been an over-sensibility. I have desired close and romantic
relations so much that I have dissipated my forces; yet when I read
such a book as the love-letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth
Barrett, I realise at once both the supreme nature of the gift, and
the hopelessness of attaining it unless it be given; but I try to
complain, as the beloved mother of Carlyle said about her health,
as little as possible.

Well, then, as I say, what is a reluctant bachelor who loves his
liberty to do with himself? I cannot abide the life of towns,
though I live in a town half the year. I like friends, and I do not
care for acquaintances. There is no conceivable reason why, in the
pursuit of pleasure, I should frequent social entertainments that
do not amuse me. What have I then done? I have done what I liked
best. I have taken a big roomy house in the quietest country I
could find, I have furnished it comfortably, and I have hitherto
found no difficulty in inducing my friends. one or two at a time,
to come and share my life. I shall have something to say about
solitude presently, but meanwhile I will describe my hermitage.

The old Isle of Ely lies in the very centre of the Fens. It is a
range of low gravel hills, shaped roughly like a human hand. The
river runs at the wrist, and Ely stands just above it, at the base
of the palm, the fingers stretching out to the west. The fens
themselves, vast peaty plains, the bottoms of the old lagoons, made
up of the accumulation of centuries of rotting water-plants,
stretch round it on every side; far away you can see the low
heights of Brandon, the Newmarket Downs, the Gogmagogs behind
Cambridge, the low wolds of Huntingdon. To the north the
interminable plain, through which the rivers welter and the great