arely happened. Once a year, perhaps, and for a few weeks only, the
blinds of the Hall windows were drawn up; carriages rolled through the
park gates; young ladies, bright in Bond Street toilets, flashed like
deities upon the village street; my Lady Bountiful left a quarter of a
pound of tea at half a dozen cottages; and then the whole vision faded
like an unsubstantial pageant. The blinds were drawn down again, the
lodge-keeper went to sleep, and the monotonies of life submerged
everything like a wave. The clergyman alone remained as the symbol of
a fuller life, sometimes doing his duty with intelligence, sometimes
not; but the case was rare where any definite attempt was made to
uplift the village community by the infusion of any intellectual
interest, any sense of Art, or any care for honest sport. And here
lies the whole secret of the discontent of villages; their inhabitants
are conscious of unjust deprivations in their lot; and if they remain
villagers, it is rather from lethargy than love.

Were I to describe all the places I visited in search of a habitation,
my list would be interminable. I have given one example in Dawes'
Farm; let me give one other, as illustrating another kind of difficulty
in my quest.

On an exquisite morning in June I found myself climbing the long chalk
hills that lie northward of the Thames valley. At every step the air
became more pure and sparkling; and while in the hazy lowlands not a
leaf stirred, here a brisk and gusty breeze was blowing. The road ran
through high chalk banks, like a railway cutting, and I have since
found that Roman soldiers used it in the days of Caesar. At the height
of three hundred feet authentic forest scenery began. Here the elms
ceased, and enormous woods of beech took their place. The turf was of
the greenest, the solitude intense, the air exhilarating; and never had
I so admired the lace-like delicacy of foliage which distinguishes the
beech, for never had I seen it in such mass or such perfection. The
house I sought stood at fully eight hundred feet above sea-level, on a
carpet of soft turf, round which the forest rose like a wall. Never
did place look so sweetly habitable; it was a kind of green hermitage
in the woods, inimitably quiet, warmed by clearest sunlight, cooled by
freshest winds. Here, said I, at last is my much sought El Dorado; nor
did the cottage, when I came to it, belie my hopes. It was a true
woodland cottage, an intimate