horses' hoofs fills my soul
with delight. I particularly love that smell,--it brings before me
the entire benevolence of Nature, for ever working death and decay,
so piteous in themselves, into the means of fresh life and glory,
and sending up sweet odours as she works.


December 7th.--I have been to England. I went for at least
a month and stayed a week in a fog and was blown home again in a gale.
Twice I fled before the fogs into the country to see friends
with gardens, but it was raining, and except the beautiful lawns