crack, crack, crack of broom-pods bursting in the glorious heat of the
noontide sun. Had I acted upon the impulse, what chance was there of my
enjoying such another hour as that which my memory cherished? No, no; it
is not the _place_ that I remember; it is the time of life, the
circumstances, the mood, which at that moment fell so happily together.
Can I dream that a pipe smoked on that same hillside, under the same
glowing sky, would taste as it then did, or bring me the same solace?
Would the turf be so soft beneath me? Would the great elm-branches
temper so delightfully the noontide rays beating upon them? And, when
the hour of rest was over, should I spring to my feet as then I did,
eager to put forth my strength again? No, no; what I remember is just
one moment of my earlier life, linked by accident with that picture of
the Suffolk landscape. The place no longer exists; it never existed save
for me. For it is the mind which creates the world about us, and, even
though we stand side by side in the same meadow, my eyes will never see
what is beheld by yours, my heart will never stir to the emotions with
which yours is touched.



XI.


I awoke a little after four o'clock. There was sunlight upon the blind,
that pure gold of the earliest beam which always makes me think of
Dante's angels. I had slept unusually well, without a dream, and felt
the blessing of rest through all my frame; my head was clear, my pulse
beat temperately. And, when I had lain thus for a few minutes, asking
myself what book I should reach from the shelf that hangs near my pillow,
there came upon me a desire to rise and go forth into the early morning.