culprit at work, and that it was only an old horse, who had rubbed
himself against the post till he had thrown it down.

The days pass, then, in a delightful monotony; one reads, writes,
sits or paces in the garden, scours the country on still sunny
afternoons. There are many grand churches and houses within a
reasonable distance, such as the great churches near Wisbech and
Lynn--West Walton, Walpole St. Peter, Tilney, Terrington St.
Clement, and a score of others--great cruciform structures, in
every conceivable style, with fine woodwork and noble towers, each
standing in the centre of a tiny rustic hamlet, built with no idea
of prudent proportion to the needs of the places they serve, but
out of pure joy and pride. There are houses like Beaupre, a pile of
fantastic brick, haunted by innumerable phantoms, with its stately
orchard closes, or the exquisite gables of Snore Hall, of rich
Tudor brickwork, with fine panelling within. There is no lack of
shrines for pilgrimage--then, too, it is not difficult to persuade
some like-minded friend to share one's solitude. And so the quiet
hours tick themselves away in an almost monastic calm, while one's
book grows insensibly day by day, as the bulrush rises on the edge
of the dyke.

I do not say that it would be a life to live for the whole of a
year, and year by year. There is no stir, no eagerness, no brisk
interchange of thought about it. But for one who spends six months
in a busy and peopled place, full of duties and discussions and
conflicting interests, it is like a green pasture and waters of
comfort. The danger of it, if prolonged, would be that things would
grow languid, listless, fragrant like the Lotos-eaters' Isle; small
things would assume undue importance, small decisions would seem