The turf was trodden fine, and was set firm as it can only become by
thousands of years of pasturing. The moisture that oozed out of the
earth was not the random bog of the high places but a human spring,
caught in a stone trough. Attention had been given to the trees.
Below me stood a wall, which, though rough, was not the haphazard
thing men pile up in the last recesses of the hills, but formed of
chosen stones, and these bound together with mortar. On my right was
a deep little dale with children playing in it--and this' I afterwards
learned was called a 'combe': delightful memory! All our deeper
hollows are called the same at home, and even the Welsh have the word,
but they spell it _cwm_; it is their mountain way. Well, as I was
saying, everything surrounding me was domestic and grateful, and I was
therefore in a mood for charity and companionship when I came down the
last dip and entered Glovelier. But Glovelier is a place of no
excellence whatever, and if the thought did not seem extravagant I
should be for putting it to the sword and burning it all down.

For just as I was going along full of kindly thoughts, and had turned
into the sign of (I think it was) the 'Sun' to drink wine and leave
them my benediction--

LECTOR. Why your benediction?

AUCTOR. Who else can give benedictions if people cannot when they are
on pilgrimage? Learn that there are three avenues by which blessing
can be bestowed, and three kinds of men who can bestow it.

(1) There is the good man, whose goodness makes him of himself a giver
of blessings. His power is not conferred or of office, but is
_inhaerens persona_; part of the stuff of his mind. This kind can