it, to be harnessed; the cat, on some grave business of its own,
squeezing gracefully under a closed barn door; the weary, flat-
footed duck, nuzzling the mud of a small pool as delicately as
though it were a rich custard. I was utterly free; I might go and
come as I liked. Time had ceased to exist for me, and it was
pleasant to reflect, as I finished my simple breakfast, that I
should under professional conditions have been hurrying briskly
into school for an hour of Latin Prose. The incredible absurdity
and futility of it all came home to me. Half the boys that I teach
so elaborately would be both more wholesomely and happily employed
if they were going out to farm-work for the day. But they are
gentlemen's sons, and so must enter what are called the liberal
professions, to retire at the age of sixty with a poor digestion, a
peevish wife, and a family of impossible children. But it is only
in such inconsequent moments that I allow myself to think thus
slightingly of Latin Prose. It is a valuable accomplishment, and,
when I have repaired the breaches made by professional work in the
mental equilibrium, I shall rejoin my colleagues with a full sense
of its paramount importance.

I scribble this diary with a vile pen, and ink like blacking, on
the corner of my breakfast-table. I have packed my knapsack, and in
a few minutes I shall set out upon my march.

April 9.--I spent an almost perfect day yesterday. It was a cool
bright day, with a few clouds like cotton-wool moving sedately in a
blue sky. I first walked quietly about my little town, which was
full of delicate beauties. The houses are all built of a soft
yellow stone, which weathers into a species of rich orange. Heaven
knows where the designers came from, but no two houses seem alike;