_They_


Their taste is exquisite; They live in Georgian houses, in
a world of ivory and precious china, of old brickwork and
stone pilasters. In white drawing rooms I see Them, or on
blue, bird-haunted lawns. They talk pleasantly of me, and
their eyes watch me. From the diminished, ridiculous picture
of myself which the glass of the world gives me, I turn for
comfort, for happiness, to my image in the kindly mirror of
those eyes.

Who are They? Where, in what paradise or palace, shall I ever
find Them? I may walk all the streets, ring all the door-bells
of the World, but I shall never find them. Yet nothing has
value for me save In the crown of Their approval; for Their
coming--which will never be--I build and plant, and for Them
alone I secretly write this little Book, which They will never
read.




_In the Pulpit_


The Vicar had certain literary tastes; in his youth he had
written an _Ode to the Moon_; and he would speak of the