flowering earth, I could be moved, and moved deeply, by a picture of the
simplest rustic scene. At rare moments, when a happy chance led me into
the National Gallery, I used to stand long before such pictures as "The
Valley Farm," "The Cornfield," "Mousehold Heath." In the murk confusion
of my heart these visions of the world of peace and beauty from which I
was excluded--to which, indeed, I hardly ever gave a thought--touched me
to deep emotion. But it did not need--nor does it now--the magic of a
master to awake that mood in me. Let me but come upon the poorest little
woodcut, the cheapest "process" illustration, representing a thatched
cottage, a lane, a field, and I hear that music begin to murmur. It is a
passion--Heaven be thanked--that grows with my advancing years. The last
thought of my brain as I lie dying will be that of sunshine upon an
English meadow.



III.


Sitting in my garden amid the evening scent of roses, I have read through
Walton's _Life of Hooker_; could any place and time have been more
appropriate? Almost within sight is the tower of Heavitree
church--Heavitree, which was Hooker's birthplace. In other parts of
England he must often have thought of these meadows falling to the green
valley of the Exe, and of the sun setting behind the pines of Haldon.
Hooker loved the country. Delightful to me, and infinitely touching, is
that request of his to be transferred from London to a rural
living--"where I can see God's blessing spring out of the earth." And
that glimpse of him where he was found tending sheep, with a Horace in
his hand. It was in rural solitudes that he conceived the rhythm of