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en brute and human nature； and to endow its purposes with words。 These words； how they smack of the moist and spawning earth； of the life of creatures that cannot rise above the soil！ We do not think of it enough； we stint our wonder because we fall short in appreciation。 A miracle is worked before us； and we scarce give heed； it has bee familiar to our minds as any other of nature's marvels； which we rarely pause to reflect upon。
The Tempest contains the noblest meditative passage in all the plays； that which embodies Shakespeare's final view of life； and is the inevitable quotation of all who would sum the teachings of philosophy。 It contains his most exquisite lyrics； his tenderest love passages； and one glimpse of fairyland which……I cannot but think……outshines the utmost beauty of A Midsummer Night's Dream： Prospero's farewell to the 〃elves of hills； brooks； standing lakes； and groves。〃 Again a miracle； these are things which cannot be staled by repetition。 e to them often as you will； they are ever fresh as though new minted from the brain of the poet。 Being perfect； they can never droop under that satiety which arises from the perception of fault； their virtue can never be so entirely savoured as to leave no pungency of gusto for the next approach。
Among the many reasons which make me glad to have been born in England； one of the first is that I read Shakespeare in my mother tongue。 If I try to imagine myself as one who cannot know him face to face； who hears him only speaking from afar； and that in accents which only through the labouring intelligence can touch the living soul； there es upon me a sense of chill discouragement； of dreary deprivation。 I am wont to think that I can read Homer； and； assuredly； if any man enjoys him； it is I； but can I for a moment dream that Homer yields me all his music； that his word is to me as to him who walked by the Hellenic shore when Hellas lived？ I know that there reaches me across the vast of time no more than a faint and broken echo； I know that it would be fainter still； but for its blending with those memories of youth which are as a glimmer of the world's primeval glory。 Let every land have joy of its poet； for the poet is the land itself； all its greatness and its sweetness； all that inmunicable heritage for which men live and die。 As I close the book； love and reverence possess me。 Whether does my full heart turn to the great Enchanter； or to the Island upon which he has laid his spell？ I know not。 I cannot think of them apart。 In the love and reverence awakened by that voice of voices； Shakespeare and England are but one。
AUTUMN
I
This has been a year of long sunshine。 Month has followed upon month with little unkindness of the sky； I scarcely marked when July passed into August； August into September。 I should think it summer still； but that I see the lanes yellow…purfled with flowers of autumn。
I am busy with the hawkweeds； that is to say； I am learning to distinguish and to name as many as I can。 For scientific classification I have little mind； it does not happen to fall in with my habits of thought； but I like to be able to give its name （the 〃trivial〃 by choice） to every flower I meet in my walks。 Why should I be content to say； 〃Oh； it's a hawkweed〃？ That is but one degree less ungracious than if I dismissed all the yellow…rayed as 〃dandelions。〃 I feel as if the flower were pleased by my recognition of its personality。 Seeing how much I owe them； one and all； the least I can do is to greet them severally。 For the same reason I had rather say 〃hawkweed〃 than 〃hieracium〃； the homelier word has more of kindly friendship。
II
How the mood for a book sometimes rushes upon one； either one knows not why； or in consequence； perhaps； of some most trifling suggestion。 Yesterday I was walking at dusk。 I came to an old farmhouse； at the garden gate a vehicle stood waiting； and I saw it was our doctor's gig。 Having passed； I turned to look back。 There was a faint afterglow in the sky beyond the chimneys； a light twinkled at one of the upper windows。 I said to myself； 〃Tristram Shandy；〃 and hurried home to plunge into a book which I have not opened for I dare say twenty years。
Not long ago； I awoke one morning and suddenly thought of the Correspondence between Goethe and Schiller； and so impatient did I bee to open the book that I got up an hour earlier than usual。 A book worth rising for； much better worth than old Burton； who pulled Johnson out of bed。 A book which helps one to forget the idle or venomous chatter going on everywhere about us； and bids us cherish hope for a world 〃which has such people in't。〃
These volumes I had at hand； I could reach them down from my shelves at the moment when I hungered for them。 But it often happens that the book which es into my mind could only be procured with trouble and delay； I breathe regretfully and put aside the thought。 Ah！ the books that one will never read again。 They gave delight； perchance something more； they left a perfume in the memory； but life has passed them by for ever。 I have but to muse； and one after another they rise before me。 Books gentle and quieting； books noble and inspiring； books that well merit to be pored over； not once but many a time。 Yet never again shall I hold them in my hand； the years fly too quickly； and are too few。 Perhaps when I lie waiting for the end； some of those lost books will e into my wandering thoughts； and I shall remember them as friends to whom I owed a kindness……friends passed upon the way。 What regret in that last farewell！
III
Every one； I suppose； is subject to a trick of mind which often puzzles me。 I am reading or thinking； and at a moment； without any association or suggestion that I can discover； there rises before me the vision of a place I know。 Impossible to explain why that particular spot should show itself to my mind's eye； the cerebral impulse is so subtle that no search may trace its origin。 If I am reading； doubtless a thought； a phrase； possibly a mere word； on the page before me serves to awaken memory。 If I am otherwise occupied； it must be an object seen； an odour； a touch； perhaps even a posture of the body suffices to recall something in the past。 Sometimes the vision passes； and there an end； sometimes； however； it has successors； the memory working quite independently of my will； and no link appearing between one scene and the next。
Ten minutes ago I was talking with my gardener。 Our topic was the nature of the soil； whether or not it would suit a certain kind of vegetable。 Of a sudden I found myself gazing at……the Bay of Avlona。 Quite certainly my thoughts had not strayed in that direction。 The picture that came before me caused me a shock of surprise； and I am still vainly trying to discover how I came to behold it。
A happy chance that I ever saw Avlona。 I was on my way from Corfu to Brindisi。 The steamer sailed late in the afternoon； there was a little wind； and as the December night became chilly； I soon turned in。 With the first daylight I was on deck； expecting to find that we were near the Italian port； to my surprise； I saw a mountainous shore； towards which the ship was making at full speed。 On inquiry； I learnt that this was the coast of